Pulling The Plug
Tales From The Memory Vault
Kids can be such bastards.
Way back in the day, I was a member in good standing of Boy Scout Troop ₤∑Ω in the Mustang District of Sam Houston Area Council.
(Non-Scouters, just ignore the BSA jargon, the tale will still make sense!)
Every summer, as the troop had for the previous 30-odd years, we would embark for a week of camp, located along the Blanco River in the Texas Hill Country.
Our campsites were always the same, three sites alongside the river road, nearest the commissary.
Though you could still find long-drop outhouse latrines in the more remote regions of the reservation, the campsites had been upgraded to have both running water and a septic tank system. Each campsite had a two-toilet shitter and a multi-spigot trough sink. This was all mounted on a big concrete slab with rough wood walls and roof, and a separate concrete slab set a dozen yards off contained a large metal grate secured by a padlock. This was the access hatch to the septic tank.
Early each spring, about 8 weeks prior to summer camp, the older scouts would surreptitiously pull the youngest scouts in the troop aside for some pointed questions. Questions such as "How long can you hold your breath?" and "Does spinning on a rope make you dizzy?" They would be test-fitted for climbing harness rigs, and extra emphasis was given in making sure they knew how to tie a taut-line hitch and a bowline.
On the last monthly campout before summer began, there would be an evening where the new scouts would be quietly herded to a far corner of the campsite, far from adult prying eyes. Blindfolded, they were held suspended by their britches, and would have to flail around until they grabbed the handle of a Dutch oven full of water or sand (a 20-25 lb burden) set in front of them and lift it up into the air. They were never told why this was necessary, but every so often an older Scout would let slip the phrase "Pulling the plug", then be quickly hushed up by his patrol mates.
Eventually, either on the Sunday morning bus ride to camp, or after dinner on the first night, the tale would be leaked to a couple of the more gullible new Scouts, who would quickly spread it to all their patrol. (A patrol is an 6 to 10 boy subunit in the Scout troop. Each troop has 3-8 patrols, depending on enrollment.)
There would be a contest among all the troop's patrols. Each patrol's performance in the swim meet, camp inspections, merit badge completions, participation in the overnight Death March, etc. would be taken into account in the overall rankings. The winning patrol got a year's bragging rights. The losing patrol had to draw straws, and short straw had to, before leaving camp on Saturday morning, pull the plug.
In our troop, all the new Scouts were automatically put in the Pedro Patrol. (Pedro was a burro, the Boy's Life magazine mascot, based on the Philmont Scout Ranch burros) When you achieved your first rank advancement, you were 'promoted' up and out of the Pedro Patrol and integrated into one of the other six or seven 8-man patrols, usually with a much cooler patrol name.
Since the Pedros had mostly new Scouts, they were informed that it was almost certain that they would come in dead last in the troop competition. Thus, it was a foregone conclusion that one of the new Scouts would be the one selected to pull the plug.
"Pulling the plug", as told with great glee by the older Scouts, was where the lucky Scout selected was strapped naked into a climbing rig, mask & snorkel, then squeezed through the unlocked grate and lowered down into the cesspool. This pool of sludge and sewage was advertised as being between 3 and 6 feet deep, depending on the number of scouts and the quality of that week's messhall chow.
The plug-puller had to take a deep breath, submerge himself, then root around for the plug's handle. Only a mighty heave would break it loose and allow that week's worth of sewage to enter the giant drain pipe that would carry it to the sewage treatment plant in San Marcos. It HAD to be done. No exceptions.
Needless to say, the new Scouts were each a panicky basketcase by Monday morning.
All week long, as the patrol scores grew more disparate, the heat was slowly turned up on the new Scouts. Subtle hints like "You oughta go beg the commissary for a can of Crisco to smear on yourself... I hear it keeps the stink from getting too deep into your skin..." and "Y'all better go light on breakfast Saturday, someone's sure to be puking like a fire hose before lunch..."
Oh, we were such bastards...
Then again, it got done to us when we were newbies, along with being sent off to procure left-handed smoke shifters, tent locks, and 50 feet of shoreline. No snipe hunts, though. We weren't THAT gullible.
To my knowledge, no new Scout ever had a nervous breakdown, or left camp early as a result of the plug-pulling story. It usually took until Thursday night or Friday afternoon before one of them got the cojones to go ask a Scoutmaster or one of the camp rangers, who then blew the whistle on the whole affair.
It wasn't all for laughs, though. Usually, the new Scouts performed at an amazing level all week, and by the end of the week they could usually score more points than one of the older (and lazier) patrols!
So, motivation through outright fear! Sounds like several jobs I've had...
Kids can be such bastards.
Way back in the day, I was a member in good standing of Boy Scout Troop ₤∑Ω in the Mustang District of Sam Houston Area Council.
(Non-Scouters, just ignore the BSA jargon, the tale will still make sense!)
Every summer, as the troop had for the previous 30-odd years, we would embark for a week of camp, located along the Blanco River in the Texas Hill Country.
Our campsites were always the same, three sites alongside the river road, nearest the commissary.
Though you could still find long-drop outhouse latrines in the more remote regions of the reservation, the campsites had been upgraded to have both running water and a septic tank system. Each campsite had a two-toilet shitter and a multi-spigot trough sink. This was all mounted on a big concrete slab with rough wood walls and roof, and a separate concrete slab set a dozen yards off contained a large metal grate secured by a padlock. This was the access hatch to the septic tank.
Early each spring, about 8 weeks prior to summer camp, the older scouts would surreptitiously pull the youngest scouts in the troop aside for some pointed questions. Questions such as "How long can you hold your breath?" and "Does spinning on a rope make you dizzy?" They would be test-fitted for climbing harness rigs, and extra emphasis was given in making sure they knew how to tie a taut-line hitch and a bowline.
On the last monthly campout before summer began, there would be an evening where the new scouts would be quietly herded to a far corner of the campsite, far from adult prying eyes. Blindfolded, they were held suspended by their britches, and would have to flail around until they grabbed the handle of a Dutch oven full of water or sand (a 20-25 lb burden) set in front of them and lift it up into the air. They were never told why this was necessary, but every so often an older Scout would let slip the phrase "Pulling the plug", then be quickly hushed up by his patrol mates.
Eventually, either on the Sunday morning bus ride to camp, or after dinner on the first night, the tale would be leaked to a couple of the more gullible new Scouts, who would quickly spread it to all their patrol. (A patrol is an 6 to 10 boy subunit in the Scout troop. Each troop has 3-8 patrols, depending on enrollment.)
There would be a contest among all the troop's patrols. Each patrol's performance in the swim meet, camp inspections, merit badge completions, participation in the overnight Death March, etc. would be taken into account in the overall rankings. The winning patrol got a year's bragging rights. The losing patrol had to draw straws, and short straw had to, before leaving camp on Saturday morning, pull the plug.
In our troop, all the new Scouts were automatically put in the Pedro Patrol. (Pedro was a burro, the Boy's Life magazine mascot, based on the Philmont Scout Ranch burros) When you achieved your first rank advancement, you were 'promoted' up and out of the Pedro Patrol and integrated into one of the other six or seven 8-man patrols, usually with a much cooler patrol name.
Since the Pedros had mostly new Scouts, they were informed that it was almost certain that they would come in dead last in the troop competition. Thus, it was a foregone conclusion that one of the new Scouts would be the one selected to pull the plug.
"Pulling the plug", as told with great glee by the older Scouts, was where the lucky Scout selected was strapped naked into a climbing rig, mask & snorkel, then squeezed through the unlocked grate and lowered down into the cesspool. This pool of sludge and sewage was advertised as being between 3 and 6 feet deep, depending on the number of scouts and the quality of that week's messhall chow.
The plug-puller had to take a deep breath, submerge himself, then root around for the plug's handle. Only a mighty heave would break it loose and allow that week's worth of sewage to enter the giant drain pipe that would carry it to the sewage treatment plant in San Marcos. It HAD to be done. No exceptions.
Needless to say, the new Scouts were each a panicky basketcase by Monday morning.
All week long, as the patrol scores grew more disparate, the heat was slowly turned up on the new Scouts. Subtle hints like "You oughta go beg the commissary for a can of Crisco to smear on yourself... I hear it keeps the stink from getting too deep into your skin..." and "Y'all better go light on breakfast Saturday, someone's sure to be puking like a fire hose before lunch..."
Oh, we were such bastards...
Then again, it got done to us when we were newbies, along with being sent off to procure left-handed smoke shifters, tent locks, and 50 feet of shoreline. No snipe hunts, though. We weren't THAT gullible.
To my knowledge, no new Scout ever had a nervous breakdown, or left camp early as a result of the plug-pulling story. It usually took until Thursday night or Friday afternoon before one of them got the cojones to go ask a Scoutmaster or one of the camp rangers, who then blew the whistle on the whole affair.
It wasn't all for laughs, though. Usually, the new Scouts performed at an amazing level all week, and by the end of the week they could usually score more points than one of the older (and lazier) patrols!
So, motivation through outright fear! Sounds like several jobs I've had...
posted by El Capitan | 12:56 PM
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