Chapter 3: DAY 3

The first real day of the camp! After saluting the flag (‘what EVERY morning?’, thought Clive ‘I thought that only happpened in North Korea’) and then a breakfast which some girls gobbled enthusiastically and others picked at for various faddy dietary or dieting reasons, another welcoming talk with emphasis on health and safety, and finally the listing of activities; the girls scattered to sign up and get changed and, mostly, to chat. Girls can talk until the world ends, and then talk a bit more.

The weather was fine, a light breeze, roughly SW he thought, blowing mostly up the lake but slightly angled to the shore. You’d have to try really hard to get blown away today. Perfect.

A bunch of girls came down. “What’s the collective noun for a bunch of girls?” Clive asked Marie-Anne

“Hmm? A collective noun?”

“Like a school of whales, a shoal of fish, and murder of crows”

“A what? I’ve never heard that. Well a bunch of annoying, squeaky voiced troublesome over-sexed girls. Will that do?”

“Not really, but never mind ... over-sexed?” He was watching a girl bending over, stretching her shorts across two lovely rounded buttocks.

“I’ve warned you already, over-sexed is not good from your point of view. Just keep telling yourself ‘hot stuff burns fingers’.”

“Yes, I will.” He blew on his fingers like they had been burnt and she smiled and shook her head. The girl had stood up, realised he was watching her and deliberately stretched, allowing her teenage bra to strain against her t-shirt “It really isn’t fair you know.”

“My heart bleeds for you, I think I’ll start a book on how long you last; I’d give it two weeks at most.” She was laughing, and so was he. Jo-Lene walked over and gave the girls a quick run-down on being safe on the water.

“We don’t want any drownings do we?” she finished with a crocodile smile. Clive felt like jumping out of the way in case she turned and snapped at him. He had been thinking of a ‘witty’ rejoinder like ‘unless we drown a couple to encourage the others’ but decided against it; he figured Jo-Lene didn’t do jokes, and his were usually bad ones at that.

The boring part of sailing was introducing them to the boat parts, they tried calling the sheets the furry ropes, but there were still ‘those ropes’ and ‘these ropes’ and ‘tying up ropes’. It didn’t help a lot. The two little bands sailed out, it was going to take time to get used to the view. Each girl wore a life jacket of course, which adequately disguised their small, medium or large breasts. But they also all had tapes tied between their legs, which pulled their shorts tight against their groins. This was a pretty view, as were the legs; slim, smooth and inviting a hand to slide up them. Clive determined not to touch at all if he could avoid it.

For an hour they sailed around with each girl having a go on the tiller and the jib. Some found it fun, others showed that they thought this was the most excruciatingly boring thing in the whole universe. Clive wanted to tell Kirsty to get her arse in gear and do what she was bloody well told, but he didn’t; suspecting that swearing at a 12 year old was sufficient to be sacrificed to the crocodile. ‘Daddy’, it turned out, was awfully, awfully rich and so bawling Daddy’s little girl out was probably not the best approach.

First hour of sailing over. Another group arrived for an afternoon sail, but a much smaller group. Four in fact, “We could all go out together? With two competent sailors on board we might have more fun?” said Marie-Anne. She looked at the island. The four girls followed her gaze and nodded. In minutes they had run back, got supplies – chocolate and coke – and the first adventure of the camp began. “Should we ask permission?” Marie-Anne asked

“If we ask, we might get refused. If we don’t ask, we can apologise when we get back.”

And so the good ship Virgin (as Clive dubbed it unofficially – the official name was FK U2 – which some girls realised immediately was rather scandalous and giggled, and others had to have explained to them, and then giggled) sailed out to claim the island for England or America – depending on who leapt off the boat first. There followed a water fight which Clive emphatically lost. He also lost his determination not to touch these nymphets clambering all over him since he was virtually incapable of not touching a breast, bottom, leg or groin as they held him down and poured water over him. Marie-Anne observed he did at least remove his hand from Kimberley-Melissa’s crotch when he realised where it was and that Kimberley had not objected because she liked having a man’s hand feeling her up, even if it was accidental.

They sailed back, it had been a good afternoon, and news travelled round the camp that sailing could be fun. At tea a few more girls asked if they could come the next day. They would have to see if they could train up some of the girls who knew how to sail.

The early evening provided the first archery session. The leader here was Marcia, she was passionate about archery and not that patient with girls who just wanted to have some fun. She quickly concentrated on the keen archery girls. Clive and a girl he hadn’t met, Sandie, were left with the others. Some of these had no idea at all, some had a little. Clive and Sandie showed them how to hold the bow, how to pull the string and then how to nock the arrow “and never, ever point the bow anywhere but at the target. Remember – TRACEY! – remember these could kill someone, TRACEY! I won’t tell you again!”