Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

While everyone awaited the judges’ decision, and those entered in the swim competitions went off to change into trunks, Leo, having performed his part in the proceedings, headed toward the council ring, making his way through the boisterous throng now jamming the docks – campers of all sizes clad in swimming trunks, skinny young boys with bat ears and xylophone ribs, older boys exhibiting burgeoning musculature. As they pranced around, snapping towels and giving Indian rubs, waiting for the first event of the meet to start, their collective eye was fixed on Hap Holliday, who, as master of ceremonies, was huddled with Rex Kenniston over the list of contestants on his clipboard.

“Where’s your bathing suit, Leo?” Miss Meekum asked as he joined her and Mr Poe and the rest of the Jeremiah “family.” “Why aren’t you with the other boys?” Leo flushed and ducked his head; the moment he had feared must come, had come. Unable to think up a good story, he was stuck with the truth, and he explained to them how he had come in a loser in the preliminary heats.

“Well, that’s all right,” Miss Meekum said, patting his knee. “It means we’ll have you here with us, all to ourselves.” She leaned her spare form toward her neighbor, Mrs Abernathy, who smiled and nodded as if to affirm that to have Leo among them was to enjoy a special treat.

Leo was relieved when Hap, taking up the megaphone again, announced the start of the first race, the “Tadpole Relay,” in which Peewee Oliphant was a top contender. As everyone sat up attentively, Rex’s whistle shredded the air, and a dozen small, brown, leggy bodies sprang like so many frogs into the water inside the crib rope.

The first lap of the race was swum amid great thrashings and splashings, and cheered enthusiastically by the whole crowd. Peewee, who was his team’s anchorman, would be among the last to swim, and he stood, chewing on a thumb and hopping impatiently from one foot to the other, waiting his turn to enter the water. When it came he seized the baton and plunged headlong into his lane; he was in the lead as the last batch of boys surfaced, the baton clamped between his teeth and swimming hell-for-leather.

“’Ray, Peewee! Come on, Peewee!”

The Oliphants, seated down front with the Starbucks and their invited guests, rose cheering to their feet, and a burst of enthusiasm washed across the waterfront.

“Come on, Peewee – kick it! Swim!”

As first Peewee, then the others touched the canoe dock, flipped over, and headed down the home stretch, most of the crowd was on its feet. Peewee was flagging now, with Bouncer Williams, an older, bigger cadet, gaining on him. But at the finish it was Peewee who touched home first, and Reece Hartsig was there to lift him from the water and sling him onto his shoulders, parading him around to accept the acclaim of the crowd, then swing him down and turn him over to his own counselor.

“Isn’t it exciting!” Miss Meekum gasped, pressing a palm to her breast. “And he’s such a little sprout, isn’t he?” Leo agreed that Peewee was indeed a “sprout.” He was feeling better about Miss Meekum and Supervisor Poe being there. Mr Poe was obviously enjoying himself, and Miss Meekum was acting gay as spring.

One after another, the tadpole races were run, each succeeding heat exciting the audience’s collective blood and bringing them to their feet with louder, more encouraging shouts. Leo could hear Big Rolfe’s booming voice avowing that this was what Camp Friend-Indeed was all about, striving and winning, and as he looked down upon the array of campers on the dock, popping the bubbles from their ears and bulling around with each other while they awaited the next event, he racked his brain, trying to think of something he could do to shine: something that, after Major Bowes, might redeem him in the eyes of the camp (standing on the Cleopatra’s barge pretending to be Ptolemy certainly hadn’t done it). But nothing came to mind, and so he sat there like a bump on a log, a face in the crowd, while the tadpole events came to an end and the Harmonyites marched out onto the dock.

As the fans of Jeremiah (Leo included) rose up to cheer, the Bomber did a Joe Louis handclasp over his head, jumped into Number 12, flung himself upon his oars, and proceeded to win the rowboat race hands down. Monkey Twitchell, who more aptly might have been nicknamed Fish, for that was how he swam, copped the 220-freestyle medley, while Tiger took the crawl. Watkins of Obadiah and the Smith brothers all won firsts in other events, but Phil Dodge won top honors in the breaststroke -husky arms and shoulders and a strong frog-kick made him a winner here. Eddie Fiske came in second in the hundred-meter, losing by a hair to Dusty Rhoades of Ezekial, and the Bomber took a first in the underwater race. Like some subaqueous leviathan, he remained submerged for two minutes and fifty seconds, traversing the crib four times, a new camp record. Wally, poor fellow, came in third in each of his events; still, Leo thought, it was better than nothing, and he watched enviously as Reece strode about the dock, beaming, congratulating his winners.

“Isn’t this fun?” Miss Meekum said to him, hugging her knees and smiling. She leaned over to speak to Mrs

Abernathy. “We were so happy that Leo was able to come to camp – and to be in Cabin Seven.”

Mrs Abernathy agreed loyally that Jeremiah was the best cabin to be in.

“Leo tells us your son is his friend,” Miss Meekum went on. “Everyone seems to think very highly of Tiger.”

Mrs Abernathy was both modest and friendly. “Pat and I are glad Leo likes Tiger. We’re very proud of our Brewster, but of course we’re prejudiced. And don’t tell him I called him Brewster, he’ll kill me.” She turned to include Leo and Mr Poe in her next remark. “Perhaps when camp is over Leo might like to come and spend the weekend with us. We’ve plenty of room, haven’t we, Pat?”

Pat Abernathy nodded amiably. “Yes, indeed, Tiger’s got the whole attic for a room, bunks and all. Leo would be most welcome.”

The conversation was interrupted as, down at the lifeguard stand, Rex reached for his megaphone and addressed the crowd with mock solemnity.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please. My colleague – I refer to the estimable Hap Holliday – has instructed me to announce that the scheduled proceedings will be delayed some fifteen minutes to allow the presentation of an extra added attraction to mark the final year of Friend-Indeed camping on the part of Reece Hartsig.

“Yes, folks,” Rex went on, “the counselor of Jeremiah cabin has agreed to provide us with an exhibition of authentic athletic prowess by executing several spectacular dives from the high springboard.”

Ardent sounds of approval rippled through the crowd; cheers, whistles, and applause rang out, as, with an unaccustomed display of modesty, Reece emerged from the crow'd and doffed his cap, then proffered it with exaggerated formality to Rex and dived off the dock. When he reached the float he once more saluted his enthusiastic fans, then mounted the ladder and trotted to the tip of the diving board, testing it with a controlled spring that flexed his heavy thigh muscles. Moving back, he meticulously aligned his feet, palms flat at his sides, rolled his shoulders, and then took a neat three-step approach and jump-struck the board, which catapulted him into the air. His sharp jackknife seemed to be over before it had begun as legs and feet slipped into the circle of water that his head, hands, and shoulders had already made.

“’Ray, Big Chief!” the Bomber shouted, his voice carry- ' ing above the applause. “Yay – Heartless!” Other boys took up the cry, while their elders laughed indulgently at the epithet.