| I spent one week every summer at Camp Tapico
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| For every year I was a Boy Scout
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| The camp felt like an entire separate country
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| Or as if the rest of the world had disappeared
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| And we were the only ones left alive
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| We traveled in packs
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| We rode our bikes everywhere
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| About ten or fifteen feet before we reached any destination
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| I would yell, «Dismount!» |
| and we would
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| Swing our bodies over the frame in unison onto the left pedal
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| And coast to a halt
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| I felt like a grown up
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| Or how I imagined one must feel
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| And I could mostly come and go as I pleased
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| One summer, sirens blared out over the camp P. A
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| In a shrill and ugly tone with an infinite refrain
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| That carried for miles and miles
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| I had never heard that sound before
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| Our counselors were panicked and told us
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| To return to our campsites immediately
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| My friend Nate and I mounted our bikes and sprinted home
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| As branches fell all around us
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| It felt like we were the leads in a video game
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| And we were too caught up in it to understand we were in any real danger
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| When we got back, everyone was huddled under the mess tent
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| Except for Nate’s brother and his friend
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| Who were stuck in a rowboat in the middle of Grass Lake
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| During the full brunt of the storm
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| The adults had to hold Nate back from going out after him
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| As the pair raced across the water like a glacier or a hawk
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| We watched from the shore and didn’t feel the pouring rain
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| Until long after they safely pulled in |