I’ve spent the past six summers going to a camp called Camp Billings. I loved camp Billings as a camper, it is awesome. Everything done by the staff at Billings was for the campers and it always turned out impressively fun. When I was 15, my last year as a camper , an entire game was set up called assassin. You were woken up at the usual time and brought to the center of camp. Once we reached the center, we were given a name. Our job was to find out who that person was and “kill” them by throwing a sock at them, all while trying to avoid the person who had your name. It was chaos. During that three day period that was assassin, you ran from all airborne socks. Anyone could be after you. It eventually broke down into cabins creating false alligences and general distrust among everyone. It was impressively fun. The best part of camp was that odd games or chants could just happen and become a theme of the summer; anything was possible.
As a staff member, I could really appreciate the work that goes into making camp amazing. One day, near the end of the camping season, we needed to bring the Oday ( a kind of sailboat ) out of the water and put it in storage. My team was comprised of Neal, a burly man from Greece, an Australian named Nips, a French Canadian named Patrice, and two girls from Rhode Island. We had moved the other, smaller, sailboats under the main building ( Dart Hall ) already and it was time for the Oday. The Oday is the biggest sailboat on camp. Carrying the Oday was grueling, it seemed to weigh as much as a family of elephants on a cinder block factory. After much pushing, shoving, sweating, and grunting, the Oday was finally resting under Dartt Hall for the winter months. Another day, we stayed up until three, decorating the dining hall and making fake snow. The snow was a horrid concoction, never have I been so disgusted and intrigued by a creation of man. When you walked on the snow barefoot it condensed into a slimy liquid and squished between your toes. When there was that wretched snow on the floor, at least five people would slip during a meal. At times, being a staff member was almost too much for me to handle, but I never stopped loving Camp Billings. I kept going back to Billings because they hired excellent staff and the activities were awesome. One of the Billings counselors changed my life in a huge way.

Neal was a young man from England. He had a distinct accent that was more of a hint then an entirely different form of speech. He came from southern England, where the accents are thinner and the people aren’t posh. He made it a big deal to differentiate himself from the northern Englishmen. In the past, Neal’s hair had been longer than his shoulders and he used to be in a band.

I met Neal after his wild years and when I was in my last season of camping, at twenty-three his blond hair is cut so that the front is longer than the back and he needs to gel it back. He wears flannels every day and folds each cuff over itself so that the checkered sleeve is about six inches shorter than normal.

I happened to be in Neal’s cabin.Neal’s co-counselor was the backpacking guy, meaning that he was running the cabin by himself a lot of the time. Even though he was inexperienced, Neal persevered and became a friend to the entire cabin. I began to spend more and more of my days down at music, just hanging out with Neal.

“Why do you keep folding your sleeves back, man?” I asked, with a hint of mockery.

“ I’m celebrating the Grunge Movement.” Neal responded and moved back to teaching kids the same four chords on a guitar. I had already fiddled around with guitars and basses; so when it came to teaching me, I excelled. I learned and memorized seven chords within twenty minutes. Neal was impressed. After I had learned some basics on guitar, he moved me on to the bass.

“Hey, Neal, say youtube.” I said, already laughing at his accent.

“Youtube” He put an insane ( in my opinion ) amount of emphasis on the “u” of youtube.

I erupted in laughter, “You sound ridiculous!”

“Ha, coming from you. There’s no “o” in tube.” He countered immediately. He continued to play the chord or bass lick I was supposed to replicate. Thankfully, my father passed on the ability to play unto me and I picked up whatever he played ( within reason ) fairly quickly. Our interactions were fairly similar every time, we’d converse, have a battle of wits, and then I would do whatever technique or chord progression he was teaching me.

The bass was what I really wanted to learn, I had a terrible one at home that I messed around with. Neal gave me a couple of basslines, I are them up. I played until my fingers hurt, and the skin roughened around the tips. Listening to Neal play betrayed his experience, everything he did was practiced and inhumanly precise.

Not only did Neal spend the summer teaching me basic musical skills on guitar and bass, but he also gave me the motivation play music. I spend a good amount of time each week just playing on my ukulele, doing whatever sounds good. Even though I’ve been playing the saxaphone for years before I met him, I accredit my recent increase of musical interest to Neal Hepworth from Middlesbrough, England. He reminded me how much fun music could be. I’ll never forget sitting with Neal on the campgrounds, waiting for him to teach me something new.