An unbelievable summer camp

The following story sounds fictitious, but I didn’t make it up. Yes, I’ve always enjoyed reading short stories and novels, but I also learned to seek and savor historical accuracy.

That my twin brother, Theo, and I learned to love many summer camps was largely due to our mother, Madeline. She enjoyed a privileged upbringing in Cincinnati, where her German-Jewish ancestors settled before the Civil War. She and her older brother, George, were sent to their Reform congregation’s Sunday school, but they also attended a predominantly Jewish private school.

Each summer the Rosenthal kids were sent by train to neighboring Jewish camps in Maine. George attended Kennebec, a boys’ enclave, and Mom found a home at Vega, for girls.

One summer, after breaking an arm, she was given an opportunity to recuperate at home, but she insisted on staying. As demonstrated by many surviving letters to her parents, Mom loved all kinds of activities, especially swimming and sailing. Close friendships also mattered.

By contrast, Dad grew up near Hartford in far less privileged circumstances. He was briefly a Boy Scout but never went to summer camp. Instead, his family rented a small cottage by the sea in Branford, which my grandfather, Isadore, visited on weekends.

Our parents met and married in Los Angeles where Theo and I grew up. By age six, we were sent to Camp Dayaway, owned and operated by two Jewish teachers, Sol and Jim. Theo’s athletic talents and mine were vividly demonstrated when we received awards for “best behavior on the bus.” I also did well in checkers and table manners.

When we were eight, we were off to an overnight camp at Lake Arrowhead. We belonged to Woodcraft Rangers, a group resembling Cub Scouts, whose emphasis was studying “Indian” (not Native American) lore. The main reason Mom and Dad sent us there was to meet boys and counselors from beyond our comfortable orbit. Although often frightened by ghost stories told around campfires, we had a good time.

Our next summer camp, which belonged to our Reform congregation, didn’t resemble a camp at all. This co-educational enclave near the beach in Malibu felt like Sunday school in the woods. We not only enjoyed indoor plumbing but a heated swimming pool, and we wore clean clothes on Shabbat. Perhaps my favorite activities were writing and drawing for Camp Hess Kramer’s newspaper.

During the next two summers, Theo and I attended Grizzly Lodge, a boys’ outpost in Northern California’s Sierra Nevada. We learned about it from some religious school friends, though not many Jews attended Grizzly. Indeed, on Sunday mornings we sang hymns in the church. Theo and I enjoyed hiking, fishing and horseback riding, but our parents were appalled when one of our favorite activities became riflery. We won numerous awards from the NRA!

We were prevented from returning to Grizzly Lodge. Never having excelled as Hebrew students, Theo and I had to stay home for remedial lessons to prepare for our early September bar mitzvah. As a result, we were also sent to our junior high’s summer school for advanced courses in American and English literature.

The following summer, when we were still 13, Mom and Dad invited us to try another camp. They said, essentially, “Go find one.”

Our family subscribed to Holiday magazine, which included classified ads. Theo discovered Summer Camp Afloat, which didn’t exactly resemble the canoeing camp that I found in Minnesota. When our parents urged us to attend the same camp, we agreed on SCA. It made sense that we would travel together to and from Grand Bahama Island.

We flew to Miami, spent a night in an airport hotel and took cabs to and from dinner at Miami Beach’s Fontainebleau Hotel. We rose early for a flight to West Palm Beach, where we met other campers and a few counselors for a short flight to Freeport.

SCA had only about 30 kids, mostly boys, who lived in a resort on Grand Bahama’s West End. We had our own large table in the hotel’s dining room, and we occasionally wore white sailor suits and caps, but we were essentially told that we could enjoy whichever activities we wanted. There were two conditions, however: Don’t bother other hotel guests, and please leave the night club by 10 p.m.

Most days were spent swimming in the resort’s gigantic pool, snorkeling in the crystal-clear ocean, sailing small boats, waterskiing and learning to scuba dive. After some preliminary dives, we went as deep as 80 feet to enjoy a silent kingdom: spectacular coral reefs.

Our parents were again appalled when Theo and I, having learned to shoot trap and skeet, became accomplished marksmen. While eating fried conch, we also learned to sing and dance to calypso music. Is it any wonder that Betsey and I would honeymoon in Jamaica?

Having enjoyed a wonderful time, Theo and I were allowed to return to SCA the following summer, when we were 14. As a result of an article about America’s most unusual camps published in Sports Illustrated, there were about 45 campers.

Fortunately, my love of summer camps did not end with SCA. I soon became a counselor at a rustic Woodcraft Rangers camp, where, without any formal training, I taught arts and crafts.

But I also enjoyed campfires because I loved telling stories. Not all were about ghosts.

GEORGE M. GOODWIN, of Providence, is the editor of Rhode Island Jewish Historical Notes.