I wasn’t even going to do Outdoor Education. Mum wasn’t keen. Year 11 is a time for more academic pursuits, she said, although I knew she was more worried about the cost. Not that we had any way back then of knowing what the real cost would be.
Mr Camden sold me on it, the same way he’s been doing for the last fifteen years. There was an options day at the end of Year 10, when Heads of Departments talked to us about our Year 11 choices. Most of them shuffled out and mumbled apologetically into overheads you could tell they didn’t much believe in: ‘Careers in Mathematics’, that sort of thing. So it was easy for Mr Camden to make an impression.
He strode out in front of us and smiled, like we were his reason for drawing breath. I saw a couple of the teachers behind him roll their eyes but he didn’t notice, or if he did he didn’t care. Mr Camden is a tall man who wears shorts all year round, as if this is proving some point. Simple, practical shorts; he’s not the sort who looks for complications. I’d say he’d be fifty. It’s the sort of fifty I hope to reach some day, with a face full of interesting lines, and eyes that can still hold an audience. Eyes that shone brighter with each component of the course he introduced. Kayaking, Civil Defence, First Aid, Aquatics. Calculus was never going to stand much of a chance.
He built his presentation steadily towards a climax, the annual Coast to Coast expedition which all Outdoor Education students would be expected to complete. By that stage his arms were waving about as if he was preparing for take-off and his excited words were wrapped in spit. It was the sort of performance that would either hook you instantly or look ridiculous. He caught me in just the right mood.
I was sixteen then and I was bored. It felt like the years were just washing over me. I needed something different. I was ready for Mr Camden and his demented enthusiasm. I signed up on the spot.