The most Canadian thing I’ve ever done was go to sleepover camp at a place called Canadian Adventure Camp. It was all there in the preview DVD. Kids were canoeing. Kids were playing roller hockey amongst the maple trees. It was on a lake in Northern Ontario. There was virtually no electricity. Over the two months, I would live in a cabin, bathe in lakes, and learn to shoot arrows.
Report cards were handed out and the next Sunday morning I was all packed up in the family car. My dad dangled a smoke out the window, muttering Serbian swear words at slow cars. My mom didn’t smoke, nervous energy smoked off her. I became more of a misunderstood pre-teen everytime she called me habibti or biss (arabic for “my love” and cat”). My sister, Tiyana, sat back, giggling at how weird everyone was acting.
After 20 minutes, we pulled up to a fleet of busses assembled at the back of an outlet mall. Teenagers were shoving duffle bags into the Greyhounds’ ribs. Parents were buzzing around backpacks, giving last words of advice to their kids. Extended family members and bus drivers were mingling. When I was all signed up, I gave everyone hugs and kisses then got on the bus. The engine started and I leaned back in the seat. Within the mob of hand wavers, I spotted mom, dad, and sister scanning the tinted windows. Knowing they couldn’t see me, I didn’t wave back.
While we rumbled across Ontario for 5 hours, my thoughts were like a child in a kiddie pool: detached from reality; a lot of movement but going nowhere dangerous. I stared at trees, listened to music, peaked at other kids on the bus. Even as the speed boat chopped across the lake, I felt nothing. When the camp, with it’s cabins, it’s boathouses, and it’s water trampolines appeared for the first time, my heart beat at its usual pace. The moment I arrived at camp was when I opened my cabin door.
I saw a wood bunk beds, wood floors, and empty faces. I kept my head down and dragged my duffle to the only empty bunk. The councillor announced we had half an hour to unpack and organize our things. Every time I transferred some socks from the duffle bag to my wooden shelf, I’d sneak a look at all the other boys. The cabin councilor, Dan, sat back on his bunk bed and asked each of us if we had girlfriends. A couple people, me included, said we didn’t have one. Dan said he’d find us some by the end of camp. A few boys said they did have girlfriends. Dan asked them, “Do you hold her hand?” and “Have you kissed her?” They acted like they were too focused on unpacking to hear his questions.
When we were all done, Dan said we had to share our names and where we were from. I thought hard about what I was going to say. Should it be “Hello”, “Hey”, or “Hi”. I decided on “Hey”, but said, “Hello, my name is Alex. I’m from Toronto”. Everyone else was from a town I’d never heard of, except Montreal and Algonquin. I knew Montreal was a city, but I thought Algonquin was just a park. Dan asked other kids if their town was close to another town. They said yes but didn’t seem to sure. After everyone spoke, we walked to get dinner.
The dining hall was big and wooden. Every cabin sat on foldable chairs around foldable tables. We were told this was the only place in the camp that had electricity. Most of the boys were taller than me. Most of the girls had boobs. After we ate broccoli leek and shepherd’s pie, a guy with a microphone got on stage. He welcomed everyone. When he announced how late each cabin could stay out at night, people groaned and cheered. Then the staff were introduced on stage and some girls yelled, “You’re hot!” or “You’re cute”. I didn’t understand this.
The cabin was pitch black when we got back. We used flashlights to change into our pyjamas. I realized I had the worst bunk. It was on top, in the corner, and there was a window at my feet with branches right outside. We chatted for 20 minutes on the edges of our beds until Dan told us to switch off our flashlights. It was clear that there was no talking past this point. I stretched out, closed my eyes, and fantasized about situations that would happen over the summer. At one point, I felt like I was the only one awake. Then I felt like I needed to pee.
I tried to ignore it, but the feeling grew stronger. I climbed down the ladder with no plan. Wood was on my bare feet. I looked at the door and there was no way I could go outside in the black forest to pee. Waking up Dan was out of the question as well. If any of the other kids heard me, I would be a loser for the next month. So, I went to the corner of the cabin, the one with no bunk bed, whipped it out, and started to pee. As the first yellow hit the floor, I head a noise and quickly shoved it back into my pants. But the piss stayed flowing. It spread all over my boxers. I stood there in the silence for a moment then I peeled off my boxers from my sticky skin and put them in my duffle bag. I put on a fresh pair before climbing back up the ladder and into my sleeping bag. Over my pounding heart, I tried to listen to any sound that would reveal that someone had heard me. Eventually, I fell asleep.
I woke up to talking the next morning to talking. Until I heard the word pee, I had forgotten about last night. In fact, it took me a moment to realize I was not home. Everyone was talking about how it smelled like pee. It’s coming from this one, said a boy. Alex peed, he said. No, that must be something else, I responded. No, that’s pee. No, it isn’t, I said. Just then, Dan said we had to go to Morning Dip. Everyone groaned. He explained that every morning for the rest of camp, we had to jump into the lake at sunrise. A nervous energy flooded the room. We all changed into our bathing suits and grabbed our towels. I snuck my pee boxers under my towel and threw them into the woods on the way to the lake.
We lined up on the dock and took turns jumping in. Even though it wasn’t that cold, we all screamed when our heads popped up from the water. On the way back — cold, energized, awake — we talked excitedly about trying to skip Morning Dip. We talked about all the things we would do together.
After weeks of dry boxers and deep sleeps, the forest became familiar. The cabin boys became friends. Dan did not find anyone of us a girfriend. The morning we tried to skip Morning Dip the older kids ripped us from our seat and threw us in the lake fully clothed. That summer, we had our great Canadian adventure: shooting arrows, pushing oars through water, and slashing each other’s shins over pucks. We also went behind the cabin and picked a spot. We announced that for the whole summer, every boy had to piss there. On the last day, we would see how deep the hole was.
On the last Wednesday at camp, I unzipped my sleeping bag because I had to pee. As I jumped off my ladder, ready to go into the black forest, bare-feet on wet leaves, my friend whispered as loud as he could, “Yo! Where you going?”
“Just going to piss,” I said.
“Wait! I’m going to come,” he said. “Just give me a second to chug some water so I can get my piss going”
I held the cabin door open while waiting for him on the front steps. I heard him twist the cap shut on his Nalgene. Then I heard his footsteps across the wood floor.
“OK. Let’s go,” he whispered. We rounded around the cabin, twigs and leaves crunching. We pulled out our dicks and in a normal voice he said, “Make sure that we start pissing at the same, that we do it together. Then it will be more powerful.”
