Polar Bear Swim? No Thanks.

Back in scout camp (for a week every summer my troop went to scout camp getting merit badges and camping and shit. Yep, I'm pretty cool.), we had to do the "polar bear swim" every morning, and it is complete bullshit. Here's a little rundown of what that magical activity actually entails:

- Our troop leaders would come by our tents every morning at the ass-crack of dawn and wake us up with their mind-numbingly annoying "time to make the donuts" shout.

- 10 minutes later, after we've already fallen back asleep, they would come back and actually start to prod and shake us to get us up.

- When we would object to getting up at a time in which THE SUN DOESN'T EVEN START HEATING UP OUR ATMOSPHERE, they would pour some water on us and force us to get up.

- We would brood and sulk and pout as we walked down to the pool area, where we would then jump into the freezing cold swimming pool (I was actually surprised every morning to find the water was in a liquid state, because it was easily below -100 degrees Fahrenheit. They must have done something weird with the pressure...) for NO REASON AT ALL and then go back to camp so we can change for breakfast. SO MUCH FUN.

Once my friends and I got older and wiser, we came up with a new strategy. A strategy in which we could live our lives polar-bear free. When the leaders came by to wake us up, we woke up immediately (this should have tipped them off that something was amiss, but I guess their initial faulty assumption was that we actually wanted to subject ourselves to a watery torture every day at fuck o'clock in the morning). We put on our swimsuits and ran down the path to the swimming pool while they were still waking up the other kids in our troop. "We'll see you down there!" No you fucking won't.

Once we were out of sight, we ducked onto another path which was a roundabout trail to the shower area. While our troop was busy hurling themselves into semi-solidified ice-water, we spent our mornings taking nice hot showers. It was the perfect crime. Our leaders never saw us because we "got to the pool early" and there were so many other troops there that it was easy to miss us, we got to take piping hot showers every morning without worry that the warm water would be out due to over-use, and we'd show up back in camp dripping wet from our "polar bear" excursion. Bwahahahahaha

With that said, I find it hilarious that in my twenties I am now opting to do the polar bear jump. On three separate occasions I've jumped into the freezing Boston ocean in the winter for... the fun of it? I don't know why. You can tell by my expressions in the following pictures that I was less than pleased by my decision...

First polar bear at Revere - Dodgeball House residents randomly going in the middle of January for no reason

Second polar bear at Revere with Michelle, Scott, and Zak. Michelle's Cupid Splash was moved, so we decided to spend our February afternoon leaping into the ocean JUST BECAUSE WE DON'T SUCK

First one in, first one out

LOOK AT CRONIN'S FACE. PRICELESS.

Wet Leaves

With the first camping trip of the year approaching (a bunch of us are heading up to VT to enjoy the outdoors, eat baked beans, drink beer, and play Spades ALL FUCKING DAY), I got to reminiscing about another one of our hilarious boyscout escapades. This one isn't as bone-crunchingly painful as the other story, but it does paint a very accurate picture of what our time in scouts was really like. This, boys and girls, is a story about urination.

It is a fact of life: peeing on something is simply the act of marking your territory. In fact, it is a legally binding act whereby you claim ownership of said "target." I once set the goal to urinate on every notable landmark in one week at summer camp one year (achievement unlocked). I set a similar goal to excrete liquid waste on every building at Tufts (yep, I pretty much own most of Tufts by now). TONS of well known places and landmarks are now my property (Mason-Dixon line, Tooth of Time in Philmont NM, Half-Dome at Yosemite, Angel's Landing at Zion, Harvard Statue - hahaha there is a picture of Shaq touching the exact location that I peed on, Mississippi River, Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, etc.) And when you camp a lot in scouts, you come to learn that peeing outside is better..... or at least more hilarious.

On this particular camping trip, we were training for our big backpacking trip to Philmont, NM. This campground had PERFECTLY GOOD LEAN-TO's, but our leaders did not allow us to shelter ourselves from the rain because we had to "practice setting up and taking down tents." Bullshit. Out of furious spite, we all decided that the floor of the unoccupied lean-to would be our urinal for the weekend. Whenever any of us had to go, we had to declare that we needed to "use the lean-to," and then we'd go to town. By the end of the camping trip, there literally was a puddle on the floor of this edifice in which other people would use as shelter whilst camping. Yes, world, we had our revenge.

But as we were leaving we realized that a puddle in the middle of the lean-to looked entirely too conspicuous, especially because it hadn't actually rained. In our brilliance, we opted to cover the puddle with a bunch of leaves laying on the ground. I don't know why we thought a pile of soaking wet pee-leaves in the middle of a dry floor looked any better, but we were satisfied. It looked hilarious. Just a empty, bare lean-to with a pile of soaking wet leaves right in the middle of it.

The best part is that as we were driving out of the campground, the rangers stopped us so they could "check the site" to make sure it was clear of trash. Jesus tapdancing Christ. They would immediately find our moist, leafy "gift," and in our minds we assumed that the only possible conclusion a normal human being could come to was that it was a pile of leaves used to hide a steaming puddle of piss that six teenage boys had created in the span of three days in order to get back at their scout leaders for making them set up tents. We thought we were doomed. Waiting in the backseat of the car, the tension was palpable. We were too terrified to utter a single sound; instead we sent each other knowing glances that said "the moment they come back and tell the adults what they've found, we're bolting from this vehicle and running into the woods, starting a new life as forest people, living off the land for the rest of our days." I think one of us may have vomited from the anxiety, I'm not sure. But anyway, the rangers finished their inspection and came back. The adults got out of the cars to make sure everything looked good so we could head home. As they walked back to the cars, we readied myself for the rapid vehicular exodus we were about to make. "Ok, everything looks good." How can this be? DIDN'T THEY SMELL THE PILE OF SOPPING WET LEAVES IN THE LEAN-TO??? I was flabbergasted. "Yeah, all they found was a plastic wrapper." Oh thank the heavens, we were off the hook. I am sure that we only got out of that by the skin of our teeth and by the fact that these rangers clearly don't have it all going on upstairs to have missed it.

"They said they found some wet leaves in one of the lean-to's, but it must have been the wind that blew them up off the ground."

"Heh.... heh... yeah. Probably. Just drive."

I am the smartest

Ok, most people don't realize this, but boy scouts are fucking crazy.

We were on a camping trip when I was younger and had just joined the troop, so I was like 12 at the time. On this particular camping trip, my friends and I did the dumbest thing I've EVER DONE... before we learned how great fire was. The fire stories are great stories too, because all scouts are necessarily pyromaniacs, but we'll save the one where I melted off the soul of my hiking boots for another day. This is a tale of creativity, ingenuity, triumph, and traumatic levels of pain.

When we joined the troop (back in... 1998? Holy shit), we didn't have many responsibilities. We were carefree, young go-getters who would stop at nothing to attempt the most dangerous stunts that our semi-developed brains were capable of concocting.

We are also fucking adorbs. Oh the guy in the hat? That's my best friend Jimmy. HE IS A MARRIED PERSON NOW. WHAT.

So anyway, on this camping trip we had the entire afternoon free, so what do we decide to do? CONSTRUCT A GO-KART BY TYING TWO DOLLIES TOGETHER WITH TWINE. This is normal. But to our credit, we used really good knots. Our plan was to ride it down a nearby hill MOUNTAIN like an unsteerable go-kart. It must have been the steepest hill in Pennsylvania. It was a friggn cliff. We were SO pumped. So me, Jimmy, Geoff, and probably Olsen (I don't really remember) got on this XTREME death vehicle that we had constructed, making sure to sneak by the troop leaders (because they would not be too keen on the idea of four 12-year-olds careening themselves off the side of a mountain while riding two package-transporting devices tied together with string). The funniest part about this scenario is the fact that it took less than ONE SECOND for all four of us to simultaneously regret our rash decision.

After about 3 seconds were were hurtling down the hill at Mach 2. I'm not sure if we were screaming, because the sound would have been drowned out by the sonic boom surrounding our shoddily crafted and rapidly accelerating makeshift speed-rocket. And then we saw it. We were on an unchangeable vector heading toward huge tree. In that instant we all knew that we would perish. I'm not entirely sure what transpired in the next few moments because I kind of blacked out from sheer terror, but I think it went something like this:

Jimmy and Olsen somehow bailed off the rampaging death-mobile by throwing themselves off the sides and rolling over boulders and snakes and bushes or whatever to eventually slow down fast enough to avoid breaking ALL THE BONES. Geoff and I, meanwhile, were somehow locked to the craft, speeding faster than Escape Velocity towards a tree that clearly doesn't give a shit about us. Because even though we were nearing the speed of light, our 12-year-old mass was basically negligible when compared to that of a tree. We were sure to lose the battle of momentum. And we absolutely lost. Upon crashing into the monstrous vegetation, we hit at such an angle that I was hurled forward off the dollies, flying through the air for about 10 seconds, and smashing into the ground 50 feet from the tree (the actual hangtime may have been significantly less impressive. shhhh.). I'm not sure what happened to Geoff; it is possible that the force of the crash was enough to make him collapse into a Black Hole.

Miraculously, all four of us survived the ordeal. We all stood up, and by the grace of God our inevitably shattered bones must have instantaneously healed themselves. However, I had more blood pouring out of my legs than I was previously aware existed in my entire body. And the pain. Holy shit. My comrades were in just as bad shape; I think one of them accidentally swallowed a family of possums while rolling over their nest at 350 mph. But that's not to say that would wouldn't do it again... though it was enough to make us at LEAST reconsider participating in this activity. The worst part is that as we clambered back up the hill, dragging our broken invention and dignity behind us, the troop leaders were at the top waiting for us. They had heard our blood-curdling screams of terror and arrived just in time to punish us for our reckless and mildly retarded behavior. So not only did I lose 3 pints of knee-blood, but I also had to wash all the pots and pans after dinner. Screw that.