Camping with George

What do I have in mind?

Two people who have defined roles and responsibilities as adults in their everyday lives. They take these roles and responsibilities with them to a campsite, which suddenly gives them a new context. The ground they walk on becomes uneven and boggy, causing them to stumble.

Add to that the premise that “what happens at the camp stays at the camp.” This offers the chance for a charged, boundary-crossing encounter. People can shed inhibitions that have become second nature and allow long-denied desires to surface without necessarily leading to a drawn-out drama. This should give the characters—and the readers—the freedom to explore tension, guilt, lust, and power without necessarily leading to serious consequences.

And yet they are not alone and completely undisturbed. Other people are nearby who can influence the dynamics.

The fire crackled softly and hissed gently as fresh pine needles popped in the embers. Smoke rose in lazy wisps and disappeared into the night-black sky. Above us, the stars sparkled like ice crystals on velvet. The lake—the shore just behind the last row of tents—was as smooth as a mirror, catching the moonlight in long, silvery streaks.

Scattered laughter rang out around the campfire. Someone had told a joke. Probably an indecent one, but she hadn't understood it. It didn't matter; she was just the supervisor for this rowdy bunch of young people taking part in the traditional school camp during their last year of school. Actually, all the participants were of legal age and supervision was not legally required. But after an “unpleasant incident” last year—there were rumors, but no details were officially released due to privacy concerns—the school administration had decided that the event could only take place if at least two mature supervisors, one male and one female, were present.

On the other side of the fire, one of the boys strummed a slightly out-of-tune guitar with youthful exuberance. It didn't matter what song he was playing. It was all about the ritual of summer camp – balmy nights, campfires, acrid smoke, twinkling stars, strumming guitars, and ****. Lots of ****.

Carola pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins. The rough bark of the tree stump she was leaning against scratched her back through her thin top. But she didn't move. Instead, she watched the flames and let their comforting warmth envelop her. The wine—one of those big boxes from the discounter that one of the guys had brought with him—was almost empty. Already? That wasn't the first canister, she thought, but she couldn't remember exactly. She downed the rest of her paper cup and swallowed. Cheap and sweet. Perfect for her mood.

Why am I even here?

This wasn't her world. Camping had never been her thing. She liked hot showers, cappuccino for breakfast, and clean sheets – no mosquito bites and no outhouses she had to dig herself. But she had said yes. She always did.

Because George had asked her.

She didn't even know him very well beforehand. A few meetings at the parent-teacher association and on parent-teacher conference days. The occasional polite conversation when they happened to meet in the school stairwell. But when he called and said the camp was in jeopardy, that this year there had to be a female chaperone in addition to him, otherwise it would be canceled for the first time in decades. And when he was asked who would be suitable, he suggested me...

Well, yes.

How do you say no in a situation like that?

You could have done it. But you didn't. At least, she didn't.

Because she didn't want to spoil the fun for the young people. It wasn't even her own children who were going, they were too young, still in the lower grades.

And partly because she liked the way he said her name on the phone. Quietly and carefully, as if he might hurt her otherwise. Because she heard something in his voice—a tension she couldn't quite place. A subtle rumbling that sent shivers down her spine. Although, she already had a suspicion what it might mean. But not with him. Not with a priest.

So she said yes.

Carola dug her toes into the dry grass. The wine warmed her from the inside. The fire warmed her even more from the outside. She looked across the circle to George, who was standing a few steps away from the group and looking over at her. Half in the shadows, the light from the campfire didn't reach him. He was dressed simply—black T-shirt, khaki shorts, bare calves with dirt stains, trekking sandals. No collar. No robe. No priest. Just an ordinary man. He looked more athletic than she had expected. Muscular arms, wiry legs.

He caught her eye.

Carola broke eye contact first. Confused. What had just happened between them? She laughed—too loudly, too late—at a funny remark someone had made next to her. Her cheeks were glowing, and it wasn't just from the fire.