This One's for the Kids (and Gabe)

For the people whose campsites are right next to the children's playground, anchored in sand, the day starts prematurely. From the cottony wafts of beach and lake and tree sounds which hug the rims of consciousness in the last twitchings of a somnolent mind before it wakes, a small troupe of thin and piercing voices makes a sudden entrance. "But who's going to marry Jaaaaaacob???" whines one, with a twangy sort of inflection. Two or three other ones, in different tonalities but all somewhere in the upper registers, join in, calling out the names of those they are going to marry, and none of those are Jacob. Jacob, it seems, is not a hot commodity a little bit before 7 in the morning, in this campground on the beach by the lake. If he is out there with these rowdy little girls - and it's impossible to establish that from the tent -- he must be staring at his feet, wondering why no one will marry him.

It turns out there are a few troupes of kids at the site. The 7 am one is mostly made up of girls and a couple of boys, all between 7 and 10 years old. They sit around the swings and big rubber-tire-ended see-saws, colourful in their beach outfits, and full of energy which they seem to be extracting directly from the sun. One day, in the early afternoon, a new girl joins them: a gymnastics star. Another girl makes her do hand-stands and flip-overs again and again -- perhaps fueled by the ongoing Olympics -- and gets enormous satisfaction from yelling out "Failed! Do it again." The gymnast-girl tries to explain that sand is not the best surface because her hands sink into it but the referee-girl is ruthless. And then, just like a flock of birds, for no apparent reason they disperse at lightning speed in different directions.

Another troupe shows up around 10 pm in the "comfort station": a brick cube structure with washroom stalls and sinks on one end, and shower cabins on the other, always covered in wet sand. In the women's half, there are occasionally women with stacks of camp-dishes to wash (even though it's prohibited to wash dishes in the washroom sinks -- but the "watering" stations are simply too inconvenient, consisting only of a tap on the outside wall of a couple of vaults, with no sink so some daring mothers decide to break the law later in the evening, when the chances of patrolling guards stopping by are minimal). While I'm waiting for the cell-phone to charge (and can't stay outside due to the bloodthirsty mosquitoes), a three-girl procession marches inside. They are about 2 years apart, the oldest being about 9. They are all wearing their pink or green or yellow pj's and holding their toothbrushes and toothpastes in their hands. We greet each other and they immediately warn me, with authentic concern, about the " oh my god GIGANTIC" spider which had spun its web just above my head. When we establish that there's nothing to really worry about and that the spider is doing some socially useful work by trapping mosquitoes, they proceed to the sinks, the smallest one barely reaching high enough. After quite a bit of splashing, the two younger ones go to pee and the oldest one makes small talk with me.She points to a light pram she has wheeled in when they entered, "See, I have to push Katy around in this, even though she's 5 years old. Sometimes I feel like sitting down in it, but I'm too heavy." "Well, how much do you weigh?" I ask. "I don't know. 110?" She's 9 and thin. "You can't possibly weigh 110" I tell her. "How much do YOU weigh"? she asks and sizes me up. "More than you." "But how much is that?" "About 120." "Ok." After a short pause, she adds, in confidence, "Katy has a new swimsuit, but her dad doesn't like it." "Why not?" "Because it's a two-piece." "I see," I nod, and wonder what the problem with the two-piece suit is but don't say anything. By then, the other two are out and a fierce loud-talk and cross-screaming of all three suddenly fills the small space, and a moment later a somewhat hunched woman with long red hair and freckles (an oversized version of the middle girl) barges in. "Hey, hey, ladies, didn't I say no noise at this hour?" she smiles at me, and we chit-chat for a bit. She's the only woman in a bunch of campers who arrived with kids this evening, so she's the one who needs to cover all the "bathroom shifts" for the girls, only one of which is hers. "And they just sit there," she says about the men. "You know, you just give them a fire and some meat, and they're gone into some other world," she says with a sigh but good-naturedly, and escorts the three girls and the pram out.

The last day of my stay is overcast; it rained profusely during the night and the morning is grey and windy. The playground kids are there, wearing long-sleeved tops and shoes, but they sit on the swings and see-saws languidly, with no motion or words, their vivaciousness cut short visibly by the unpromising elements. They are waiting for the sun. I go down the sandy path between some tall plane trees to see the beach for the last time, and on the way there bump into the 10 pm three-girl procession, coming back from the beach. They immediately speak up all at the same time, their hair tangled up and their feet caked up with wet sand, telling me about the "GIGANTIC" waves that kept pushing them over and they had to quit. I tell them I'm about to leave and they wave to me, as their fathers -- who were their lifeguards in the turbulent lake -- walk in their wake and give me curious looks.

The beach is empty and dominated by hues of indigo, grey and pale yellow. As I approach the water's edge, I find what I'm looking for: Gabe is right there, patrolling up and down his usual spot. Gabe is a seagull, and why I gave him that name is unclear but since the first moment I saw him on the beach, I thought of him as Gabe, and it seems to fit him. The reason Gabe made his presence known when I was there was grapes. The first day on the beach, I had a boxful of red grapes and he quickly realized what those are so he stood at a safe distance, turning his left or right profile and looking at me with one big eye. When I threw him individual grapes, he'd either catch them in his beak or if he missed, he'd chase them down the beach, and could even pick them out from the water. Perhaps this is the case with all seagulls, but Gabe is very territorial and loud. He announces his absolute dominion over this small strip of the beach by screeching and opening his wings threateningly at the smallest sign of a seagull intruder approaching either on land or through air. They all seem to know that he means it because they give him a wide berth whether they are walking or flying. Today the beach is empty and the waves high but he is there, claiming his turf, possibly waiting for kids and those that come with them and sometimes bring munchable items.

By the time I turn around to go, he's wandered off quite far and I am not even sure any more if that's him. Inside the campsite, the kids are nowhere to be seen. They must be having lunch somewhere, getting ready to come out, look for each other, and then go along with the day, such as it is.