Binaca

He tasted like Binaca, strong, bitter,clove-like, a breath drop in a brown bottle always kept in his jeans pocket. Every day at rest time when we were supposed to read, write letters or nap he would whistle to me, a sweet bird-like tune that beckoned me to sneak out of the bunk and meet him at the canoes in the dock house. There with the greatest of caution and trepidation we would nuzzle down between the seats of a floating canoe in a secret teenage embrace.
We were both 15 away at Methodist Youth Camp held on the campgrounds on a big central Florida lake. He was tall and skinny and covered with freckles, giving a sort of awkward impression like a goofy half grown giraffe. We were both shy and avoided the more boisterous and popular crowd .Most boys were aggressive, pushy, not at all something I wanted any part of but the far away sad yearning in his pale eyes told me that I had nothing to fear.
And so we would meet behind the dock house, eager to explore our newly found responses and taste the salt of skin, to touch foriegn opposite gender shapes and find soft wet places we had not known before. My skin buzzed all day with a vibration of desire, waiting for his fingers his hands , his mouth.
I was sure I was doomed to hell. While other kids were praying to get to heaven the only place I wanted to be was a cool  canoe in a dark boat  house where the rest of the world disappeared. It was a secret, hidden in shadow, dank, the only sound, a soft ripple of the tea colored lake against the blue aluminum boats.
 To this day, the smell of cloves and the tannic taste of a freshwater lake water are forever fused in my mind. They will transport me  back to the gentle rocking of a shady canoe, a tender time of shedding childhood and the wonderous discovery my own budding womanhood.