Cape Cod Sea Camps shutter, with shudders. What happens to the amazing land?
Part one: Former state Senator Henri Rauschenbach believes COVID became the excuse or catalyst for some of the Delahanty family to do what they wanted to do anyway; end risks, max out.
The value now is in the land
Camp Wono in the 1950s, from a 2002 camp publication
A century-old, iconic Cape Cod summer camp closes, without warning or ceremony, sending multiple generations of its broad, extended family into shock and mourning.
It sits on a combination of what might be the most beautiful, environmentally important pieces of private land remaining on Cape Cod, 55 acres running from Route 6A in Brewster to 800 feet of beach on Cape Cod Bay, plus another 70 acres inland, including 600 feet on Long Pond.
All soon for sale.
Can a group of former campers, counselors, people who feel that Cape Cod Sea Camps is at the heart of their relationship to this place, cobble together enough money to make the purchase and revive a camp experience, to include engagement with a more diverse year-round community?
Will the town of Brewster and its land conservation trust step in, take as much as they can? The inland parcel sits squarely atop the town’s watershed, while the bay piece is big enough to become a northside Nauset Beach if that’s what the public wants.
Will the owning family, in the interest of highest return, find a developer ready to fight regulatory battles and subdivide into multiple mansions, condos, or build another upscale resort? Might the highest bidder be someone looking to create one private domain, a single trophy owner along the lines of Taylor Swift or Jeff Bezos?
These are the competing interests that have driven Cape Cod land development for decades. They’re playing out again.
‘A searing moment’
Jim Fay, a teacher at a private school in western Massachusetts, first showed up at Cape Cod Sea Camps 20 years ago. His wife-to-be had started two years earlier, and there they met. “Our heart is in Brewster,” he says, they are now homeowners in town and he has worked on the camp’s big sailing program almost every summer since. “Some of us built our careers to be able to remain campers and counselors,” says Fay.
So when a group message showed up in early November telling everyone that the camp, which did not operate because of COVID last summer, was about to close for good, Fay called it “a searing moment. It was stunning in a way none of us could have imagined. Camp has been a pillar of the lives of thousands of people.”
The announcement came on a Monday. By Tuesday, there had been a lot of commiserating, calls, mass zooms. By Wednesday questions were mounting: Closure, but no sale? Might there be a path to keep the camp alive? Is the Delahanty family, which traces Cape Cod camp ownership back 100 years and three generations, willing to entertain possibilities? They had not reached out to the large group personally, or called meetings, instead relying on an announcement that pivoted on the following statement:
“(C)losing our storied camp is the only responsible course of action.”
One person who strongly disagrees is Henri Rauschenbach, former state Senator for the Cape and Islands, who knows and understands that camp’s operation as well or better than anyone. Henri’s first year of camp was 1956, amazingly enough. He’s been engaged ever since, one of many who made Cape Cod his home in good part because of his summer camp experiences. His role evolved to become a key adviser and architect of camp programs, recruitment, and financial strategies, continuing to the brink of closure.
“This place was not on the ropes at all,” says Rauschenbach. “There were stresses of course, but also a lot of flexibility … Management made a significant effort to show the family that we could come back from the virus. It was not a death knell.”
By flexibility, Rauschenbach means that the camp didn’t carry big debt but did hold multiple assets. There is a business called Linger Longer with 10 cottages and six apartments for summer rent on Cape Cod Bay; condoing those alone would “make a fortune.” The inland parcel fronting Long Pond could be sold separately, even just the upland and save pond access. Federal COVID relief was readily available. Rauschenbach’s well-informed assessment is that COVID became the excuse or catalyst for some of the Delahanty family to do what they wanted to do anyway; end risks and exposure that go along with camp management, max out the property. He also is sure that the decision among the three branches that have grown from the founders was not unanimous.
“No gathering, no goodbye, no party, nothing,” and Rauschenbach’s voice trails off. He names camps he has seen vanish – Avalon, Quonset, Namequoit, Viking, Pleasant Bay – and believes there is “a certain spirituality to the place that would bring back a lot of people” who would want to save it.
One of those is Jim Fay, another Hilary Grasso, who lives in Chappaqua, New York. She attended the camp for three or four summers in the late 1980s early 1990s, kept coming back to Brewster as her family grew, bought a second home there “trying to get as close as possible.” Camp was not an obsessive, long-term relationship for her, but it was defining. And so she joined the burgeoning conversations with two perspectives in mind:
“I’d love to see a camp perpetuated for future generations. But also, I don’t want to see it become condos.” She well understands that summer camping evolved into an exclusive experience (“half the people I met there were from Greenwich,” she smiles), so her vision is to find a way to include more locals, immigrant communities, Native American outreach. She realizes that this would mean yet more fundraising, scholarships and support, and more three-season activities that bring revenue from school programs, teacher training workshops, creative gatherings.
That does not intimidate Daniella Garran, for 18 years a teacher at the Cape Cod Lighthouse Charter School, a public middle school in Harwich. She arrived at the camp in 1984, 12 years old, and in 35 years only spent three summers away, rising to become assistant director for 16 years. When she got word that the camp was closing, “I can say that I’ve never been more surprised in my life -- about anything.”
“My big deal was the lack of communication,” she continues. “There are 17,000 people in the camp’s database and we all got the same letter, with little or no communication since.”
Fay, Grasso, and Garran are what Henri Rauschenbach refers to a “tips of a huge iceberg,” and the shape of that iceberg has emerged. They are part of a group including former counselors and others with extensive experience in education and camp management called “the Brewster Flats Foundation.” Fay leads a board of directors working toward non-profit status. The mission is clear: “secure and acquire the land of the former Cape Cod Sea Camps.”
Garran agrees that the new foundation’s vision must be broad, working with local groups and schools, artists and environmental scientists. “I know that if camp cost in the 1980s what it costs now, I couldn’t have gone,” she says. “But being a non-profit will open up a lot of doors. There are so many possibilities.”
Of course buyers need a willing seller. So has this group had any conversations with the Delahanty family?
“No communication,” says Fay, although he notes two things: They seem to see the real value as the land, not the camp, and “of course they have every right to decide to sell and monetize their assets.”
Given that, it’s not surprising that the person the Delahanty family has designated to represent them, Jim Fleet from an entity called Phoenix Management Services, has very little to say when asked if the family has a nostalgic, human, or civic interest in seeing a camp survive.
“There has been some consideration of that,” he allows, “but I wouldn’t use the word ‘priority.’”
Any other insights?
“The family is rather private on this matter. So there’s not a lot to share ... At some point there will be a sale, at some point.”
Garran shares another perspective. Within 24 hours of the closing announcement, as the camp community already was beginning to swirl into action, she got a call from Fleet.
“He said, ‘Understand that this will never be a camp again,’” she recalls. “And I said, ‘We’ll see.’”
NEXT, IN PART TWO: PUBLIC, PRIVATE, HYBRID?