A pioneer camp in Crimea on the southern coast. It’s the largest after Artek and some camp called Orlyonok, but those are more like “multi-camps,” while this one is a “mega-camp.” There are a lot of people—up to 16 groups of 40 to 50 kids, totaling around 700 to 800. Each group has 4 counselors. The counselors are exhausted and worn out. The camp is located on a fairly steep mountainside. The dining halls are at the top, the barracks for the groups (25 kids per room) are at the very top, and the sea is down below. Meals are provided five times a day, swimming happens twice a day, and there are two nap times. In the evenings, there’s some kind of entertainment like a movie or a disco. The kids (imagine a bunch of cockroaches spilled out of a box onto a table) need to be lined up and counted at least 10 times a day. My throat was sore by the second day. The toilets and washrooms are in separate buildings, which are always wet up to the ankles. There’s the pine scent of the relict forest, and besides the pioneers, there are a lot of wasps. On top of everything, the counselors have their own nightlife, and if the kids behave quietly during nap time, it’s just been very clearly explained to them that nap time isn’t for them, but for the counselor, and heaven forbid he wakes up!
I’m a camp counselor. For several years now, I’ve been going to camp to “also get some rest.” The money we earn as counselors is just enough to cover a round-trip ticket, plus a little wine and some simple entertainment. There are four of us in the group, and we somehow divide up the responsibilities. I’m the “veteran,” so I immediately let the girls who came from Kyiv “for practice” know that “I’ll be in charge.” “What a cheeky guy,” they think every time, and “How lucky we are,” they realize later when they find out that they’ve, sort of by miracle, ended up with the most well-behaved group in the camp. Although I’ve always been given the most challenging kids. Because “Roma can handle it.”
And Roma, for the kids Roman Vladimirovich, didn’t exactly “manage” things. He didn’t stress out. He didn’t solve problems; he didn’t create them either. Is your throat getting sore? Just hang a whistle around your neck. Teach the kids three whistle commands: “Line up,” “ disperse,” and “Stay where you are,” and your throat will be just fine.
The counselors are busy organizing the duty schedules for the dining hall and the cabins, ensuring that the schedule is followed, mediating conflicts, and running back and forth with each new shift of duty staff to explain, often with a shout, how to take food, where to set the tables, and how exactly to wash the floors. No, that’s not our method. The theory of inventive problem solving states that the best alternative to something is its absence, while still fulfilling the function. So, away with the duty schedule and long live the volunteers. On the very first day, after gathering the kids and explaining the basics, I ask, “Who wants to be on duty in the dining hall for the entire camp session?” The response, as always, is silence. I repeat the question. Again, silence. No one wants to volunteer. On the third try, I hint that I’m not asking just for fun and a) there will be perks and b) if you don’t like it, you can opt out. Then the first hand goes up. “Aha, this brave, smart, and hardworking person (often a girl with bright eyes) will be the leader, the head, the privileged one.” Soon, more hands go up. I select four people and say, “Thank you for your choice. Now we will go together to set the table. For this, you will always get an extra portion. At the second dinner, you will always have a double serving of fruit. You can officially skip the afternoon nap and do your own thing (but you must be quiet), and most importantly, you can swim whenever you want, not just on schedule like everyone else.” There are always extra portions available. If you befriend the girls in the kitchen, they will appear. If the duty staff works quickly, smoothly, and well—setting up chairs, laying the table, cleaning up, putting away chairs, and washing the floors—the cooks always thank them. And the duty staff are professionals. They do the same work day in and day out and have, of course, become so skilled that it’s a pleasure to watch them work. Our group is held up as an example, and the duty staff receive certificates once a week, while the group is awarded a bag of candies as a prize, which, of course, goes to the duty staff. Five times a day, and without the counselors accompanying them, the duty staff proudly march into the dining hall like astronauts in the movie “Armageddon.” They are recognized by face. They are greeted. The morning lineup is not for them, the quiet hour is not for them, and the flag ceremony on the beach is not for them.
The same issue applies to the duty person in the ward, who simply needs to sweep it in the morning. They won’t have a lineup either and will have free time for bathing and an extra ration. Why? Due to accounting problems. In the camp, there was always one out of twenty in isolation somewhere. Clogged toilets with liquid up to the ankles are a great place for spreading intestinal infections. You could also get a sunstroke, break an arm, or just catch a cold. In isolation, there’s a separate count of people, and they have their meals without leaving the medical building. But those portions still remain for the group. The leader’s task is to distribute them properly, not randomly, by just shouting, “Who wants seconds?”
The most challenging part of being a camp counselor remains – swimming. It involves standing at the water’s edge and counting the children’s heads. It means sending them out of the water when the red flag goes up on the lifeguard tower. It’s about organizing and counting them before the flag goes down again, so they have time to get in the water. You can’t let more than 15 kids swim at the same time. Usually, the group can be divided into four smaller ones. One group swims while three sit on the beach. The swimming cycle lasts 10 minutes. It’s chaos for both the kids and the counselors. There’s hustle, excitement, a rush for “just a little more,” safety violations, and kids getting sunstroke because you can’t keep track of everyone wearing caps and hats. And again, this is not our way. My kids swam whenever they wanted and for as long as they wanted. After all, if you remove the hustle and bustle, you’ll find that people won’t swim for long and not everyone will, since there are many interesting things on the shore. And those who want to swim until they turn blue, staying in the water for hours – let them swim and then get sick. I need an extra portion in the dining hall. Although, it turns out that those with blue lips never get sick.
So, we need to eliminate the hype. I already have 8 privileged individuals. They can swim whenever they want and don’t rush to line up when it’s time to form up, and they quickly leave when the red flag is raised. They know they’ll be allowed back in a minute. Over the course of three days, I increase the number of privileged individuals—allowing them to swim “as much as they want” in exchange for some services or tasks. Then I introduce sanctions for those who break the rules: you sit until your swim trunks dry. As a result, instead of 15 people lining up before entering the water, I have only 5 to 7. And on the last of those three days, I break the pattern.
First, I negotiate with the gym teachers that I will do the morning exercises myself on the beach instead of taking the kids to the stadium. No one else does this. The stadium is right next to the cafeteria, while the beach is down below. It’s just extra running around. Plus, the gym teacher will lead the exercises at the stadium, but on the beach, it’s all up to you. And then there’s the sea – a tempting distraction. The gym teachers appreciate my enthusiasm and always agree to the deal. The kids go to exercise in their swimsuits, towels in hand, much to the envy of the other pioneers heading in the opposite direction – to the stadium. By the end of the exercises, I have time for some water activities. And then I say, “Everyone can swim!” I’m not taking any risks. The water is clear in the morning, and I can see everything I need. The kids wade into the water slowly, as there’s no rush, and the first ones will manage to come out before the last ones go in. Once the kids are in or almost in the water, I announce, “Whoever comes out of the water now, without being told, can swim as long as they want!” The kids have no idea what’s going on. They ask for clarification. The bravest one steps out, looks at me, and asks, “Can I go back in the water now?” Yes, I reply, of course. As long as you want! Realizing this is a new kind of game, the kids come out of the water and, once given permission, go back in. They start whispering to each other, “Roman Vladimirovich has lost his mind.” But I’ve achieved my goal: the kids have lost their fear of coming out of the water and then sitting on the shore for half an hour to dry off, and they’ve understood that swimming isn’t such a big deal after all.
So, I’m standing at the water’s edge. A camper approaches me, “Roman Vladimirovich, can I go into the water?” “Yes,” I say. And I mentally add +1 to the number of kids in the water. Another camper comes out of the water: “Roman Vladimirovich, I’m out of the water.” “Thank you,” I reply and subtract -1 from the number of swimmers. The number never exceeds 12. Red flag? The other counselors from the groups on the left and right start shouting for the kids to get out of the water, while the second counselor hurriedly organizes the next group, making sure no one cuts in line. My kids, hearing the shouts, calmly exit, look at the flag, and then calmly go back into the water. They enjoy being in control of the situation! I manage everything on the beach with the kids by myself. I don’t need a second counselor. The girls, of course, loved going to the beach with me because there were no shouts or scandals, and they could genuinely relax. I did too, because standing and watching the sea is also a job that can be delegated.
The camp is large, with a beach that stretches 350 meters. The head physical education instructor stands on a platform at the beginning of the beach, making sure that the counselors are always at the water’s edge and not sitting down. Later, he complains in meetings that the counselors are irresponsible and not doing their jobs. Look, only Roma is always standing and watching the kids. And Roma wears a green cap. It’s very recognizable from a distance. The only one of its kind. It’s not even a cap, but more like a baseball hat, made of foam in the front and a plastic mesh in the back, with the front designed like a cap, featuring a bend in the visor. The physical education instructor, who is also the camp’s deputy director, sees this cap but not me. Then he notices that the cap is worn by one of the taller pioneers. Meanwhile, Roman is lying on the beach on a sunbed made of sand by other pioneers. With headrests and armrests – all of that. Roman is, of course, mentally counting the pioneers and occasionally quickly assessing the number of heads in the water. Especially since the kids, if not forced into groups, tend to form their own little cliques and go into the water in teams, keeping an eye on each other, which makes them easily recognizable from the shore.
A hundred meters off the beach, three round concrete discs, each about 10 meters in diameter, slightly protrude from the water. One of the discs is fully completed and stands one meter above the water, while the others are unfinished. There are concrete walls that rise slightly above the surface, filled with large stones, concrete blocks, and gravel. The discs were presumably intended to serve as a breakwater, protecting the beach and the dolphinarium from winter storms. One of the activities for the older kids was to “swim to the disc.” It was quite safe in the calm, clear sea with a depth of no more than 10 meters. Even if someone were to drown, they would be rescued. They were allowed to swim in small groups accompanied by a male counselor. My pioneers asked me to take them out as well. For the oldest ones, I usually just handed over my cap so the gym teacher could see they were with a counselor. With those who were a bit younger, I swam with them myself. One day, I went out with two older boys. The plan was to dive and sunbathe. My group was left in the care of a second counselor, and we set off.
While walking on the unfinished docks and trying to catch a little crab or shrimp, I slipped on a slippery concrete slab covered in algae and tore the skin on my leg on a piece of rebar. It hurt. Blood. For about five minutes, I called for rescuers, who didn’t understand why they should paddle so far. But eventually, they came, we got into the boat, and set off for the shore. There was water up to our ankles in the dinghy—it was leaking, like any other wooden boat, and we had to bail it out from time to time. But then the water mixed with the blood dripping from my leg, turning it all red, making it seem like I had lost so much blood that it had flooded the boat.
As we approached the shore, a crowd of curious children was already waiting for us. Something had happened to Roman Vladimirovich! Usually, the whole camp knew me. Among the children, I spotted my old acquaintance, the veteran counselor Margarita Vasilyevna. She was a middle-aged woman. We had managed to lead a group together a couple of times without any outside help. But this time, we had been assigned to different groups—she got the older kids, and I got the 13-year-olds. She was a very beautiful woman, resembling Sophia Loren in every way. Apparently, she knew this and was clearly cosplaying the famous actress with her makeup. Big eyes, a curvy figure, and a stylish hairstyle. It was great to be with her; she was a reliable partner, and her slight, ahem, quirk in behavior didn’t bother me at all. The quirk was that she was a) trusting, b) overly suspicious, and c) seriously believed she was a psychic. She thought she had been sent by higher powers to do good. Once, I scared her by swimming belly-up about 15 meters directly beneath her; when I surfaced, I found her in a panic. As it turned out later, she was convinced that a sea demon had been sent after her to take her from this world because the good she was doing was interfering with evil.
So, in a crowd of 30-40 pioneers, I clearly saw her wide-open, big eyes looking at me with excitement and anticipation for an explanation. The kids were also shouting, demanding a story. “And then Ostap was off…”
“Children, this is the Black Sea saber-toothed fish. It’s very rare, though dangerous. It lives here in the bay, which is why this area is a nature reserve. The only thing that keeps it away is that it’s afraid of white buoys. You know that on beaches, the buoys are usually red so they can be seen from a distance. But here in our camp, they are white. This is to prevent the saber-toothed fish from swimming close to the shore. So, kids, never swim beyond the buoys.”
As I told this story, I kept an eye on the audience. The younger ones believed me with their mouths agape, while the older ones, who were already in on the joke, chuckled quietly. But I was unsettled by those big, wide eyes. They believed! I winked at Margarita Vasilievna a few times to signal that I was just joking. But her eyes, with her mouth slightly open, were frozen like glass.
The wound was an unpleasant tear. There was quite a bit of blood. I went to the medical unit where they treated the wound and covered it with bandages. They didn’t need to stitch it up. As I was returning to my unit, I ran into Margarita Vasilievna, who had been waiting for me. She was angry.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Why did you deceive me? I came and told my children about the Black Sea saber-toothed fish, and they just laughed at me. I tried to convince them, but they kept cracking up. I even suggested they go ask Roman Vladimirovich, and they laughed even harder. They say it’s all a joke and that there’s no such thing as a saber-toothed fish. Roman, I didn’t expect this from you! Because of you, I’ve lost respect in my group.”
– I didn’t want to deceive you at all. I was winking at you the whole time!
– I thought that was a tick from the stress and pain you went through! You idiot! I was worried!