The Galapagos has got to be the best summer camp ever, not that I know all that much about summer camps.
I only went to camp once, a present from Aunt Marion, who heard me whining as a 10 year old that I never got to go anyplace or do anything, which, if you didn’t count trips to visit grandma in Archbald, PA, was pretty much true. Off I went to Our Lady of Lourdes summer camp on Skaneateles Lake in upstate New York, a trip I would soon regret. After the swimming instructor tried to to drown me when I struggled with what they called ‘rhythmic breathing’, I became disenchanted with the whole enterprise (though I do admit to enjoying singing sappy songs around the campfire at night).
I didn’t even try to swim for another 20 years, until my mates at our video studio in London took me to the public pool every morning before anyone else was there, and swam alongside me practicing laps across the width, rather than the length, of the pool until I got the hang of it. By the time I left London I could swim lengths, pulling my head out of the water at intervals to breathe. By the time I got to the Galapagos, close enough to 40 years after that, knowing how to swim came in very handy.