Chapter Twenty-Three. The Hazards of Canoeing
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Hazards of Canoeing
Finally, the day I’ve been waiting for—my first visit to Camp SunSign, my godmother’s D/deaf camp outside Boston. The front door of the main cabin swings open as Ginger and I approach, and my dad’s best friend, Ellen, jogs toward us.
Her silvering hair is in a messy ponytail. She’s in her late fifties, but moves with youthful energy and hauls me into a hug. Her hands are weathered and strong from years of work, but gentle.
“How are you? How’s your sister and mom?” she asks after pulling back.
“We’re good. Mom’s … fine. How are you? This camp is KissFist!” Excitement spills out of me.
Ellen’s face lights up. Her wrinkled fingers dart around as she tells me about her mission to enrich D/deaf youth.
There’s a vibrancy to her, a wisdom that comes from embracing the world as it changes around her.
I deeply admire the way she’s built a life that embraces both tradition and progress. I want to be Ellen when I grow up.
We walk around the cabin and into a large field; the grass is swaying in the breeze, and the sun is burning off the morning mist. Groups of children are scattered around with camp counselors.
Younger kids make DIY kites and jewelry; older ones weave baskets and construct birdhouses; and teens are learning canoe safety by the lake.
The whole scene is a patchwork of enjoyment, busy hands, and learning.
I wish Camp SunSign existed when I was little. I would’ve loved spending my summers here.
“Ellen! Did you grab string?” An early-twenty-something counselor with a black faux-hawk and goatee asks from where they’re helping adorable little kids make bracelets.
“I forgot! I’ll go get it. Natalie, please help him.” She nudges me toward him.
I put Ginger in a down-stay on the grass and sit with him. “I’m D-A-V-I-D,” he signs with a smile. “My sign name:” He taps a “D” over his heart like a name tag.
“I’m N-A-T-A-L-I-E. Natalie.” I show him my sign name.
A Black kid wearing glasses with thick lenses that magnify their eyes approaches me. “Help!” the kid pulls a thumbs-up toward themselves, modifying the sign to be one-handed. Their other tiny hand clutches three mangled pieces of twine. I start carefully untangling.
“Is your dog nice?” The kid eyes Ginger, who’s watching a ladybug crawl around on blades of grass in front of her nose.
“Very nice,” I answer. “She’s my service dog.”
“I know, I know!” they sign with a huge amount of sass.
It reminds me of Jo. “I can read!” They point to Ginger’s vest. The questions about her set off a chain reaction, and the other campers start bombarding me, which is adorable but makes it hard to untangle.
I can only do so many things with my hands at once.
I spend the next hour doing arts and crafts, including a personal favorite: gluing googly eyes on rocks.
The thing I’ve missed most about Seattle is my Deaf community.
It’s a whole world of shared experiences and pride—where you find the kind of understanding that only comes from folks who have walked similar paths.
It’s the comfort of a vibrant visual language and a sanctuary where your identity is celebrated, not questioned.
It’s history, resilience, and belonging all wrapped into one.
And while spending time with these kids, that sense of community and pride is stronger than ever. Some have hearing aids, a handful with cochlear implants, most have no hearing devices, but they’re united through their Deaf identity.
This is the change I want to make in the world. This is what Dad, Jo, and I dreamed of.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell David. I leave Ginger in a down-stay near the blanket. I doubt anyone will run off with her.
I stop near the back of the main cabin, launch the Facebook app, and track down Camp SunSign’s page. I share the page with Jo: Dad’s friend Ellen runs this camp. I think we can do a day camp like this at the Center!
I’m about to power off my phone, but my eyes land on Mom’s name right underneath my message string with Jo. The longer I stare at her name, the more pent-up frustration releases in me. All three of us could’ve been brainstorming ideas or asking Ellen questions. She could try.
With a messy mixture of bitterness and baseless optimism that she’ll actually try to see my perspective, I send Camp SunSign’s page to Mom, too: I hope you’ll look at this. This is what we’re trying to do.
I anxiously stare at my phone for a whole minute until the Seen notification appears underneath the message. When the three typing dots pop up, I chew my bottom lip and hold my breath, but after a few seconds, the dots disappear and don’t return.
The dejection washing over me doesn’t have a chance to fully sink in before a hand flaps in my peripheral vision and I’m torn away from my unanswered olive branch. Expecting to find David or Ellen, I tuck my phone into my pocket and look up.
“Sorry, I was texting my sist—” My hands freeze in midair.
“Hiya,” Felix greets.
He’s in a yellow button-up shirt French-tucked into white board shorts; his hair blows in the gentle summer breeze and makes him look like a walking, talking L’ORéAL commercial.
He resembles a literal ray of sunshine. It’s horrifying.
“Nat?” He waves his hand in my face with a glittery, if not slightly puzzled, grin. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh, nothing,” I fib. I hardly want to talk about my mommy issues right now. I look for the other band members, but they aren’t here. “What happened to Mateo’s US history tour of Boston? And filming the music video?”
“I got a video in front of ‘the Redcoats are coming!’ guy’s house and called it a day. Don’t tell Mateo, but I agree with Cal—US history is boring as hell. You fight a war in the name of ‘freedom,’ claim you’ve won it even if you didn’t, wait a few years, then rinse and repeat.”
I laugh. “Okay, but how did you find the camp?”
“There’s this magical thing called a GPS, and it tells you how to get places.” I stare at him, unamused. “I Googled it,” he explains. “There aren’t many Deaf summer camps near Boston. Wild, I know.”
“Why are you so sarcastic today?” I ask while we walk toward the kids. Felix trots beside me in a Ginger-like way, overflowing with energy.
“I accidentally had caffeinated green tea this morning,” he says. “I warned ya it makes me hyper.”
Remind me to never let him consume caffeine again. It’s like his ADHD is on steroids.
When we reach the crafts area, most of the campers are running around the field and playing with their kites while David cleans up. His focus jumps to us as we stop in front of the blanket.
“Who are you?” He sizes up Felix.
Felix flashes a charming grin and salutes. “I’m F … E … L…” His ears turn red, and he looks at me helplessly.
“He’s my ASL student. F-E-L-I-X. Felix,” I fingerspell his name, and then demonstrate his sign name. I go slowly for Felix’s benefit but don’t use SimCom. Today will be a good test of his comprehension.
“Nice to meet you,” David signs. “Follow me.” He stands and beckons Felix.
I tidy the crafting materials in his absence. While respooling twine, my focus drifts to the small dock where the teens take turns canoeing around the lake. Felix is standing on the outskirts of the group, watching their rapid signing with a slack-jawed frown.
I’m tempted to rescue him—this does feel like throwing him to the wolves—when a red-haired tween approaches him. It’s hard to see what they’re signing, but the kid goes slowly. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re still learning themselves or they recognize Felix is a beginner.
Pride swells in me at how well Felix communicates. I’m like a mom watching her baby take their first steps—wobbly and awkward, but a huge accomplishment nonetheless.
I look away when David returns. “How long have you been dating?” he asks. He motions toward Felix, who’s getting geared up to go canoeing with the tween.
“We’re friends,” I clarify.
“True biz?” David lifts a skeptical brow. “You’re cute together.”
A blush spreads across my cheeks as I wrack my brain for a response.
“Go help over there.” He points to a counselor setting up a new activity table.
I make my way over; Ginger lazily walks beside me. The counselor and I set out thick charcoal wedges and paper, then we let the kids go wild. We compliment various stick figures and Picasso-reminiscent self-portraits.
After ten minutes, the counselor points to the art supplies and urges, “Go ahead!”
I guess my slight jealousy of the campers showed. Seeing them do charcoal sketches made me itchy to try. An artist can only stay away from art for so long.
I stare at the blank page in front of me for a long time, trying to figure out what to draw. Inspiration strikes when I see Felix and the tween rowing around the lake.
With each stroke of the paddle, Felix’s biceps bulge. Though he hasn’t mastered canoeing, he exudes confidence and continually peers over his shoulder to check on his partner.
I roughly sketch him in the tiny canoe with his wild hair flowing in the breeze. The charcoal is harder than I thought to control, and the drawing gets progressively messier, but it adds a certain charm.
I glance up to check the trees surrounding Camp SunSign in time to see their canoe capsize and the pair spill into the water.
My stomach clenches, panic flooding my veins. Before I even register it, my legs propel me forward, sprinting toward the lake. Am I yelling Felix’s name? I can’t tell—my pulse roars in my ears, my heart pounding in a drumbeat of terror.
The redheaded tween’s head pops out from the murky water, and they swim toward shore with help from their life vest. Two worried counselors rush toward the edge and wait with towels and a first aid kit.
I’m seconds away from diving into the lake to drag Felix out myself when he bursts to the surface with a huge splash. My body relaxes when I realize he’s not in danger, but relief quickly turns to frustration as he howls with laughter.
Here I was thinking he had drowned, and the first thing he does is laugh?!
He darts through the water and catches up to the doggy-paddling tween in no time. They grab onto Felix’s shoulder and are towed to shore.
The counselors fuss over them, and Felix signs “not hurt” over and over until they leave him alone. I storm toward him with a scowl.
“Why d’you look so upset?” he asks with a chuckle. His clothes are dripping water onto the ground, and wet hair sticks to his face and neck. It’s all very sewer rat chic.
“Because I thought you … well … ugh! I don’t know! I was worried, okay?”
“I was on a water polo team back in New Zealand. I’m alright. See, not even a scratch.” He runs his hands over his arms.
I slow my breathing and calm my heart rate. He’s okay. Everyone is okay.
“But y’know, if you’re really that worried, I wouldn’t be opposed to mouth-to-mouth,” he teases with a smirk.
I smack his shoulder and roll my eyes. “You are the biggest pain in my ass, Felix Song.”
“But, like, in a sexy way, yeah?”