[Trigger Warning: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Drowning]

At Camp White Arrow, in the summer of 2011, I discovered that I was gay…

‘Discovered’ isn’t right; ‘understood’ is better.

In the summer of 2011, during my week at Camp White Arrow, I understood that I was gay.

I remember the exact moment too. White Arrow has these inflatables anchored in the middle of the Chester River. There’s the difficult-to-climb iceberg, the slide, the trampoline… Other members of our cabin are swimming back and forth between the iceberg and the slide, ascending and descending the bobbing islands.

I’ll never forget sitting there in my bathing suit, surrounded by the murky river water. Our counselor was Sparta-kicking kids into the water. They would bounce off the slide and fly head-over-heels through the air. Adam was watching the carnage, smiling and shaking his head every time one of our cabin-mates belly-flopped.

I was watching Adam watch the carnage.

I don’t know what it was that brought about my understanding in that moment, but the thought entered uninvited into my head.

Here I am, staring at a boy drenched in sunlight, scars across his back from a recent growth spurt, and every time he laughs and smiles, something stirs in my chest.

“Oh, no. I like boys. No, no, no! I like boys. I’m just sitting here staring at Adam. I haven’t looked away from him in, like, ten minutes! I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot… I can’t let anyone find out. I can’t tell anyone ever.”

Years later, when I look back on it, obviously I’d always been interested in boys. There was this one time in fifth grade, I remember we were watching a movie in class. The room was dark, and I was sitting next to this boy named Kevin. Out of nowhere, I look away from the projector screen and turn my head to look at Kevin. He was just sitting there next to me, watching the movie, and I remember at first wondering what would happen if I just leaned over and kissed him.

Our counselor dives off the slide, swimming over to the trampoline to gather up all of us up.

Wet legs and dripping bathing-suits leap one-by-one off the trampoline, and I finally notice everyone swimming back to camp. I stand up at the edge of the floating trampoline, hold my nose, and step off into the water. My life-preserver pulls me back up above the surface, and I begin working my arms and legs toward the sand.

In the two hours we’d spent playing on the inflatables, the tide had turned. Right away, I start to lag behind the rest of my cabin-mates, falling behind with every stroke.

My energy is sapped before I’m even half-way to shore. I have to stop and let my arms float on the surface for a while. Before long, however, I realize that the tide is pulling me backwards, away from solid ground.

I start again because I have to, fighting for every stroke against the tide. My arms and legs start to burn from the inside out, cramping and failing me.

As my cabin-mates take their first steps out of the river, my breathing gets ragged, and my efforts start to produce much more splashing than visible progress. Soon enough, the tide wins over completely, and I’m floating helplessly down-river.

I look back toward the shore, hoping that I haven’t been forgotten, hoping to see anyone come charging back into the river to rescue me.

My counselor is already in the water. I spot him swimming with the tide toward me. He manages to catch up with me in less than a minute and grabs my life-preserver with both hands.

“Are you okay? Can you breathe?”

“I’m okay! I-”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer the second question. He grabs both of my arms and wraps them around his shoulders.

Powering against the tide, we make it back to shore.

Both of us collapse there, safe but exhausted. I can barely catch my breath; everything is hitting me all at once.

I start to feel very sick.

Everyone in our cabin, including Adam, surrounds us, pushing in too close.

“Stand back, give him some room!” Our counselor regains his feet and tries to help me up. “You have to stand up, don’t bend over.”

I yank my arm away from him and take two shaky steps forward before I buckle and vomit into the sand. The throw-up comes in four heaving waves. I dig my fingers into the filthy surf, and everyone takes three-or-four steps back, including Adam.

Soaking wet, pale, forearms coated, I crawl out from over the vomit and black-out, waking up in the nurse’s office two hours later.