Elvis, the professional

Elvis crossed the line. He said he wouldn’t, he swore he wouldn’t, but he did: he’s working full time. Some mornings he wonders how he gets dressed:

The transition from working in bootyshorts to working in pantyhose reminds him a little bit of the first day of the session at Camp Sealth. It happened the same, just about every summer from 1989 to 1994. After a stop at the cabin for bunk selection, it’s straightaway to the bottom of duffel bags, to dig out your suit and head for the beach.

It’s nice on the rocky beach–nice to watch the tide come in, and to throw stones poke at sea anemones in the shallows, and to stick your toe into the scummy surf. But that’s not why you’re there. Within a minute, it’s off with  sweatshirts, then a crumpled pile of shorts and towels form on the damp sand. You walk the plank of the dock, west towards Juan de Fuca. It’s getting breezy as you get towards the end of the stretch, cold on pale thighs and skinny shoulders. Pretty soon you’re to the last piling and its the moment of truth.

The shock of the cold is fierce. It’s lung shrinking, jaw clamping, cold. It’s for the best, a necessary step to getting boating privledges for the rest of the week, but as you watch girl after girl wail on contact, your cabinmates not emitting a shriek of surprise but one of pure, screaming pain, you wonder: do I really want to get wet?

The answer, summer after summer is yes. So you jump.