Kamp Kozy memories by Jim Bieneman

With small lots and summer residences, Kamp Kozy occupied the south side of Diamond Lake.

A seawall ran for a mile or more, the full length of the shore. It was an important feature, more like a sidewalk, than a barrier.

There were broken spots in the cement and small caves below the water line. Fish hid in the crevices, usually bluegill or perch. They could be coaxed out with a worm and hook, dropped deftly and quietly just in front of the opening. Once in a while a crayfish took the bait.

Turtles climbed the seawall to find the sun. They could be caught. It took stealth to spy the turtle from a distance, approach from behind, and place the net before they slid from sight. There were map turtles, snappers, leatherbacks and painted turtles. I kept none for more than a day. The excitement was in the capture and then the examination of the creatures’ defining features.

An occasional boathouse presented a barrier to walking, protruding directly from the seawall into the lake itself. Bypassing a boathouse required climbing stairs from lake level to the boat shelter roof, and crossing private property before descending again to the public walk.

Sometimes a floating bobber, a fishing lure or an inflatable toy was washed ashore. Occasionally I was not intent on what lay ahead, and lost footing. Since bathing suits were standard apparel there was no harm. Still, coming home wet dented my adolescent pride.

As the years went by I walked the length of Kamp Kozy many times, meeting or sometimes avoiding the inhabitants. I learned every part of the seawall, most of the neighbors and the variety of docks along the way.

Usually residents were glad to see a boy on excursion. But rightly, I suppose, a few felt their stairs, the turtles and the debris on their part of the seawall were private, no trespassing, property. I learned to check for these owners.

When I was older the seawall took on a different role. It became a path for instruction and communication. I watched as sailors rigged their boats and left for races. I examined fish boxes to see who had good luck the day before and I learned how to step quietly along a pier at mid-day, dropping a worm and hook in the shade beneath a moored boat. Large bass were there.

I was shy but if engaged I loved the insights and commentary that came with brief conversations. I responded to, “We lost a tree in the storm last night…or The fishing’s been good; if you want to give it a try I’m going out tonight…or I see you are painting your place, how’s it going… or I saw you night crawler hunting after that hard rain.”

Eventually I noticed adults using the seawall in their way. In the afternoon couples walked, never in a hurry, usually stopping to talk. The conversation was about visitors, waterfront activity, or reactions to a new boat.

What made Kamp Kozy special? The seawall? The summer homes on small lots? The people and their common interest? Or maybe Kamp Kozy was not different…just a place to grow up.