I was enthralled with Dave before I met him.
I was starting my second summer as a camp counselor at Camp Weequaic, an eight-week sleep-away camp in the New York Catskill Mountains. I was at pre-camp, an unpaid, required week when all the counselors worked to get the camp ready before the kids (ages 6-16) arrived.
We cleaned bunks, tennis courts, and the lakefront; painted bunk porches, swimming and boating docks, park benches, and anything else that had taken a beating over the winter. We unpacked trunks of brand-new summer clothes, sports equipment, and personal effects that were most likely packed by a nanny back in the city. It was hard, laborious work, and none of us wanted to be there. But it was required. There was no way to get out of it. If you refused pre-camp, you were fired.
But somehow Dave got out of it.
I was a volleyball teacher and a counselor for a bunk full of 13-year-old girls. My boss slept in our bunk and oversaw six bunks (12 counselors and 72 kids). Her title was Girls’ Senior Division Head, and Dave was her counterpart on the boys’ side of camp.
I could not fathom why Dave wasn’t there that week, so I assumed he must be really important. Maybe he was interning at a law firm or had some important job he couldn’t leave. He was clearly a far-too-important-for-measly-prep-work-before-the-kids-arrive kind of guy.
“Who’s the Boys’ Senior Division Head, and why isn’t he here for pre-camp?” I finally asked one of the camp owners.
“Yeah, he couldn’t make it,” she said with slight disdain in her voice, followed by an eye roll.
I didn’t push further. If anything, I was even more intrigued.
It bothered me that he wasn’t there. All the junior, inter, and senior division heads were there, but not him. The camp structure seemed out of whack, and my need for structure left me feeling unsettled.
I couldn’t wait to meet this guy.
The night before the kids arrived, all the counselors gathered by the flagpole in the middle of camp to get final instructions for the next morning. As I waited for the meeting to start, I saw him.
At the top of the hill. He was bigger than life.
When I think back to that moment, it’s in slow motion. He walks down the hill with a confident, aloof swagger that is sexy and a little scary. His muscles glisten in the sun, his lean, tanned body loose and relaxed as he makes his way toward us. He is tall, athletic, muscular, and oh so very sexy.
The world stands still. I can feel my breath.
As the camp owner thanks us for all our hard work (including Dave!) and explains what the morning will entail, I watch him—study him—trying to figure out who he is and why he’s allowed to skip pre-camp. I notice the smile lines around his eyes and that his short, dark hair has recently been cut.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
The next two days are full of activities as we get the kids settled into their routine for the next eight weeks. (Yes, six-year-olds spent eight weeks at camp. I was surprised too and thought the junior counselors should have gotten combat pay.) I digress.
Three days after I first see Dave, I notice him shooting a basketball on the lower court. Adrenaline shoots through me as I gather enough confidence to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Heidi. You’re the Boys’ Senior Division Head, right?”
“Oh hi. Yeah, I’m Dave. Nice to meet you.”
Oh my God, he has an English accent! How is he this hot…and English?
I’m smitten.
As he tucks the basketball under his arm and reaches out to shake my hand, I look up at him. He’s taller than I first thought. His hand is strong, and his palm is rough from basketball calluses, like mine.
I pull away in a playful moment and gesture for him to throw me the ball. He does.
I dribble twice between my legs, square up to the basket, and shoot. Swish.
He responds with an, “Ohhhhhh!” I knew he would.
I’d been working on that jump shot for the last five years, ever since I went to “Shot Doctor” camp my sophomore year of high school, and I knew how impressive a technically sound jump shot was—for a girl.
I retrieve the ball and throw it back to him. He dribbles to the spot I’d just shot from, squares up, and shoots. Swish. Suddenly we’re in a game of HORSE.
“So, I noticed you weren’t at pre-camp. You have a fancy internship at a law firm or something?” I ask.
He throws his head back and laughs. I suddenly feel foolish for asking, but I’m dying to know.
“Nah, I was painting houses in Maine.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“This is my fifth summer here, and I told Gail the only way I’d be Boys’ Senior Division Head was if I could skip pre-camp. I think she was desperate, so she said okay.” He pauses. “I seriously needed the money.”
I couldn’t believe it. Not that he had been painting houses. That he had asked—demanded. I couldn’t imagine breaking a rule or even asking to break a rule. He amazed me.
“Why Maine?” I ask.
“Oh, I go to school at University of Maine at Machias. I play basketball there. A buddy told me he knew a guy who needed someone to paint houses in Portland.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Are you from England?”
“Yeah, I grew up in London.”
“How’d you end up in Maine?”
“I played basketball in England, and my coach told me University of Maine at Machias was looking for players. They had foreign student waivers, so I came over. I’m a journalism major and just finished my second year.”
Basketball player. English. Smart. Tall. Hot. And confident enough to set his own rules.
I was awestruck.
And that’s how it started.
I fell hard for a confident, kind, funny, loving Englishman who adores me. Today we are celebrating our 36th wedding anniversary.
We’ve had a full life together. Dave gave up his scholarship in Maine to finish school with me at the University of Northern Colorado, where he earned a starting spot on the basketball team. We graduated together two years later.
We raised two beautiful children. He built a successful career as a presentation coach. I found my calling advocating for gun control and survivors of trauma—writing books and articles and making films.
My jump shot is no longer a thing, and he traded his basketball shoes for running shoes years ago.
We’ve been through illness and tragedy and heartbreak together. We now fully understand what “in sickness and in health” really means.
I’ve picked up a few things from him over the years. Because of Dave, I no longer take rules as gospel. My need to people-please has lessened, and my confidence is almost at Dave level—almost.
I was enthralled with Dave before I met him. Thirty-six years later, I still am. And I have a feeling it will continue, even after “till death do us part.”
