Chuck Bamata: The true story

When the summer of 1972 rolled around, Chuck Bamata and his best friend Barry excitedly prepared to go up to Put-in-Bay, a small summer resort island, about ninety miles west of Cleveland, Oho, along the shores of Lake Erie. It was to be their second full summer of partying on the island, and they had decided to be independent, and have a place of their own, instead of crashing around from cottage to cottage as they had the year before. Money was tight and seasonal rentals on the island were high, if you could find one, but they had one ace-in -the-hole, the state park.

They had stayed there several weeks the summer before, and it was the cheapest option on the island at about five bucks a day. Chuck had a bought brand new rip-stop nylon pup tent, and Barry being way over six feet, had a canvas family-style tent for extra space.

Follow up:

When they arrived two weeks before the traditional opening of the summer on Memorial Day weekend, the island was still calm, and they had the park virtually to themselves, giving them free-reign to pick whichever campsite they wanted. They settled on a site that sat on a small hilltop, which because of the formation of the hill was all by itself, had a picnic table and surrounded by plenty of tree cover for shade and privacy during the day. In the clearing there was room for the two sleeping tents, and a supply tent as well. They had a small adjacent clearing that served as a parking area for their bicycles, their only mode of transportation. Chuck’s Ford Falcon was parked on the mainland at the ferry launch docks in Catawba.

When they had set up camp, they had discussed the subject of sanitation, and had decided that any pissing at the campsite would be done in the same spot over by the bikes in a small alcove of leaf-covered saplings that formed a wall of privacy from the passing cars and pedestrians on the road below. One poor, six-foot maple sapling was chosen as the official “piss tree”.

For three months, that poor sapling was pissed on day and night. At first it showed no signs of ill effect, but by mid-July, its bright green leaves were starting to droop, and yellow. By Labor Day, the official end of the summer, the little tree’s leaves had turned brown, most had fallen, and the poor sapling had also reached its end, poisoned to death by a flood of waste produced by beer and cheap island wine. RIP little guy.