Camp Mystic tragedy revives memories of a summer camp scare

I got my first job as a summer camp counselor at Pine Brook Day Camp in Rockland County in the summer of 1990. I was nearly 15 years old. 

With two other counselors, I oversaw a group of 5-year-olds, who loved to dance, play, paint and swim. I tied a lot of sneakers, bandaged a lot of scrapes, and tried to fill their days with song, fun and joy.

They were most excited for "The Wizard of Oz" day, when each dressed as a favorite character. We had multiple Dorothys and Glindas, several scarecrows and tin men, and no wicked witches. None of our little ones wanted to play the character that scared them.

But then a real fear emerged. One July day, a storm flooded the small river that divided the camp. Our group was in a bunk at the lowest part of the campgrounds. When we left the cabin, the water was nearly up to my chest, high enough to be over the children's heads. It was terrifying, but we knew we had to protect the kids.  All the counselors there formed a human chain, across the river and up to the highest point, where dry ground awaited. One by one, we passed dozens of campers from counselor to counselor until every child was safe.

I thought of that July day when I learned of the tragedy at Camp Mystic, a Christian summer camp for girls in Texas. My experience was undoubtedly trivial compared with the destruction that is still being measured.  At least 27 campers and counselors were among more than 110 people killed, with more than that number still missing, when the raging Guadalupe River rapidly flooded a lovely canyon. There, too, teenage counselors desperately tried to protect their campers, many of whom were 8 or 9. Many were brought to safety, but for others, the rapidly rising waters were too great to overcome.

The images from Camp Mystic's "before," still featured on its website, are so familiar. Photos of smiling girls paddling canoes or riding horseback, swimming in a lake or playing tennis, bring back strong memories for any of us who went to camp, worked at camp, or sent our children off to camp.

Now, those toothy grins are replaced by heartbreaking scenes from inside the Camp Mystic cabins, where only bunk beds covered in brightly colored pink and purple sleeping bags and blankets, now soaked and muddied, remain.

So much of summer camp is the same, quintessential, coming-of-age experience, no matter where we are or who we are. The songs, the games, the long-lasting friendships. The chance to perform on stage, or score a goal, or learn to swim. The power of a community where independence grows and lives are shaped, but childhood innocence is still treasured. And the bucolic setting. One of the best parts of going to camp was leaving home. 

It was that idyllic landscape that turned the joy of summer camp into an unimaginable horror for the girls of Camp Mystic and their families, a reminder of nature's power at its most terrible.

I think often of my young campers, who thankfully might now have campers of their own who are building their own communities, reveling in their own innocence. For Camp Mystic, there will be time to dissect what went wrong and what we should learn. For now, there's only mourning, for the young lives ended, for the community shattered and for the innocence lost. 

Columnist Randi F. Marshall's opinions are her own.

By Randi F. Marshall

randi.marshall@newsday.com@randimarshall

Randi Marshall is a member of the Newsday editorial board.