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Outward Bound, Inward Journey
| Article
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10435 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
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2 / 1993 |
3,896 Words |
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Sherry Von Ohlsen
Sherry Von Ohlsen writes from her base in Sparta, New Jersey. |
New York City is our wilderness. In the middle of rattling manholes, squeaking brakes, reverberating helicopters, humming crowds, whistling boats and blaring horns--to say nothing of the staccato voice in my head--the urban Outward Bound odyssey weekend begins.
Thirty people, half of us adults (over age thirty-five) and half youths (aged fourteen to twenty-one), gather at South Street Seaport. The New York City urban Outward Bound program is the only one in which adults are paired with inner-city youths. We have come for different personal reasons to this streeted adventure: forty-eight hours of hiking, rock climbing, rappelling canoeing, community service, and a few surprises.
Uncivilized civilization
First comes withdrawal from individualism and whatever else your civilized addictions may be-- addictions you do not even know you have--to things like you watch, coffee, bathing water. At the onset of this odyssey, at 5:30 Friday evening, we begin to be each other's keeper. We are taking a baby step into community life while lugging sixty-pound backpacks containing the group's food supply and cooking stuff (evenly distributed), camping equipment, and a change of clothes. We are all equally homeless.
The thirty of us are divided into three smaller groups, each with two wilderness counselors. Our group consists of five white adults from the suburbs of New York, half of whom commute to the city to work, six Hispanic and black youths from the Bronx and Brooklyn, and one black and one white Outward Bound counselor.
The evening is cold, dark. Everyone is shivering. The romance of adventure is dying. A few ask aloud if there is any way out of here. We ask others and ourselves why we came, commenting, "I'm too old for this," or "I'm too young." Already I have begun to dream of crisp sheets and hot chocolate.
I have no idea whether these kids have ever been in serious trouble, and I'm never told. My randomly chosen partner, Freddy, is a twenty-one-year-old Hispanic who wears a "don't-touch-me" facial expression and dreadlocks. He proclaims his strength to the group; I sigh with relief since my shoulders have already gone numb. In apparent contradiction, he tells me he wants to see if he can "survive the streets of the jungle."
We follow petite
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