Summer at Camp Wah-nah-gee-sha -by Jim Connell

Summer at Camp Wah-nah-gee-sha - by Jim Connell

There's a small lake in Maine-Camp Wah-nah-gee-sha-where the pine trees hum in the wind, and the dock creaks just right under bare feet. And the family famous floating dock about 30 yards out from the main dock, just floating as if catching all of the sun's glory and the evening sunset. Picture perfect. It's the kind of place that feels stitched together from subtle water ripples hitting the shoreline and mosquito bites, where time slows down and childhood stretches wide.

One summer, I went with my family. We'd never been before, but my mom’s cousin Noreen, her husband John, and their kids, my second-cousins, were there too-Keith, John, and Kerry. I had only met them a few times before, mostly at infrequent family gatherings or quick visits where we played while the adults visited. I didn't really know them. Not yet.

But that first morning, they pulled me, my brother and my sister into their world like we'd always belonged there. Keith handed me a life vest. John pointed to the old outboard boat tied to the dock. Kerry grinned and said, "You ever waterski?" I shook my head. John tossed me the rope anyway. "You're about to."

Most mornings started with the sound of screen doors clapping and bacon sizzling. Every week, my Aunt Noreen and Uncle John hosted the big pancake breakfast at the camp dining hall, open to everyone around the lake. Our whole family pitched in. We wiped down tables, flipped pancakes, carried trays of orange juice to the older folks who came early for the good seats.

Uncle John and Aunt Noreen were both teachers, which meant their summers were free-but never quiet. Camp Wah-nah-gee-sha was their second classroom, their labor of love. They lived there during the warmer months, helping run the camp and keep its spirit alive. Uncle John had grown up on that lake, and over the years, they built a life around it-eventually constructing a summer home of their own just up the shoreline. It became a place where generations gathered, where stories deepened, and where new memories layered on top of old ones.

People came to the pancake breakfast in flannel, in swimsuits, in whatever they rolled out of bed wearing. Some brought stories, some just came for the coffee, but everyone left full. And I remember looking around, watching my cousins refill syrup pitchers and my uncle crack jokes over the griddle, and realizing this is what a good life looks like. One where people gather, pitch in, and feed each other body and soul.

The days passed in a rhythm only summer understands. We took turns waterskiing until our arms ached and our hands went pruny. In the afternoons, we'd pile into the bass boat, rods in hand, drifting over quiet coves in search of smallmouth bass. We didn't say much while we fished-but it wasn't the kind of silence that needed filling. It was the kind that made room for belonging.

And at night, once the stars blinked on over the lake-we'd all gather in the main lodge. It was an old timber building with a giant walk-in stone fireplace that glowed like something out of a fairy tale. I think there is a picture around somewhere with all the cousins standing in that fireplace. I wasn’t used often with too many kids running around. But the lodge, that's where the ping pong wars happened.

Cousin John was the undefeated champion-part legend, part menace behind that paddle. We'd take turns challenging him, armed with determination, bad serves, and a chorus of cheers. No one could beat him, not really. But the magic was in the trying, the laughter echoing off the high-beamed ceiling, and the feeling that we were part of something that mattered. Looking back, I realize something:

Finding friends as a child is different. Easier, somehow. You don't ask for resumes or shared philosophies-you just share a moment, an adventure, a laugh. And suddenly, you're part of something. As adults, we often build walls where we once built forts. We wait for the perfect timing, the ideal setting for attempting a connection, the invitation that may never come. But children don't wait-they leap. And in that leaping, they discover belonging. I guess that leaping starts to be curtailed once the doom of middle school and the clicks begin. We stick to our groups and learn to not venture out.

Those summers at Wah-nah-gee-sha taught me something I carry even now:
Joy doesn't need to be planned or perfect-it just needs people, presence, and a little bit of trust. And always some laughter.

I didn't just visit once. I returned to that lake with my family every summer for many years. The cousins grew older, the pancakes flipped faster, the bass got harder to catch. In 2014 my uncle caught the largest bass on that lake, 8.25 lbs. A record that broke the one that stood for 37 years, his own.  But the essence of those summers remained. Over time, I learned that happiness isn't something you stumble into once. It's something you return to, something you hone, like casting a line again and again, or mastering your swing at the ping pong table, not always knowing if you'll win, but loving the rhythm of the game.  You learn to recognize joy not in the fireworks, but in the patterns: the early morning water, the crackle of firewood, the smell of pine, the tap of a ping pong ball, and the laughter that returns like a familiar song.

I arrived that first summer thinking I'd be tagging along. I left knowing I'd found something rare: connection born not out of years, but out of openness. Out of saying yes to the moment and the people right in front of you.

Life has gotten louder since then. More complicated. But when I close my eyes, I can still hear the splash of skis hitting the water, the whir of a reel, the clatter of plates at the pancake breakfast, and the steady rhythm of a ping pong ball dancing across the table, along with the calm certainty that I was exactly where I was meant to be. Sometimes, living a good life just means remembering how to live like that again-and choosing to return to it, again and again. Think back to a moment when you felt completely at ease-connected, joyful, and present. Now, reach out to someone in your life today. Start a conversation, plan a walk, send a note. Don't wait for perfect. Leap. That's where happiness begins. And that’s where the Simpatico life makes its home.