Chapter 11: Scouting Life

July 24, 1962 - Lobster Scout

The next morning, I looked in the mirror and was surprised that I wasn’t glowing in the dark, every inch of my exposed body was beet red. I covered myself with lotion and headed to meet Jake at the corner of Palm and Lakeside. He was already waiting on his bike, a canvas bag hanging from the handlebars.

“Bout time you showed up,” he called as I approached, then broke out laughing. “Damn, I’ve seen lobsters paler than you are right now. Aren’t you hurting?”

I shrugged. “I usually burn my first real day in the sun when I was up north at the lake, but it only lasts a day, and I don’t usually peel. But then I’ve never been flame roasted like I was yesterday. I hope I don’t, I’ve got to work Saturday.”

“Well, I Thought maybe you’d gotten eaten by a gator.”

“Just my grandmother trying,” I shot back, and he laughed.

We pedaled through town, past the downtown shops and residential streets, until the houses grew further apart and the road narrowed. Jake led me onto a dirt path that wound through cypress trees draped with Spanish moss, eventually emerging at a small canal.

“Almost there,” Jake said, pedaling faster.

The path widened again, revealing a clearing where an A-frame wooden building sat nestled among the pines. A flagpole stood in front, the American flag and another flag I recognized immediately fluttering in the breeze.

“The Scout Shack,” Jake announced proudly, skidding to a stop.

“That’s the beach and pool over there; I’ve haven’t been this far around the canals yet.” I stared at the familiar trefoil emblem on the second flag, feeling an unexpected pang of nostalgia. “You’re a Scout?”

“Life Scout,” Jake confirmed, propping his bike against a tree. “Working on Eagle. You ever do Scouts up north?”

“First Class Scout in Troop 44, Rochester.” I followed him toward the building. “Had to quit when we moved.”

Jake’s face lit up. “No kidding? That’s perfect! We’re always looking for new guys, especially ones who already know the ropes.”

Inside, the Scout Shack was exactly like every other Scout meeting place I’d ever been in, wooden walls covered with merit badge charts, patrol flags, and camping photos. The familiar smell of wood, canvas, and musty handbooks hit me like a physical force.

A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair was arranging chairs in a circle. He looked up as we entered.

“Mr. Peterson, this is Tom Hardy,” Jake said. “He just moved here from New York. He was a First Class Scout up there.”

Mr. Peterson’s handshake was firm. “Welcome to Troop 76, Tom. Always room for another Scout. Especially one who already knows which end of a compass point’s north.”

We spent the next hour going over the troop’s schedule and traditions. Unlike my troop in Rochester, which met on Mondays, Troop 76 gathered on Wednesdays due to Mr. Peterson’s work schedule.

“And we’ve got a camping trip planned for August 6th,” Mr. Peterson said, showing me the calendar. “Three days at Juniper Springs. Good chance to get to know everyone.”

I checked the dates mentally. “That’s a Monday through Wednesday?”

Mr. Peterson nodded. “I had to schedule it during the week. Got the time off work specially.”

“My weekends are booked at Silver Springs,” I explained. “But weekdays work great for me.”

“Silver Springs?” Mr. Peterson raised an eyebrow.

“Tom’s working with Elaine Pritchard,” Jake supplied. “Underwater shows.”

Mr. Peterson whistled. “Impressive. Well, we’ll be glad to have you along. Need any gear?”

I thought about my limited possessions. “Probably everything except a knife and canteen.”

“No problem. Troop has extras.” He handed me a permission slip. “Get this signed and bring it next Wednesday.”

I folded the paper carefully, already strategizing how to get Grandfather’s signature without Grandmother noticing. After what happened at St. Augustine’s, I wasn’t about to let her block me from something normal like Scouts.

As Jake and I biked away, the familiar weight of a Scout handbook in my backpack, I felt something I hadn’t experienced since arriving in Florida, a sense of continuity, as if a thread from my old life had somehow found its way into my new one.

“You’re smiling,” Jake observed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, pedaling faster. “Just thinking this place might not be so bad after all.”

Back in my apartment, I slathered another layer of coconut cream over my sunburned skin. The sweet tropical scent filled my small living space as I settled into my armchair, the familiar weight of the Scout handbook in my hands. The cover was different from my old troop’s, newer, less worn, but the contents remained unchanged.

I flipped through the pages, my fingers finding their way to favorite sections by muscle memory alone. The knots diagram. The first aid instructions. The detailed illustrations of proper tent setup that had saved me from embarrassment on my first overnight trip with Troop 44.

“Like riding a bicycle,” I murmured, tracing the outline of the square knot illustration.

The familiarity washed over me like cool water. In a summer that had brought nothing but change, new state, new town, new enemies, new friends, this book represented something constant. The same skills, the same values, the same organization existed here as it had back in Rochester. For the first time since leaving New York, I felt a genuine connection between my past and present.