I was the first case in a lice outbreak at Camp Pinewood during the summer of 1983. It happened like this: lounging on the grass with my cabin mates, waiting for my turn in volleyball, a vigilant counselor spotted me scratching my head. A swift visit to the infirmary revealed it was not an allergic reaction to bug spray nor the poor hygiene that our group of rising third graders was notorious for. I had lice, and soon enough, I had effectively spread it to every girl in our cabin. Before long, the entire camp was queuing up for their treatments with Kwell and undergoing the arduous delousing process with that fine-toothed metal comb, which took away large clumps of our tangled, chlorine-damaged hair.
That first night after my diagnosis and the subsequent nitpicking, I returned to the cabin after lights-out. All my clothes and bedding had been taken for boiling and sterilization, leaving me in an oversized Camp Pinewood sleep shirt and a new brush from the canteen. I crawled into bed, feeling the scratchiness of the lost-and-found sheets and an overly warm acrylic blanket. My bunkmates, once so lively and eager to play Truth or Dare or share secrets with a flashlight, now ignored me. I could hear their hushed whispers in the dark, and I knew they were discussing me. I felt like I had brought a curse upon our community; I was the pariah of Bunk Three.
The only person who spoke to me during those rough days was my best friend, Sarah. Sarah hailed from Florida, and we had shared slumber camp experiences in Connecticut for two years by then. With her bowl haircut and shiny pink roller-skating jacket, she introduced me to the music of Duran Duran. Sarah adored Michael Jackson and had a keychain of his iconic sparkly glove hanging over her bed. That first lice night, she held my hand from her neighboring bed while I whimpered in confusion, and the next day, she reassured the other girls that lice could happen to anyone. She remained by my side long after I was lice-free, even through her own encounter with the little critters. As the other girls fell victim one by one to this rite of passage for kids spending eight weeks together, with a good 80 percent of that time in the round-robin petri dish of a hair-braiding circle, Sarah was my steadfast anchor.
More than the arts and crafts, co-ed socials, or ghost stories, the most vivid and treasured memory from my seven summers at camp is Sarah, my camp best friend. The camp best friend is fundamentally different from your year-round best friend. A home best friend requires daily dedication, filled with notes exchanged in math class and the minor dramas of slumber parties. This friendship demands constant upkeep and protection from gossip, shifting loyalties, and who-sat-with-whom at lunch. Home best friendships can also be transient—one season it’s Lisa, then Lisa starts hanging out with the soccer team, and you shift your attention to Jenna, until you clash over who gets to play the dog in Monopoly, and then you’re off to Kelly.
Conversely, the camp best friend is a steadfast constant. You typically meet her during your first summer at camp, whether sitting next to her at the welcome barbecue or handing off a baton in a relay race. The circumstances of your meeting hardly matter; you’re eight or nine years old, and friendships form inexplicably. If you’re fortunate, you bond so well that you return year after year for the joy of reuniting. You exchange plastic charms from your necklaces (Sarah gave me a tiny bottle of perfume; I gifted her skis since she’d never seen snow). Sharing clothes, curling each other’s hair before sundae night, and performing a meticulously choreographed dance to “The Reflex” in the end-of-summer talent show were among our cherished moments. Saying goodbye at summer’s end felt like losing a limb.
At home, few understood the depth of my camp friendship. Friends who didn’t attend camp viewed her with suspicion; she was a “cooler,” more worldly version of a friend, akin to a “boyfriend in Canada.” But she was as real as they come. “Mom, can I call Sarah?” I’d ask monthly during the winter and spring, back when long-distance calls required permission. Calling Sarah was a thrill. She was the only one who comprehended the intricate social dynamics we navigated for two months every summer. We’d gossip about our cabin, the CITs’ secret romances, camp songs, and the surreal experiences that were monumental for kids and so dreamlike during the year.
Having a best friend who I saw only for eight weeks each summer was invaluable. Sarah wasn’t just a partner in adventure at camp; she was someone whose opinion of me remained unchanged by my school life. She didn’t care whether I was popular or not, and she never judged my grades or my teachers. Every summer, we would reconnect with our camp selves, the same ones we had left behind the previous year. Regardless of who we became in the off-season, our friendship picked up right where it had left off, filled with mutual loves for Garfield, stirrup pants, and pasta with cottage cheese. No matter what transpired from September to June, I had someone who adored and understood me each summer.
Eventually, Sarah and I moved on from camp, attended high school and college, and maintained our friendship through letters and occasional phone calls—back in the days before social media. She remained in the South, pursued a career in medicine, and started a family. When I published a book, Sarah reached out on Facebook, excited to reconnect after spotting my name in an in-flight magazine. “Is that you, Melissa Kirsch, my camp best friend?” she asked. Yes, it was indeed me, even though I hadn’t gone by that name for years. When I received that message from Sarah, I felt like the same girl from that summer in 1983, the one lying in bed rubbing her deloused scalp. She was still my biggest supporter, always looking out for me, no matter how far apart we were during the year.
In conclusion, the bond formed with a camp best friend is truly unique and lasting. Unlike friendships developed at home, camp friendships thrive in a setting free from the complications of daily life, allowing for pure connections that can withstand the test of time.
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