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Lifestyle
By Sarah Jacobs
Updated: May 6, 2021
Originally Published: May 5, 2021
Trigger Warning: Child Loss
June 28, 2019, dawned bright and clear in Southern California. After our usual morning routine, punctuated by my husband’s cheerful “Yay! It’s Friday!”, we dropped off our daughter, Mia, at a well-known family-operated summer camp in greater Los Angeles. We kissed her goodbye, telling her we loved her to the moon and back, as she eagerly made her way down the grassy hill to join her friends at the campfire.
That was the last moment we shared with Mia.
An hour later, the ambulance doors opened at the hospital where Mia had been born just six years prior. I was horrified to see her once-bright blue eyes now dull and lifeless, her small body unrecognizable. The vibrant skin I once kissed was now a waxy blue, and she carried the scent of rusted metal. Our little girl was gone.
My husband later shared that my scream would haunt him for the rest of his life. It signified the moment he understood that our daughter was dead, and with her, the life we cherished.
I don’t recall that scream, but I remember the dread of watching countless medical professionals desperately attempt to revive my child. I remember being supported by nurses as I collapsed, my legs unable to hold me up. Doctors rushed in and out, juggling tubes and needles, their frantic efforts creating a chaotic scene. It felt like a tragic performance with no resolution.
Within 30 minutes of dropping Mia off at summer camp, she had drowned. My mind grappled with disbelief—this couldn’t be happening.
As summer turned to winter, the harsh reality of our loss settled over us. How could this occur? Surely, I was mistaken—it must be a nightmare.
But it was real. And it would forever define my life.
Eight months later, our world crumbled again due to a global health crisis, isolating us further from the support we so desperately needed.
During this time, I had an abundance of time to reflect on my parenting choices, retracing my steps, and questioning how we had arrived at this devastating point. I also observed how friends and family navigated their own parenting challenges.
After a year of remote learning and a lack of socializing, children were eager for camp experiences. Parents too were ready to embrace summer camps as America’s favorite pastime.
Many camp advocates insist that “kids need camp now more than ever.” But before you gather your sunscreen, sleeping bags, and bug spray, I urge you to stop and reflect on what I am about to share.
I grew up on the East Coast, spending summers at the beach with my siblings, but I never attended camp. After moving to Los Angeles, I noticed that camp culture is as ingrained as freeway traffic. Most parents I know enroll their children in camps without a second thought.
Around February of Mia’s kindergarten year, my husband and I began discussing summer childcare options. I suggested a recreational program, believing it would allow her to explore the outdoors and make new friends. I now realize that my decision was influenced by what others were doing. If everyone else was enrolling their kids, how could I not?
That was my first mistake.
Despite my husband’s reservations, we enrolled Mia in an eight-week summer recreational daycare program. The choice was made without her input, but it seemed like a no-brainer—running around with friends, swimming, and adventuring.
That was mistake number two.
I refer to these camps as “recreational daycare programs” because, essentially, that’s what they are—places where we leave our children for supervision while we pursue our own activities.
I find it perplexing how parents often have different expectations for camps versus traditional childcare facilities. Why do we often overlook safety at camps compared to schools or daycare centers? Is it because camps are seen as a source of escape rather than education? We sigh in relief when we label a childcare facility as a camp.
But wait. Don’t traditional childcare centers focus on activities like finger-painting and storytime? Camps, on the other hand, involve zip-lining, rock climbing, and swimming in crowded pools. Yet, safety oversight is often a secondary concern for us parents.
In fact, we might fear being labeled as “overprotective” if we don’t express gratitude for our child’s camp experience. Waiting lists for camps can rival those for elite schools, and that sense of privilege prevented me from inquiring about the camp’s licensing. I assumed all camps were licensed and complied with regulations. The camp had been operating for over 40 years, so surely it met safety standards, right?
That was mistake number three.
We had a pool in our backyard since Mia was born. She had taken swim lessons but wasn’t yet water-safe. Before camp began, I informed the assistant director that Mia was a non-swimmer. On the first day, the assistant director assured me she had been classified as a non-swimmer after an in-pool skills test.
When I asked how Mia would be supervised during swim time, I was told that counselors, certified by the American Red Cross, would be responsible for her safety. They promised to help her become “water-safe.” I felt reassured by their claims of comprehensive lifeguard training.
That was mistake number four.
Throughout Mia’s wrongful death lawsuit, we uncovered that the counselors received their “certification” after just one day of training. This did not align with the American Red Cross guidelines requiring around 25 hours of training.
Over the past 20 months, we learned that many lifeguard training processes are flawed. In Mia’s case, the issues were so severe that we questioned if any counselors could swim competently. One counselor involved in Mia’s rescue attempt provided such a poor account of his actions that it left us doubting whether she had a fighting chance at all. If this could happen at a camp with 40 years of operation, it could happen anywhere.
I should never have allowed Mia to swim without witnessing the camp’s safety procedures firsthand. However, the camp’s “no visitor” policy prohibited me from doing so. I accepted this as a necessary measure to protect the children’s privacy.
That was mistake number five. In retrospect, it was a misguided policy that shielded the camp’s deadly secrets.
Recreational facilities often provide training and lifeguard certification to staff just before the season starts. How effective could such last-minute training be?
At least 30-40 children ages 4-6 witnessed Mia’s tragic death. The camp’s inability to track the exact number of kids in the pool was another alarming oversight. If they didn’t know how many children were in the water, how could they know if one was missing?
There were purportedly four counselors supervising a pool that was only slightly larger than our backyard pool. None of them noticed Mia drowning. Nearly 80% of childhood drownings happen when an adult is nearby but not actively supervising. Drowning is silent and swift. When lifeguards are distracted or improperly trained, the results can be tragic.
When Mia was finally seen by a fifth counselor far from the pool area, panic ensued. Because camp employees were untrained in first aid or CPR, they couldn’t provide the lifesaving care she needed. The camp never even considered implementing an emergency action plan, and I failed to ask about it before enrolling Mia.
Yes, this was mistake number six. Emergency action plans are essential. Events like fires, earthquakes, and drownings must be anticipated and prepared for.
Are we turning a blind eye to the reality of camp safety? Are we choosing camps based on exciting offerings—like aviation or trapeze—without considering the potential dangers?
In addition to the concerns raised by COVID-19, I urge parents to do their research. I spoke to mothers who gushed about their kids’ experiences at a popular, pricey camp. They laughed about the cost but justified it because their kids had a blast. When I asked them how they felt about sending their young children to a place where riflery was offered, they were taken aback. Many had no idea their children were attending a camp that included firearms in the fun, managed by counselors barely older than the kids themselves.
Instead of enjoying fireworks with Mia this 4th of July, my husband and I found ourselves in a mortuary conference room, discussing ashes and urns. The day Mia drowned marked the end of our lives as we knew them. Three lives shattered because a camp failed to uphold its promise—to keep our child safe. What we thought was impossible became our reality. Now, two years later, our mission is to prevent other parents from experiencing the unbearable pain we endure each day.
I understand the benefits that camps offer for social and emotional development. I enrolled Mia for those very reasons. There are certainly camp operators who prioritize safety and proper training. But as parents, we must be vigilant and proactive in ensuring our children’s safety.
If you’re interested in more information on this topic, check out our other blog post about home insemination at Intracervical Insemination. For those considering at-home options, Make A Mom is a great authority on the subject, and the CDC provides excellent resources regarding pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
The author reflects on the tragic drowning of her daughter at summer camp, detailing the mistakes made in the decision-making process and the lack of safety measures in place. She emphasizes the importance of rigorous safety protocols and encourages parents to thoroughly research camps to ensure their children’s safety.