Zippy wants more

Peaking at age 11 during summer camp

Benjamin Franklin wrote in a 1789 letter “…but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” He wasn’t wrong, per se — just incomplete. Death, taxes, and now, let’s add another certainty to the list: Peaking.

Whether it’s a single moment in time or a fleeting series of moments, like a particular summer from your youth, there comes a point when you and your life are the best they will ever be. You will peak. And from that point onward, the slow, inevitable descent begins — a downward spiral toward the finish line we call death. Peaks, of course, vary from person to person. Some people don’t even realize they’ve peaked, or that they ever will.

Not me. I know exactly when I peaked. How could I not?

I’m not one for hyperbole — or so I like to tell myself. I rarely use it (except when I do, which, admittedly, is always). But to say “I peaked” doesn’t even come close to capturing it. No, I didn’t just peak. I peaked so hard, I fucking peaked humanity.

The events that unfolded during the mid-July to early-August session of Camp Tawonga in the summer of 1977 were so momentous that they transcended the personal and could almost be described as…seminal moments in the shaping of our universe. Alright, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration — but only just.

I was eleven years old. The nation was hung over from a year long birthday party called the Bicentennial. All that you need to know about this celebration was that it marked a moment in the history of fashion when every single article of both men’s and women’s clothing consisted of polyester fabric with illustrations of the American flag, affectionately referred to as the “Red, White, and Atrocious”.

Let me explain a few things to the younger reader (and maybe, someday, readers — plural). Back in the 1970s, perhaps before your parents were even born, our nation was on good terms with the Sun. We were allies, basking in its warm glow without a second thought. But in recent years, our nation has made a habit of reversing its long-standing alliances — first with neighboring countries like Canada, then with our European NATO allies, then with the Moon and planets in our solar system, and finally, with the Sun itself.

One of the many perks we lost in this solar breakup was what we called a “Sun tan.” The word “tan” originally comes from the leather tanning process, but its connection to sun-darkened skin emerged as a metaphor for the color change caused by the Sun. That’s right — back in the day, the Sun did exactly what that overpriced self-tanner you just bought promises to do, but it did it for FREE. And not just free — buffet style. All you could soak up, no limits.

There’s another topic that needs explanation. Certainly you are familiar with the term “Disco?” It’s frequently used as a name for a theme assigned to parties held in the clubs you enjoy visiting with your friends. You associate Disco with certain extravagant styles of dress, hair, and dance. I don’t want to burst your bubble, but are they really any more or less extreme than the current tastes of the day? And would it shock you to know that the term “Disco” is short for Discotheque, which is defined as a nightclub or venue where people come to dance. Modern equivalents are often just called “clubs?”

Why am I lecturing you about Sun tans and Disco? Self interest. I’m prepping you for what’s to come. I want to ensure that I’m awarded an appropriate level of respect… if not worship.

During the summer of 1977, I won first place in two competitions: Best Tan and Best Disco Dancer at Camp Tawonga. Not the Tannest Disco Dancer or the Disco Dancer with the Best Tan (both honorable titles, mind you). These were two separate and equally prestigious awards. Take a few minutes, even an hour, to let that sink in.

An 11 year old’s brain isn’t fully equipped to process the volume and intensity of adulation that accompanied these titles. Of course, I let it go to my head. Though my Bar Mitzvah was only one year, three months away, I was still a boy. This should have been self evident because I was also a “late bloomer.” At eleven years old, I had not properly entered puberty. I’ll spare you any description of the physical evidence because this story is already perilously close to meeting the requirements of the genre known as body horror.

I beat out, among others, an 18 year old Israeli camp counselor named Ari, who was so cool everyone hung on his every word even though this accent was so thick no one could understood a single one of them. I might mention that Ari was also very tan. If he had been a reckless or foolish man, he would have entered the contest. With a skin tone approaching the color of a roasted beet, I was invincible.

This is overwhelming, I know. Let me slow the pace a little. Camp Tawonga is a Jewish summer camp located near Yosemite Park, in California. The name “Tawonga” comes from the language of the indigenous people that settled the area. It roughly translates to: Time with tongue. This explains one of the most popular activities at the camp: timing how long you can French kiss another camper without any breaks (I recall the record was around 2 minutes, 30 seconds). It’s fairly disturbing to picture two 11 year olds opening their chapped lips as wide as possible in order to mash them together while their bug-juice stained tongues dart around a maze of retainers, braces and loose teeth. I suggest we stop by picturing something else.

Campers at Tawonga were Jewish kids from the Bay Area. San Francisco provided the cool, interesting, slightly edgy kids while Palo Alto provided the living targets the kids from San Francisco used in activities such as kick ball and archery. That was the social order; that is, prior to the summer of 1977.

If you think I’ve been describing my peak, think again. I have a surprise for you. What you’ve read so far is just foreplay. Camp Tawonga was like the Himalayas, peak after peak, each one more exhilarating than the last. The winning tan, the Disco moves — they were unintentionally sending out a vibe to the rest of the campers. A vibe I didn’t even realize I possessed.

The evidence was right in front of me. The day after I received my second title, I was approached by a girl named Carol. She was the designated spokesperson for Girls Bunk 5, or G5. G5 was the second-oldest group of girls at camp, ranging from 12 to 14 years. They were the “popular” girls — the ones everyone else wanted to impress

I was at kickball, played in a small outdoor arena that appropriately resembled a miniature version of the Roman Colosseum. I had just been knocked to the ground for the fifth time that afternoon — the kids from San Francisco were getting better.

Out of a cloud of dust emerged Carol, who, when viewed from below, looked like she was descending from the sky, an Amazonian angel wearing cut-off shorts and Bonne Bell Lip Smackers. She reached out her hand.

“She’s almost as tan as me,” I thought.

For some reason, this concerned me, even though this year’s competition was already over. Completely oblivious to the fact that she was trying to help me get up off my butt (which, by the way, was about the only part of my body that wasn’t sun-tanned).

I hesitated. Then stood. She smiled.

Behind her, in the distance, I noticed the entire bunk known as G5 standing in a tight cluster on the other side of the kickball field, watching us. What on earth was going on?

Carol spoke:
“Hi. Um, we took a vote… and… we think you’re really cute.”

She spun around and sort of jogged-ran-skipped back to the group. And just like that, they were gone.

Carol may have been the spokesperson for G5, but she wasn’t their leader. Meet Zippy, a thirteen-year-old, beautiful blonde girl from, I assume, San Francisco. She was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous girl in camp and the undisputed leader of G5 (I was in B4, or Boys 4).

Some ultra-cool (or cruel) parent(s) in San Francisco legally named their daughter “Zippy.” Not a nickname, not a shortened version of Elizabeth (though it could theoretically be that — have you noticed how many girls’ names are just variations of Elizabeth?) No, “Zippy” was the name you’d see if you held her birth certificate in your hands. I know this as fact because it was at the top of a very short list of conversation topics we shared during our brief relationship.

And, of course, the name Zippy essentially sealed her fate. She was destined to grow up to be sexually precocious — she was simply fulfilling a brand promise.

Zippy was more developed than I was — which wasn’t saying much. It had to be the false vibe I mentioned earlier, because it was Zippy who first approached me. She was the first to initiate contact and she had already “decided” that she and I were going to “go together” (go steady) when she engineered the vote Carol reported to me. And I didn’t make the first move — it was Zippy, on the first Friday night of the session.

We had just finished Shabbat, the Jewish celebration of the Sabbath held every Friday evening. Shabbat at camp was a special occasion, marked by a meal even more restrictive in what could be served than the usual Jewish cuisine (Torah: A meal that is even more inedible than an already inedible meal is a religiously significant event).

The camp was nestled in a quiet valley near the Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, not too far from Yosemite Valley. Summers there were beautiful: hot, sun-drenched days that gave way to cooler, refreshing nights.

Zippy tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to see a bright flash of white teeth, topped by shiny silver braces. “What did Zippy want from me?” I thought. I was so surprised I didn’t even take note of how her tan compared to mine.

“Hi, I’m Zippy. Do you want to ‘go together’ this session?” She wasn’t asking. “You know there’s a contest to see who can French the longest. We’re all timing each other.”

Now we’re talking, another contest. I had never French kissed before, but I was willing to learn. I wasn’t aware or interested in the sexual or romantic stimulation this activity provided. I was into it for the win. A hat trick, that’s what I was after.

For the next week, our days were scheduled as follows: Breakfast, Frenching, lunch, Frenching, swimming/sun tanning or kickball, Frenching, dinner, Frenching, s’mores, Frenching. I was quite happy though our time needed improving if we were to win.

It is often a surprise when a partner reveals that they are not satisfied in a relationship you believed was mutually satisfying. It is even more of a surprise when someone else delivers the news. I was playing kickball, again, which means I was laying in the dirt, when Carol re-appeared.

Though something was different this time. There was nothing angelic in her face. The look was all too familiar. It was exactly like the look that frequently adorned my mother’s face: anger, disappointment, and exhaustion…often directed at me.

I didn’t even notice (at first) that her tan was slightly darker than mine. “Hey. I have a message for you.” She paused, crossing her arms and lifting one of her eyebrows.

“Zippy…wants more.”

Time, and my throat, began to vibrate. “More what?” I squeaked, doing an unintended impression of Alvin the Chipmunk. “There is no more.”

My voice was now so high it only registered with a local stray cat the camp had adopted.

If you want a really accurate picture of my frantic flee from the scene and return to the B4 cabin, you need only reference the 1962 horror film directed by Herk Harvey, “Carnival of Souls” (lots of disorienting camera work, low angle shots, confusion, terror, and falling down for no reason).

There are two more players in this rom-com turned horror movie. Their parts were smaller but without them, the whole structure collapses.

Michael Sullivan was a year older than me. He was in so many ways, not Jewish. Sullivan? Not Jewish. His height and physical strength? Not Jewish. He was the epitome of late 70’s California cool.

He could easily have been mistaken for Zippy’s brother, a realization that casts a whole new light on this story — unintentional, of course. You’ll see why soon enough.

Though I was technically one of his most valuable kickball targets, this San Francisco boy took a liking to me. Perhaps it was my tan, which as you have noticed seems to be the only quality I believe made me likable (It was a different time). When you strip away our differences, you are left with…two boys named Michael. That was enough of a reason to be friends.

Thank god he was in the cabin when I burst through the door. “Michael…what is more?” I was near tears. He resisted his natural instinct to kick a ball directly into my forehead and instead, sat me down on his bed.

“Michael, you know about the bases, right?”

“Bases?” I replied, “Like in a base tan?”

Clearly, I did not. Michael then patiently explained what the bases were. When we finished, I thanked him while he bounced a kickball off my back.

Michael must of had some sort of soft spot for those of a lesser social god, because in addition to being my friend, he had a girlfriend named Rachel, who was, like me, flat chested. She was also the same age as me. We shared something else in common. Her boyfriend was interested in going beyond first base, and like me, she was not.

The problem with adults is… well, everything. But for the purpose of this story, let’s focus on one particular flaw: we overthink. We drag in the past, obsess over the future, worry about what others might think, and fixate on outcomes — outcomes, outcomes, outcomes. Children, on the other hand, don’t carry the same baggage. Their past is brief, their future feels like an eternity away, and they live fully in the present. They exist authentically, right in the foreground of life.

Of course, their decisions are shaped by a complex mix of genes, learned behavior, instinct, and context — just like ours. I’m not saying children are little Yodas, wise and fearless truth-tellers who act on their truths without hesitation. Except… sometimes they are. And this was one of those times.

Michael and I shared the same first name. Naturally, we did what any logical “beings” would do if they truly lived in the moment, unburdened by fear or overthinking: we swapped girlfriends.

And that… was the exact moment I peaked.

In hindsight, that moment really marked the end of innocence for me. I’m cautious about calling myself an adult, but the numbers don’t lie, and neither does the body. I’m an adult now, and I think about Zippy from time to time — far more than she thinks about me. In fact, chances are she wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about if you mentioned the events of that summer.

Maybe she’s already peaked, or maybe, like a few of the lucky ones, she has a peak waiting for her in the later chapters of her life. Either way, I want to thank her for the not-so-gentle kick into the beginnings of my adult life.

She probably dreamed of something bigger than winning “Best Tan” or “Best Disco Dancer” at Camp Tawonga — perhaps not. I just hope Zippy got whatever more it was she was looking for.