In the dark, amid screams, Ainslie had 16 terrified little girls and one headlamp
'It's just heat lightning,' Ainslie, 19, recalled assuring her that evening. 'There's nothing to it.'
It was just past 9pm on July 3, the start of Ainslie's night off from tending to Giggle Box's 16 'littles'. She popped inside to grab her backpack just as the girls, all between eight and 10, began to brush their teeth and slip on their pyjamas. Ainslie said goodbye and headed out for a break with friends. By the time she came back, shortly after midnight, she had to sprint. The storm had begun to pound the 99-year-old Christian camp situated along the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas. The cabin was no more than 180 metres from the bank.
Ainslie had arrived a week earlier for a month-long stay. She couldn't remember a time when Mystic hadn't been part of her life. Her aunt and older sister had attended, and she'd started at age seven, spending 10 Julys riding horses and catching perch, exchanging friendship bracelets and learning about Jesus. Her younger sister, entering her last year as a camper, had begged Ainslie to return this summer as a counsellor.
So now, inside Giggle Box, she changed out of her wet clothes and into shorts and a T-shirt, quietly sliding into her bed in a corner near the front door. The girls lay still in their beds, some snuggled with stuffed animals. Ainslie stared out the window. A native Texan, she'd seen hundreds of summer squalls, but this one felt heavier. The thunder cracked like fireworks inside the cabin.
Ainslie couldn't sleep, braced for a frightened camper to slink over in need of comfort. The lightning lit the room like flashbulbs, and at each strike, she scanned faces around the room. Then she noticed a car pass by – a bizarre sight at that hour. She glanced at her watch: 1.58am.
She soon heard another noise that, at first, felt out of place. Two nearby cabins housed Mystic's youngest campers, and the eight-year-olds had started shrieking.
Ainslie, a rising college sophomore and her cabin's oldest counsellor, hurried across the room to her two co-counsellors, who'd each just graduated from high school. Both were restless. 'This storm is really bad,' she said, preparing them to help console their girls if they, too, began to break down.
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The Age
a day ago
- The Age
In the dark, amid screams, Ainslie had 16 terrified little girls and one headlamp
Texas: The first drops of rain had yet to fall when Ainslie Bashara, a counsellor at Camp Mystic, noticed that one of the younger girls had begun to tear up. They were walking back to their cabin, Giggle Box, as another storm swelled over the Texas Hill Country. The girl feared what was coming, so Ainslie wrapped an arm around her. 'It's just heat lightning,' Ainslie, 19, recalled assuring her that evening. 'There's nothing to it.' It was just past 9pm on July 3, the start of Ainslie's night off from tending to Giggle Box's 16 'littles'. She popped inside to grab her backpack just as the girls, all between eight and 10, began to brush their teeth and slip on their pyjamas. Ainslie said goodbye and headed out for a break with friends. By the time she came back, shortly after midnight, she had to sprint. The storm had begun to pound the 99-year-old Christian camp situated along the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas. The cabin was no more than 180 metres from the bank. Ainslie had arrived a week earlier for a month-long stay. She couldn't remember a time when Mystic hadn't been part of her life. Her aunt and older sister had attended, and she'd started at age seven, spending 10 Julys riding horses and catching perch, exchanging friendship bracelets and learning about Jesus. Her younger sister, entering her last year as a camper, had begged Ainslie to return this summer as a counsellor. So now, inside Giggle Box, she changed out of her wet clothes and into shorts and a T-shirt, quietly sliding into her bed in a corner near the front door. The girls lay still in their beds, some snuggled with stuffed animals. Ainslie stared out the window. A native Texan, she'd seen hundreds of summer squalls, but this one felt heavier. The thunder cracked like fireworks inside the cabin. Ainslie couldn't sleep, braced for a frightened camper to slink over in need of comfort. The lightning lit the room like flashbulbs, and at each strike, she scanned faces around the room. Then she noticed a car pass by – a bizarre sight at that hour. She glanced at her watch: 1.58am. She soon heard another noise that, at first, felt out of place. Two nearby cabins housed Mystic's youngest campers, and the eight-year-olds had started shrieking. Ainslie, a rising college sophomore and her cabin's oldest counsellor, hurried across the room to her two co-counsellors, who'd each just graduated from high school. Both were restless. 'This storm is really bad,' she said, preparing them to help console their girls if they, too, began to break down.
Sydney Morning Herald
a day ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
In the dark, amid screams, Ainslie had 16 terrified little girls and one headlamp
Texas: The first drops of rain had yet to fall when Ainslie Bashara, a counsellor at Camp Mystic, noticed that one of the younger girls had begun to tear up. They were walking back to their cabin, Giggle Box, as another storm swelled over the Texas Hill Country. The girl feared what was coming, so Ainslie wrapped an arm around her. 'It's just heat lightning,' Ainslie, 19, recalled assuring her that evening. 'There's nothing to it.' It was just past 9pm on July 3, the start of Ainslie's night off from tending to Giggle Box's 16 'littles'. She popped inside to grab her backpack just as the girls, all between eight and 10, began to brush their teeth and slip on their pyjamas. Ainslie said goodbye and headed out for a break with friends. By the time she came back, shortly after midnight, she had to sprint. The storm had begun to pound the 99-year-old Christian camp situated along the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas. The cabin was no more than 180 metres from the bank. Ainslie had arrived a week earlier for a month-long stay. She couldn't remember a time when Mystic hadn't been part of her life. Her aunt and older sister had attended, and she'd started at age seven, spending 10 Julys riding horses and catching perch, exchanging friendship bracelets and learning about Jesus. Her younger sister, entering her last year as a camper, had begged Ainslie to return this summer as a counsellor. So now, inside Giggle Box, she changed out of her wet clothes and into shorts and a T-shirt, quietly sliding into her bed in a corner near the front door. The girls lay still in their beds, some snuggled with stuffed animals. Ainslie stared out the window. A native Texan, she'd seen hundreds of summer squalls, but this one felt heavier. The thunder cracked like fireworks inside the cabin. Ainslie couldn't sleep, braced for a frightened camper to slink over in need of comfort. The lightning lit the room like flashbulbs, and at each strike, she scanned faces around the room. Then she noticed a car pass by – a bizarre sight at that hour. She glanced at her watch: 1.58am. She soon heard another noise that, at first, felt out of place. Two nearby cabins housed Mystic's youngest campers, and the eight-year-olds had started shrieking. Ainslie, a rising college sophomore and her cabin's oldest counsellor, hurried across the room to her two co-counsellors, who'd each just graduated from high school. Both were restless. 'This storm is really bad,' she said, preparing them to help console their girls if they, too, began to break down.
Sydney Morning Herald
4 days ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
‘I'm with you, mate': Days after Rob's son drowned, so too did Adrian's daughter
Rob Maniscalco, 44, lost his 15-year-old son, Lachie, in an accident last year. Days later, 10-year-old Tegan – daughter to Adrian Chen, 49 – died in similar circumstances. Introduced by a friend, the pair have formed a deep bond. Rob: Lachie died on January 14, 2024, in a drowning accident in Yamba [on the NSW North Coast] while he was on holiday with some close family friends. Eleven days later, Adrian and his family were at a national park in New Zealand when Tegan drowned. Our families didn't know each other, but a mutual friend suggested we meet – to be around other people who knew what we were going through. Adrian and Deb visited us – me and my wife, Liz – at our home a week after Tegan's funeral. They stayed for about five hours. We were all in the same state of shock and horror and there were a lot of tears. Adrian wanted to hear about our family and our story; he was a great listener and very patient with us while we talked about Lachie. We felt an instant connection. I've never hugged anyone for so long I've known for so short a time. We started catching up weekly as couples after that and, quickly, Adrian and I formed this close relationship. If we didn't speak for a couple of days, I'd get a message from him checking in to see how I was doing. After seeing him, I felt energised – uplifted even. We'd meet for yum cha in Rhodes [in Sydney] and would just sit and talk until the restaurant kicked us out; we didn't even notice the staff impatiently side-eyeing us. It was as if the whole world disappeared. We could talk freely about our kids, laughing about things they'd said or done, about the people they were becoming. Every time, I'd walk away feeling liberated and at peace; I'd been heard by him. 'To have Adrian, who's going through the same experience at the same time, is just a blessing. I have someone I can trust.' Rob Maniscalco I was raised Catholic and have questioned my faith over the years, but have now become very spiritual. Adrian's background is also Christian, but he's a rationalist. I've started seeing signs. Lachie loved golf – it was his sport. I'll say, 'Lachie, I need a sign,' then trip over a golf ball walking through the park. Sometimes, when Adrian's talking about Tegan, I can feel her in the room with us. I hesitated to bring this up with him but, when I did, he just said, 'Rob, I want to hear from her. If you can feel her energy, tell me.' I know a lot of people think this stuff is woo-woo, but he's open to hearing what I have to say, despite being a very practical thinker. Don't get me wrong: it's a battle. I cry every day. But when I'm struggling, the first thing I think is, 'I've got to call Adrian.' Friends I've had for 30 years are devastated for us, of course, but they don't truly understand. To have Adrian, who's going through the same experience at the same time, is just a blessing. I have someone I can trust. I'll tell him how I'm feeling about certain things and he says, 'I understand. I'm with you, mate.' I see him as a brother and, as time goes on, I only feel more comfortable around him. He'll always be in my life.
