ONE OF THE slogans of Esalen's five-day Sunday to Friday "More Joy" workshop is that "Joy comes on Thursday." The boy had climbed the mountain on Tuesday. He felt together, strong, whole far out. He did not know that more there was. He thought joy had already come, so he settled down to wait for Thursday and see.

Tuesday night and Wednesday were quiet, relaxed times. After the initial frenzy of Susie's life and death trip, the boys, group had settled down to a slower pace. There were, of course, personal statements of hostility, aggression, weakness, importance, schizophrenia -- but these were becoming standard fare. A pattern was developing: it seemed that each of the people in the boy's group had come to Esalen with a single, very intense hang-up, and had brought it there to release it. That, after all, was why they paid $165 for five days.

June wanted to tell someone about her husband's sterility, so she came to Esalen and told the group. She wanted to get laid more, so she told the group. Another woman, Mary felt her husband made too many demands on her. "Why won't he let me alone? I just want to be myself." So she came to Esalen and told the group. Jimmy didn't think he asserted his virility enough, so he told the group. And on it went.

In one sense, the boy knew that this was good. He admired the ability of these people to be honest, to talk about themselves and face the truth about themselves. He admired their willingness to try to break out of the ruts of their lives, their willingness to come to a far out, experimental place like Esalen. But something bothered him. It all seemed too easy, and two things seemed to be implicit. The first was that after each person confessed, broke down, cracked, poured out his should the others in the group should love him. The boy did not love these people. They were not his kind; he did not want to spend his life with them. He could see the horror of their lives, he felt sorry for them, he could even accept them, but he could not love them.

The second thing bothering him was the unstated assumption that since everybody else had come with a confession to make, the boy must have one too. From the start, even though he had been quiet, he had felt the group's curiosity about him. They were confessing themselves, and they wanted something from him; he was ten years younger that any of them--he probably would have a very exciting trip; it would be different from theirs--and they wanted to see it. He had seen them in their weakness; they wanted to see him in his.

THURSDAY morning was crisp and clear, so the group decided to break its pattern and take a walk. "It's nice to do things together," John had said. It was a lovely walk, single file, in total silence, along a roaring stream. The redwoods towered overhead--it was very peaceful, very calm.

The walking was not difficult for the boy, but there were many places where other members of the group had trouble. He saw them joyfully reaching out to help each other, the men anchoring the women, helping them, helping each other up the narrow path--reaching out and holding on for probably the first time in their lives. It was fine, the boy thought, but that, too, was too easy. There was something cheap about it. Joy comes on Thursday; on Thursday, people reach out and help each other; on Friday they go back to their homes and start lying to each other all over again.

When the walk ended about 11 a.m., the group went down to the baths for some body work. After four days, most of them had lost their inhibitions about nakedness, so it was nice to slip into the hot mineral water, to sit crowded in this funny bath, relaxed, letting arms and legs and thighs sprawl out; it was even nice for the boy to feel the naked flesh of one of the ugly women pressing against his side.

At John's command they all stood up. "Just let your eyes roam around the circle," John said. "Don't be embarrassed, but notice where your eyes want to stop and look; notice where they want to speed up and move on. Look at each other. Look at yourselves."

So there they stood. And the boy stared at breasts and genitals and public hair, and laughed to himself to think how these forbidden, erotic parts of the body were in fact its ugliest parts.

"If any of you would like," John said, "I invite you to talk about your own body. Tell the group what you like about yourself, what you don't like."

There was silence, and then Jessica, the physical education teacher, complained that she was too flabby and that her breasts were too large.

"Would you like to know what the other members of the group think?" John asked her.

The boy looked at Jessica. Yes, she was flabby and her breasts were too large, but he said nothing.

"I like your breasts," one of the men said.