I can remember standing on the dock and staring below at my own reflection in the rippling lake; pensive and a little bit sad. That was the end. The beginning is more vague, but less calm, and there are certain details which have been lost or covered in layers of more recent memories.

           I do recall the bus ride. It was bumpy, hot, loud, long and the same as every year. I felt the routine excitement as the bus turned down the dirt road which led to my summer "home", but when the driver pushed down the brake pedal and the bus stopped in front of the familiar stretch of green space, I realized I was afraid. My eager excitement had completely transformed into nervous energy in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, it seemed as though all my previous preparation--the new clothes, dyed hair and altered ideas--was a waste of time. I could taste the change in the dusty, humid air which buzzed with mosquitoes and it occurred to me that this place was not the same as it had been two years ago, nor did it resemble what I had been imagining in my dreams. The fear and doubt I had quickly acquired followed me like shadows as I stepped off the bus.

           The fear disappeared later that first day, but the doubt clung tightly and eventually, after a week, I felt that it had overstayed its welcome. I decided later--most likely during one of the many warm night I lay awake with the tent tarp bundled up, and the mosquito netting down to allow for natural air conditioning--that I had been stuck in an old idea. Of course this place was not the same, it was the Village. I was not quite a camper and not quite a member of the staff. I had boys sleeping in tents right next door to my own. I was completely removed from main camp and placed in this sanctuary reserved just for me, but I was also not alone. It was true that the decision to go back to camp had been my own, but I was sharing the Village experience with the other fifty-three sixteen year olds who had made that same choice. I was also taking part in a journey that has been part of camp history for decades. There was so much to take in and I had been obstructing my vision with doubt.

           I had given myself a mission. I spent the following days talking to everybody. I forged new relationships and learnt and attempted to memorize the quirks and thoughts of the entire unit. I understood that shyness was unacceptable with close family, which is what we had become: a big, loud, excited and sometimes obnoxious family. The wall of doubt I had erected was completely destroyed and it was at least two weeks later that I had discovered the dock.

           The dock was nothing really special to look at. It was a simple, rectangular stretch of connected wooden beams which reached out from our private beach. It was a platform on the water which allowed the residents of main camp only a tiny glimpse of our Village paradise from their position across the lake. People often left their folding chairs out there for public use and so I took the liberty of sitting on one. It had not yet dried from the brief rainstorm that had poured onto us that afternoon, but I could ignore the damp feeling that crept into the seat of my pants. I leaned back and stared at the stars, marveling at how many dotted the sky and breathing in the scent of old rain and wet wood.

           We were a group at the dock that night. We were seven out of our larger family, equipped with our thoughts, feelings, voices, surroundings and a guitar. With my first mission for the summer completed, I was pleased to be offered another. We were a committee now, all seven of us, and we were appointed the task of writing a song that represented the Village. We had become the torch bearers of a tradition that was envied by younger campers and greatly missed by staff. During the day we went about our regular activities, but when we all returned to the Village--our home--our council of seven regrouped to continue building our legacy. We leaned on each others' rhythms and lyrics, but the view from the dock was our collective inspiration.

           There were many things that kept our family tightly-knit for the whole summer, but they were only the prerequisites for the end. Our entire adventure came to its climax when we sang our song, all fifty-four of us together. The council of seven had only recorded the idea of our experience and put it to music. The meaning came to life in the voices of our family as one.

           I can remember standing on the dock because it encapsulated my past, present and future in respects to my Village summer. The dock was my guitar and my doubt made it play out of tune. Once I shed my doubt, I tuned my guitar and that summer became my song; my favourite song. The lake reflected my change in chords and harmonies; my change in self, and I was still not alone. As long as I can remember "we'll all remain friends with Village dreams", I will never again be alone.