Sapelo Island: Part 1

It all started last Thursday in the Grady High School teacher's parking lot on 8th Street in Midtown Atlanta. 17 students, two teachers and me, a camera guy slash writer slash tagalong instructor. Ms. Handy surprised us with t-shirts that she had specially made for the occasion. Her gift set a tone of generosity that we would carry with us throughout the weekend. My t-shirt was an XL, the only size which remained. I graciously accepted the tent-like tee and slung it over my clothes. The bottom of the shirt grazed my kneecaps.

Before piling into the two vans that would transport us to Sapelo Island, I asked everyone to get together and stare into the sun so that I could take their picture. And there you have it: The group shot. The one thing that I love about being behind the camera is never having to force a smile while staring into the sun. I tip my hat to those of you who can pull it off and smile like the bright light isn't searing your retinas. My experience usually results in a mess of contorted facial features, with heavily squinted eyes and lots of biting of the inside of my cheeks to hold back the profanities that I want to yell at the camera person for forcing me to be in this position.

Like I was saying, 17 kids were in our group. That morning, in the group photo, there were only 16 students present. All week we had requested that everyone meet in the teacher's parking lot Thursday morning by 8 a.m. sharp so that we could leave promptly by 8:30. The plan was to drive on 75 South for a few hours, stop for lunch and gas, and then continue south on 95 past Savannah so that we could make the 3:30 p.m. ferry to Sapelo Island. Leaving at 8:30 would afford us enough time for lunch. Leaving after 8:30 would not.

It was after 8:30 when I took this group photo. We were all packed and ready to go, 16 kids and three adults working together to stuff gear in trunks and assign seats. We were a team destined for greatness and our reward was only hours away. At 9 a.m., we still had not left the parking lot. We were waiting on one student who was apparently on his way. It was okay, we thought. We could wait. We'd waited a month for this trip to Sapelo so what was a few more minutes, anyway? By 9:30, we were anxious. The now very late student had toppled our threshold for patience and, just to sprinkle salt in our gaping wound, he refused to answer his phone. This was just great. The kids had been sitting the vans, waiting, for over an hour. The three of us adults were staring at one another, contemplating on leaving the late student behind. I think that we all wanted to go. We agreed that in order to learn a lesson, this student would have to learn that there were consequences for his actions. In this case, the consequence for being an hour late would be that he missed the trip. However, we didn't leave the student behind because we realized how much he would benefit from this trip. He, in particular, is a boy who is chronically late for everything, including class, and he is constantly coddled at home. He has never known the true meaning of consequence, has never been held accountable and has been taken care of and treated like a baby since he was a baby. Sure, the fact that we were still sitting in the parking lot waiting for his arrival was, in a sense, not teaching him about consequences, but this was his chance to be free from the coddling for one weekend, an opportunity for this boy to learn to take care of himself. So, we waited.

Shortly after 9:30 a.m. the boy in question arrived. We tossed his bags in the van, gave him a bit of grief for being late, buckled up and pulled away, 13 people in one van and seven in the other. Now was the time to replenish all of the hope and anticipation for the trip that had dwindled while standing around waiting in the parking lot. In our vehicle, a 15-passenger van, 11 kids bounced around in the bench seats while I navigated and Mr. Hackett steered the ship towards Sapelo. We hit the highway ready to Go Go Go! The kids begged for rap music but I tried to persuade them with AM1690. They cried out, NO!, just as I had done when I was a kid, riding in the car with my grandpa. Here was a man who introduced me to talk radio but at the time, it was pure torture. Dull, boring and bloated. Nowadays, I cherish AM radio programs and I know that one day, the kids will, too. But not now. We landed on a hip-hop station and were on our way. The only problem now was speed. A 15-passenger van filled almost to capacity does not afford you the luxury of 70 MPH. And every time the wind blows, you feel as though the van will topple and roll. The kids notice of these things and their scrutiny is unrelenting. Why are we only going 55 MPH? Mr. Hackett, a semi truck is passing us! Mr. Hackett, an Oldsmobile is passing us! Mr. Hackett, an old lady in a wheel chair is passing us! You try to distract them with chatter, you ask them to relax, you try an explain the situation, that we adults are responsible for the safety of each and every kid on the van and that it is impossible to drive safely and fast at the same time. They refuse to believe our reasoning. We refuse to drive faster. Eventually, they get over it. But 15 minutes later, one of them can be heard informing the rest of the group that we will, in fact, never get to Sapelo while driving at this snail's pace.

It takes a just under five hours to get to Sapelo Island from Atlanta. We didn't leave until 9:45 a.m. Because we had to be at the dock no later than 2:30 p.m. in order to catch the 3:30 ferry or else be forced to sleep in vans until the following morning when the next running ferry was to arrive, and because the van topped out at 60 MPH, we had no other choice but to cancel our lunch plans and push through. Here's where you start to respect the kids who have discipline and, on the other hand, start to think about dumping the problem kids out of the van and onto the side of the road. You don't do it, of course, but you think about it. A few hours into our trip and now it is lunchtime, legs are cramped and people have to pee, but we're not stopping. We do, however, discover that the boy who was single-handedly responsible for our current uncomfortable situation was over an hour late because he was in line at McDonald's, waiting to for his sausage McGriddle, hash brown and OJ to be handed to him in a paper sack through a drive-thru window. We process this information and sinister laughs escape from the corners of our mouths. We spread the news throughout the van so that each hungry, impatient child can realize how the shear selfishness of one can affect the well-being of the whole. We hope the lesson will play out and that they will hold this boy accountable, forcing him to, at the very least, apologize. We continue to laugh amongst ourselves in the front seats because the mere fact that we cannot stop for lunch because one of our kids was eating breakfast, a McFlippingGriddles, has so enraged us that we cannot think to do anything else but laugh. Really, we are more angry with the parents of the kid in question. I mean, you've got to be kidding. It starts at home, where the self-serving behavior is nurtured and rewarded. And we laugh because it is not the kid's fault and it is not our fault, and we laugh because no matter how much we suffer as a group this same boy would, given the chance, jump out of a moving vehicle and run to the nearest McDonald's to fill up on chicken nuggets and orange drink. No matter how much we offer of ourselves, the countless hours of positive reinforcement and instruction, we may never be able to see this boy change his actions from inconsiderate to benevolent. We laugh because we know this to be true, and the truth makes you want to cry, but you cannot cry, you cannot let 11 teenagers see you cry and then try to explain to them that nothing is wrong, so you laugh, you pause, change the subject, then you think back on that McGriddles and it makes you laugh, again.

We pulled into the Sapelo Island loading dock area at exactly 2:30 p.m. Road weary and hungry, we had little time to waste as it was more than 200 yards to walk from where we parked to where the ferry departed and we had a heck of a lot of gear to carry. Well, let me take that back: the kids had a lot of luggage to carry. I like to think that we adults packed minimally and smartly from experience, each of us carrying a minimal wardrobe to last throughout our four days of camping. Teenagers, especially those who have never stepped foot outside of Atlanta and have never been camping on an island before, well, they carry their entire wardrobe plus sleeping bags, pillows, slippers and shower caps. Prior to the trip they were given a list of supplies to bring. We made plenty with clothing suggestions and said things like, "Don't wear jeans" and "Avoid 100% cotton t-shirts because they hold moisture like a sponge." Most kids wore jeans. I think that some even brought wool sweaters. They were the ones complaining about sweating in the 90 plus temperatures and lugging their heavy things to the dock. Lesson (hopefully) learned.

At the dock, I found it impossible to hide my excitement for this group. Before them lay saltwater and the first boat ride of their young lives. Few were confident but all were curious. They draped themselves over the wooden railing of the dock, pointing and howling at small crabs in the shallow sea. One boy stepped onto the floating portion of the dock unaware that it would move under his feet. This new sensation sent the boy into a fit of laughter. I watched him walk off by himself, testing the other boards of the dock with every step. Eventually, we loaded the boat with all of our luggage and took our seats toward the front. That's where I'll bring this first post to an end, with these kids staring out over the water, possibilities unknown, their proud chests puffed out to meet the wind.