One of the things I looked forward to doing while in the coastal NC area was to visit the site of a summer camp I went to when I was a kid, Camp Morehead. It was located on the Bogue Sound, near Morehead City, and was billed as a sailing camp, which I suppose it was to some degree. It was really a place to go be kid away from your parents for three weeks. It was a place that I don’t think could really exist – as it was – today. A place where when kids fought, they were handcuffed to each other for a few hours to make them get along better. A place where you could walk barefoot and shirtless to the shooting range, and shoot all the .22 rounds you wanted under the supervision of a hungover college-aged counselor. A place where those same counselors would disappear at night to go rendezvous with the girl counselors, returning only a few hours before the sun rose. A place that would tie a ski-rope to the back of a pickup truck and drag you around an open field on a plastic sled. No helmet, no shoes, and likely no shirt. And a place where you could take your little Sailfish sailboat out as far as you wanted, regardless of approaching weather. I learned of Camp Morehead from a friend at school when I was in sixth grade. I was 11 when I first went there in 1994. I went back the following year, which turned out to be the final year the camp was open. After being in business since 1938, the owners developed the property into a neighborhood – a sad conclusion for such a special place. We didn’t have a ton of spare time on our way to the ferry out to Ocracoke, but stopped in to look around for a bit. It was very cool to be back and neat to be able to identify a few remnants of what used to be nearly 20 years prior. Things like the oak tree that was the central hub of camp (it was the only place to get water, which was dispensed from those big yellow Igloo coolers); a few sailboats that had long ago taken their final trip in the sound; and the old barn where they held different events at night: roller-skating, indoor hockey, boxing matches, movies, and dances. It looks like they moved the old barn and it is now the community center building, located next to the tennis courts, which also still remain from the camp. While casing the neighborhood, a lady drove by and I stopped her to ask if Capt. Purcell Jones, the man who owned/operated the camp with his wife Helen, was still around. She pointed out his house (no longer the big house next to camp that he once lived in), and encouraged me to knock on his door. After a bit of deliberation, I decided that since I was here, I might as well at least introduce myself. I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first camper to return and say hello. So I finally knocked, but nobody was there. As time marches on, so too had Capt. Purcell. It looked like he just recently moved out, as there was a for sale sign in the yard and a lock box on the door (and the fact that the neighbor lady didn’t know he was gone). He is now in his mid-90s, and my best guess is that he was moved to a nursing home. (5/5/16 update: while looking for the camp logo online, I came across his obituary. He died a month after we stopped by the neighborhood. He was 93. RIP Capt.) I do wonder if he and his wife had any regrets developing the place into a neighborhood, as he always seemed so genuinely happy at camp. Perhaps, like an old dog that has given all it can give – a lifetime of loyalty and great memories – the tired camp itself (and it was tired) was ready to lay down for the final time long before its owners were truly ready to let it go. Sometimes things just work out that way. Though it was slightly disappointing missing Capt. Purcell by such a short amount of time, it was awesome just to be back on that property and remember what it was like – both the camp itself and being a kid at camp.
