I had just finished making my fourth dog contact of the day. The couple was apologetic and friendly. I gave the pooch a petting and returned to my tower with them. They thanked me for saving them a ticket. I thanked them for being understanding. They waved, I waved, and we all had smiles on our faces.
I scanned to the north and saw dog contact number 5 headed my way. Some days it is like a conveyer belt. You send one group off in one direction, and from the opposite end another enters. In this instance, walking a spaniel was father laden with beach toys and his son and daughter. The children were probably four and six years old. Pops had to be in his late thirties, early forties. I grabbed my can and headed in their direction.
Smiling, I approached the family. Sometimes I'm certain that some offenders suspect that they cannot have a dog on the beach but they decide to go for it and see what happens. These individuals start to slow their walk and stare at you as you approach. They do not need to open their mouths to say, "Goddamnit!" Their expressions say it for them.
Even with the sunglasses Pops' face made it clear how he felt about my nearing presence. I suspect the line to enter the parking lot had been long and the kids had been impatient. "Be sympathetic," I reminded myself.
I presented as the friendly, informative lifeguard. "Excuse me sir, unfortunately you cannot have dogs on the beach. You are more than welcome to take it back to the boardwalk or over to the playground area, but you cannot have it down here on the sand."
Pops didn't even wait for the options part of my statement. With a exaggerated dismissive wave, he turned around and started stomping away from me. And not in the direction of the boardwalk or playground, but down the beach. I think he was thinking, "If I don't see him he will go away," although judging by his demeanor I'm sure expletives stood in place of any reference to me.
"Excuse me sir, not in that direction. You will have to take your dog off the beach."
He continued to ignore me. His children did not. While Pops defiantly dragged his charges through the sand, his back saying so much in its silence, his son and daughter stared back at me with concern. They looked at their father. They looked at me. Back to their father. Back to me. Their looks said it all. Daddy was misbehaving.
I repeated my last statement. The third time is supposed to be the charm, so why not give it a chance? I took the chance. He turned in the direction of the water. This was not working.
"Excuse me sir, please be the one to set the example for your children and take your dog off the beach," I coaxed, my tone still even. His shoulders locked and he pivoted in the direction of the parking lot. I returned to my tower.
Scanning the swimmers, I gave one last look in Pops direction. Still moving towards the parking lot, he was walking backwards staring directly at me. I raised my hands to my chest, palms upwards in a simple, "What?" He took two more steps and then turned around, raising his right hand behind his head as he did so. And then, as if spring loaded, his middle finger leapt to attention. Yep, he had had a tough day. The sad thing was his kids were probably about to have a tougher one. I went back to watching the water.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
Ocean Lifeguarding, Best Job Ever!
Okay, it is time to change things up a bit. My last several posts have been, well, a tad cranky. Given the full spectrum of humanity that visit the beach, I do experience more than the normal share of individuals who leave me scratching my head, muttering under my breath, or counting to ten in an effort to maintain my composure. Be it someone determined to snatch my rescue can from my hand for their photo op, the druggie on a bad trip, the angry drunk, the gang banger looking to alpha dog the entire beach, or parents who treat a visit to the sand as a vacation from parenting, I encounter all sorts of whack jobs, nut cases, and just generally unpleasant people. Not surprisingly, they do leave an imprint. Also not surprisingly, they are not the only ones who populate the playa. They don't even dominate the percentages so they shouldn't dominate this blog. For all the bad, frustrating, and just plain ridiculous that I encounter there is plenty which is rewarding that offsets it. Today it is time to give the positive its due.
Ocean Lifeguarding is great because...
Well let's start with the obvious. As I have mentioned before, my office is the beach. No fax machines or monkey suits, just sand, surf, and sea. The vast majority of the public spends their week working their tails off just so that they can go play where I work. How can you beat that?
Speaking of monkey suits, sure the single or double breasted has its place and alone can be an aphrodisiac to some. The thought of the daily duty of tying a noose around one's neck, regardless of how fine the silk may be or how much power may pump from its threads, is unpleasant, if not unsettling. Business suit or bathing suit? I think the choice is obvious. Give me the Reds. I'll happily leave the so-called finer threads for those who find repugnant the thought of working 5/6's naked, and sand around the toes instead of socks. (Oh, for those of you not in the know, the "Reds" is the familiar term for the lifeguard swimsuit.)
My job description is in the title. I guard lives. When necessary, I save lives. Sounds great, huh? The funny thing? For whatever reason, there are some who would like to change lifeguard to something like Marine Safety Officer or Aquatic Safety Specialist as if being called a lifeguard is a bad and inadequate thing. You can call a garbage man a sanitation engineer, but it doesn't change the fact that he does the very respectable job of taking out the trash. I'm a lifeguard. I guard people's lives. I don't need to be called something else in order to feel better about myself. The job title is damn fine the way it is.
Have can will rescue. That is all I need to do my job. I need my red rescue can. I am not encumbered by a computer or the aforementioned fax. I am not worried about toner refills, how to fix the electric hole punch, whether table two needs more rolls, or how to sell you these absurdly expensive jeans that make your ass look fat. I look for beach goers in need. I see them. I grab my red rescue can and save them. On big days I will accessorize with fins. On big days, you should too.
As I am not encumbered by a computer, I don't stare at a computer screen all day. I have 20/17 vision when most of my peers are now figuring out which frames are best suited to their face. I scan the horizon while so many scan a monitor a foot or two from their face. You have to love a job that sharpens your physical skills, not dulls them.
My breaks are workouts on the beach. If I feel like a long run, I log some laps between towers. I do not stare at the same potted plant in front of the treadmill. Pumping iron? The tower provides all sorts of opportunities for body weight exercises. Oh, and then there's this little thing called surf. When it is up, I hit the waves for either a bodysurf or surf session. I don't know how many gyms offer wave machines, or pay you to ride them.
I don't suffer from a vitamin D deficiency. I spend the year alternating between a natural base tan and a healthy shade of brown (and periodically an uncomfortable shade of red). Yes, I have to lather on the sunscreen else I meet the reaper due to a melanoma-abbreviated existence. It is the price that one must pay for this employment opportunity. I just try to get the water resistant stuff without the parabens. Winning one battle isn't worth it if you lose the war due to a conspirator in your midst.
I watch dolphins. I don't watch traffic.
The onshore winds blow the stink of urbanity inland. They also bring changing weather. Although not everyone's cup of tea I do enjoy watching the arrival of a front and the pleasure of a summer tropical storm.
I reunite lost children with panicked parents. You can't beat that moment when seven year old scared Sally screams "Mommy!" and rushes into the arms of sobbing Susan and Steve. Trust me one this one, nothing warms your heart more than when loved ones reunite and you are the bridge that closed the gap.
That being said, I realize for that moment to occur, at least one child and one parent must be in a state of great distress. I certainly don't wish that anxiety upon anyone, but I am glad that when said individuals find themselves in such uncomfortable territory I can be of assistance. With that in mind...
I rescue drowning swimmers. Better put, I save lives. I give individuals a chance at a future that had I or any of my coworkers not been there, they would have lost. Permanently. Like the above, I realize that to save someone, that person has to be drowning, i.e. dying. I don't wish that sensation upon anyone, but as a lifeguard I am glad that I have the skills to be there, to give them a second chance, to give them the opportunity of falling in love, knowing their grandchildren, or hiking the Muir Trail.
Simply put I have a job that tells me implicitly I am making a difference. I realize that external validation is not necessary for a fulfilling life, but it is never unwelcomed. Certainly not when you exit the water supporting a teenager who almost discovered what Houdini already knows only to be embraced by the tearful father who cannot stop thanking you. In those moments, the belligerent gangster, the bitchy dog walker, the problematic drunk, the perv, and the just-angry-at-the-world patron all disappear. I remember why it is that I do this job. I remember why it is that I was drawn to it in the first place. And I remember to enjoy that day's sunset all the more. Oh yes, that is something else that makes this job a peerless one. I watch sunsets.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Ocean Lifeguarding is great because...
Well let's start with the obvious. As I have mentioned before, my office is the beach. No fax machines or monkey suits, just sand, surf, and sea. The vast majority of the public spends their week working their tails off just so that they can go play where I work. How can you beat that?
Speaking of monkey suits, sure the single or double breasted has its place and alone can be an aphrodisiac to some. The thought of the daily duty of tying a noose around one's neck, regardless of how fine the silk may be or how much power may pump from its threads, is unpleasant, if not unsettling. Business suit or bathing suit? I think the choice is obvious. Give me the Reds. I'll happily leave the so-called finer threads for those who find repugnant the thought of working 5/6's naked, and sand around the toes instead of socks. (Oh, for those of you not in the know, the "Reds" is the familiar term for the lifeguard swimsuit.)
My job description is in the title. I guard lives. When necessary, I save lives. Sounds great, huh? The funny thing? For whatever reason, there are some who would like to change lifeguard to something like Marine Safety Officer or Aquatic Safety Specialist as if being called a lifeguard is a bad and inadequate thing. You can call a garbage man a sanitation engineer, but it doesn't change the fact that he does the very respectable job of taking out the trash. I'm a lifeguard. I guard people's lives. I don't need to be called something else in order to feel better about myself. The job title is damn fine the way it is.
Have can will rescue. That is all I need to do my job. I need my red rescue can. I am not encumbered by a computer or the aforementioned fax. I am not worried about toner refills, how to fix the electric hole punch, whether table two needs more rolls, or how to sell you these absurdly expensive jeans that make your ass look fat. I look for beach goers in need. I see them. I grab my red rescue can and save them. On big days I will accessorize with fins. On big days, you should too.
As I am not encumbered by a computer, I don't stare at a computer screen all day. I have 20/17 vision when most of my peers are now figuring out which frames are best suited to their face. I scan the horizon while so many scan a monitor a foot or two from their face. You have to love a job that sharpens your physical skills, not dulls them.
My breaks are workouts on the beach. If I feel like a long run, I log some laps between towers. I do not stare at the same potted plant in front of the treadmill. Pumping iron? The tower provides all sorts of opportunities for body weight exercises. Oh, and then there's this little thing called surf. When it is up, I hit the waves for either a bodysurf or surf session. I don't know how many gyms offer wave machines, or pay you to ride them.
I don't suffer from a vitamin D deficiency. I spend the year alternating between a natural base tan and a healthy shade of brown (and periodically an uncomfortable shade of red). Yes, I have to lather on the sunscreen else I meet the reaper due to a melanoma-abbreviated existence. It is the price that one must pay for this employment opportunity. I just try to get the water resistant stuff without the parabens. Winning one battle isn't worth it if you lose the war due to a conspirator in your midst.
I watch dolphins. I don't watch traffic.
The onshore winds blow the stink of urbanity inland. They also bring changing weather. Although not everyone's cup of tea I do enjoy watching the arrival of a front and the pleasure of a summer tropical storm.
I reunite lost children with panicked parents. You can't beat that moment when seven year old scared Sally screams "Mommy!" and rushes into the arms of sobbing Susan and Steve. Trust me one this one, nothing warms your heart more than when loved ones reunite and you are the bridge that closed the gap.
That being said, I realize for that moment to occur, at least one child and one parent must be in a state of great distress. I certainly don't wish that anxiety upon anyone, but I am glad that when said individuals find themselves in such uncomfortable territory I can be of assistance. With that in mind...
I rescue drowning swimmers. Better put, I save lives. I give individuals a chance at a future that had I or any of my coworkers not been there, they would have lost. Permanently. Like the above, I realize that to save someone, that person has to be drowning, i.e. dying. I don't wish that sensation upon anyone, but as a lifeguard I am glad that I have the skills to be there, to give them a second chance, to give them the opportunity of falling in love, knowing their grandchildren, or hiking the Muir Trail.
Simply put I have a job that tells me implicitly I am making a difference. I realize that external validation is not necessary for a fulfilling life, but it is never unwelcomed. Certainly not when you exit the water supporting a teenager who almost discovered what Houdini already knows only to be embraced by the tearful father who cannot stop thanking you. In those moments, the belligerent gangster, the bitchy dog walker, the problematic drunk, the perv, and the just-angry-at-the-world patron all disappear. I remember why it is that I do this job. I remember why it is that I was drawn to it in the first place. And I remember to enjoy that day's sunset all the more. Oh yes, that is something else that makes this job a peerless one. I watch sunsets.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
It's Not the Dogs. It's the Owners Who Walk Them.
Just recently, a local municipality voted to explore the possibility of opening a dog beach in the region. Not surprisingly, everywhere within the county dog owners rejoiced. At least I assume they did, especially those who love taking their pet pooches to the playa even when the present ordinance prohibits it. I can appreciate their enthusiasm, but on this one they are not alone. No, we lifeguards, at least some of us, too clicked our sandals together in joy. Not because we cannot wait to let or our own personal furry fellows romp alongside us in the surf (although it certainly plays a factor in our joy), but chiefly because we will have one less headache to soothe come the end of the day.
Lem'me esplain...
It usually starts like this. I see a dog. On the beach. I groan. I groan, not because the thought of a sudden end to my sedentary lifestyle is repugnant (i.e. get off my lazy ass). I groan because of experience. Sometimes these encounters go well. So often they do not.
A woman and her labrador enters the beach by a closed lifeguard station. Now at this point it could simply be nothing more than she missed the signs in the parking lot or on the back of the tower. In all fairness the ordinance is not particularly well posted and our agency as well as the police do very little to educate the public on this issue prior to their arrival to the beach. At this point I cut the woman some slack, but in the back of my mind lurks this, "She knows." She knows that a closed tower means no lifeguard and no lifeguard means no one to enforce the ordinance. She knows she can do whatever she wants.
So she starts her jog. She lets Jimbo off the leash and he immediately begins terrorizing the local bird population. She continues in my direction. I expel my groan, grab my can, and with a smile I walk to intercept her. What happens next will tell me everything.
Option 1: She sees me and then turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Yep, she knows, and she knows how to play the game. I'm not going to chase her down. I have water to watch and swimmer safety is far more important than running down a jogger and her Jimbo. She'll run until she encounters the next open tower and then once again reverse her field. I once had a woman play this game in between two sequentially open towers. The other guard and myself slowly walked towards each other and she shuttled back and forth like a ping pong ball until he intercepted her and sent her packing. She claimed ignorance. Her actions claimed otherwise. At least she and her pooch covered quite a distance before their day ended with a little lifeguard rain. I do believe the public sees us as the fun police.
Option 2: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and the following explanation, "Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, and you will receive a costly ticket if you remain. Fortunately you are more than welcome to have them on the boardwalk." She apologizes and thanks me for the information. I pet Jimbo. She leashes him and leaves. I love option two! It makes my day easier and allows me to return to that which I value most - watching the water.
Option 3: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps, "I know!" and runs on by. Oh do I feel the love and even more so, the respect. Now in my head I retort, "Really, you do? You know? By any chance do you know my foot? My left one? Because it is about to get acquainted with your ass." But you and I both realize that if that were to make it out of my mouth and into her ears all sorts of ugliness would ensue and quite possibly my continued employment would be in question. Instead I re-emphasize my point, and she re-emphasizes hers with the added, "And what are you going to do about it?"
"Give you a hug," is, again, the thought response because it sure sounds like she could use one. Instead I mention the police and a supervisor. If she's played the game before she knows there is a good chance that neither will respond and so she continues on her jog, sharing the love with each lifeguard she encounters. If she's uncertain, she'll leave the beach at an obtuse angle traveling as far down the soft sand as possible in a final passive/aggressive swipe at me just doing my job.
I'm not a big fan of option 3.
Option 4: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps back, "What about those people? Why do they get to have a dog?" I call option four the grade school option. It brings me back to those days of third grade with the pointed finger seeking supposed fairness and attempting to deflect blame. More often than not there are no "those people" anywhere to be seen, just a long stretch beach devoid of dogs. Somehow she is convinced that I will believe her and respond, "Well, okay, if they have a dog then I guess you can have one too." She believes that I am an unmotivated pushover. She believes her bit of smoke and magic will convince me to ignore her. It doesn't. "I'll talk to them after I'm done speaking with you," I respond.
"You do that. You go and do that now," she barks as she yanks Jimbo from his investigatory snorgling.
"In a moment, but please take your dog off the beach."
"Good job," she sarcastically remarks over her shoulder adding "Dick" in that way that is designed to be soft enough to be under one's breath but loud enough for the intended to hear.
"Thank you."
Yep. First hand experience as well. We love ourselves the public.
I've been told all manner of things including, "It's not a dog. It's a boy.", "It's not mine" (said with leash and doggy bag in hand), "So...", and "You're a racist" (yes, for asking someone to take their dog off the beach). I have also been told "I'm sorry. I didn't know." I much prefer the latter. I know it seems to you, the dog owner that we have specifically singled you out to pull the plug on your day's enjoyment. If you were ignorant, I'm sympathetic. If you were not, I'm not. I'll still approach you with the hope that you'll smile, thank me for the info, and take Benji off the beach. If you do, thank you. Thank you for that little ray of sunshine. You've also smartly avoided a pricey ticket. If you don't, well what follows next is on you. And giving me the finger doesn't change the rules. Yep, I get that too.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Lem'me esplain...
It usually starts like this. I see a dog. On the beach. I groan. I groan, not because the thought of a sudden end to my sedentary lifestyle is repugnant (i.e. get off my lazy ass). I groan because of experience. Sometimes these encounters go well. So often they do not.
Again, lem'me esplain...
A woman and her labrador enters the beach by a closed lifeguard station. Now at this point it could simply be nothing more than she missed the signs in the parking lot or on the back of the tower. In all fairness the ordinance is not particularly well posted and our agency as well as the police do very little to educate the public on this issue prior to their arrival to the beach. At this point I cut the woman some slack, but in the back of my mind lurks this, "She knows." She knows that a closed tower means no lifeguard and no lifeguard means no one to enforce the ordinance. She knows she can do whatever she wants.
So she starts her jog. She lets Jimbo off the leash and he immediately begins terrorizing the local bird population. She continues in my direction. I expel my groan, grab my can, and with a smile I walk to intercept her. What happens next will tell me everything.
Option 1: She sees me and then turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Yep, she knows, and she knows how to play the game. I'm not going to chase her down. I have water to watch and swimmer safety is far more important than running down a jogger and her Jimbo. She'll run until she encounters the next open tower and then once again reverse her field. I once had a woman play this game in between two sequentially open towers. The other guard and myself slowly walked towards each other and she shuttled back and forth like a ping pong ball until he intercepted her and sent her packing. She claimed ignorance. Her actions claimed otherwise. At least she and her pooch covered quite a distance before their day ended with a little lifeguard rain. I do believe the public sees us as the fun police.
Option 2: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and the following explanation, "Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, and you will receive a costly ticket if you remain. Fortunately you are more than welcome to have them on the boardwalk." She apologizes and thanks me for the information. I pet Jimbo. She leashes him and leaves. I love option two! It makes my day easier and allows me to return to that which I value most - watching the water.
Option 3: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps, "I know!" and runs on by. Oh do I feel the love and even more so, the respect. Now in my head I retort, "Really, you do? You know? By any chance do you know my foot? My left one? Because it is about to get acquainted with your ass." But you and I both realize that if that were to make it out of my mouth and into her ears all sorts of ugliness would ensue and quite possibly my continued employment would be in question. Instead I re-emphasize my point, and she re-emphasizes hers with the added, "And what are you going to do about it?"
"Give you a hug," is, again, the thought response because it sure sounds like she could use one. Instead I mention the police and a supervisor. If she's played the game before she knows there is a good chance that neither will respond and so she continues on her jog, sharing the love with each lifeguard she encounters. If she's uncertain, she'll leave the beach at an obtuse angle traveling as far down the soft sand as possible in a final passive/aggressive swipe at me just doing my job.
I'm not a big fan of option 3.
Option 4: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps back, "What about those people? Why do they get to have a dog?" I call option four the grade school option. It brings me back to those days of third grade with the pointed finger seeking supposed fairness and attempting to deflect blame. More often than not there are no "those people" anywhere to be seen, just a long stretch beach devoid of dogs. Somehow she is convinced that I will believe her and respond, "Well, okay, if they have a dog then I guess you can have one too." She believes that I am an unmotivated pushover. She believes her bit of smoke and magic will convince me to ignore her. It doesn't. "I'll talk to them after I'm done speaking with you," I respond.
"You do that. You go and do that now," she barks as she yanks Jimbo from his investigatory snorgling.
"In a moment, but please take your dog off the beach."
"Good job," she sarcastically remarks over her shoulder adding "Dick" in that way that is designed to be soft enough to be under one's breath but loud enough for the intended to hear.
"Thank you."
Yep. First hand experience as well. We love ourselves the public.
I've been told all manner of things including, "It's not a dog. It's a boy.", "It's not mine" (said with leash and doggy bag in hand), "So...", and "You're a racist" (yes, for asking someone to take their dog off the beach). I have also been told "I'm sorry. I didn't know." I much prefer the latter. I know it seems to you, the dog owner that we have specifically singled you out to pull the plug on your day's enjoyment. If you were ignorant, I'm sympathetic. If you were not, I'm not. I'll still approach you with the hope that you'll smile, thank me for the info, and take Benji off the beach. If you do, thank you. Thank you for that little ray of sunshine. You've also smartly avoided a pricey ticket. If you don't, well what follows next is on you. And giving me the finger doesn't change the rules. Yep, I get that too.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, October 21, 2011
I'm Stinking in the Rain...
Well Southern California had its first rain of the season. It was far from torrential, although to watch the local news one would think that somewhere a modern day Noah was herding animals onto his recently completed ark. In the end, the storm clouds shed enough of the wet stuff to achieve one noticeable accomplishment. They flushed the storm drains. Just like a toilet.
So that raises the question, would you swim in a toilet? It sounds rhetorical doesn't it? Who would actually desire a few laps in a human poo stew? (Well, excepting those fetishists who find their nucleus accumbens tickled by such an adventure.) And I am certainly not referring to a porcelain pool unnaturally blued by the first of 2000 flushes.
Straight up, who swims in their toilet?
Well if you are a beach bum or bunny or find yourself fancying a dip in Big Briny during your costal visit, you do. Oh boy do you.
And nothing makes that clearer than a season's first rain in traditionally sunny Southern California.
Why?
Well when it rains in California's lower third, it generally does so sometime between winter and early spring. Sure we get the occasional curve ball with a summer shower, but more often than not, Mother Nature follows a traditional script. Why is this important to this narrative? Well, the time in between the last rain of the previous season and the first rain of the next allows for all sorts of goodies to accumulate in the storm drains and river basins. Goodies that stack upon goodies. Which stack upon other goodies. And by goodies, I mean crap. And by crap I mean plastic bags, styrofoam cups, drinking straws, feces - human and animal, toxic chemicals, dead dogs, and everything that the local population is too lazy to toss in a rubbish bin. All these goodies are left to congeal, fester and rot for months in stagnant puddles and/or baked under the hot sun. They accumulate to a point where Mother Nature can no longer stand the sight and stink of our creation so she reaches for the handle and gives it yank. She sends a winter storm our way. And all those goodies, all that crap, are flushed right into the costal waters where we swim, surf, and fish. Trust me on this one, don't eat the local mussels - especially after a rain. They are filter feeders...
Now beach goers are supposed to remain out of the ocean for 72 hours after the rain has passed. I've sat in a tower during the first rain of the season. I've watched as the storm drains slowly open. I've watched as the storm moves inland and the trickle becomes a stream, and the stream becomes a sudden torrent of black water. It is as if the storm drains are overwhelmed by a late night of binge drinking and succumb to explosive, projectile vomiting. From their mouths issue an oily black fluid laden with chunks of the dry season's long lunch of refuse. I've watched as this black river snakes its way through the ocean's aqua hue - first as a finger, then as a swath, and soon the entire costal waters become an oleaginous mass.
72 hours of look but don't touch. Not everyone heeds the approach. I was one such individual.
Two stories spring to mind. The first finds me surfing at a river mouth - in the rain. The surf was perfect. The water, unsurprisingly, wasn't When the human turd bobbed on by, I paddled away from it, but not out of the water. Did I learn? Nope, remember - two stories.
Years later I came upon spitting barrels near a pier. The rain was heavy, the wind was off-shore but who cares, the surf again was perfect. I hit the water. I get shacked. I got stoked.
As I walked home, I kept noticing a smell. I kept noticing a bilge water smell. It was like human waste and diesel, with some other chemicals to add to the overall bouquet. It was on my wetsuit. I scrubbed my wetsuit. It was on my skin. I scrubbed my skin. I scrubbed my face, my hair, my everything but I couldn't shake the smell. It was inside my nose. It was inside my mouth. The next morning I awoke to a horrific sore throat and a sinus infection to boot. I wasn't stoked. And this time I paid heed.
I don't swim during or after a rain. I don't care how great the waves are, I'm staying out of the water (unless I have to make a rescue). And not just for 72 hours, certainly not after the season's first rain. I stay away for a week. Minimum. Instead, I take a walk on the beach. There's always plenty of trash to pick up.
But here is the larger issue. It rains and the result is that we shouldn't go into the ocean. I'll repeat that. It RAINS and we SHOULDN'T go into the ocean. Does anyone not see how wrong that is? It isn't the rain that is the problem here. It's us. We render the ocean inhospitable to human activity. We render the fish stocks inhospitable to human consumption. We spend all summer doing whatever ever the hell we want with no heed to the consequences. Then comes the winter and the the piper must be paid. Worst of all, folks, it is a closed system. Sure two thirds of this plant's surface is covered with the wet stuff. Yes, the abyssal plains and Mariana Trench run deep, but the ocean can only absorb so much before she starts throwing it back at us. She can only take so much before she says, "If you are going to sicken me, then I am going to sicken you." It used to take so much more. Now it only takes a rainstorm.
I would like to believe that if we can create multiple ways to effectively wipe ourselves off the face of this planet, we are equally as capable of finding a way to wipe our asses without causing a major environmental impact. There used to be a time not that long ago when the rains would bring nutrients to the costal ecosystem allowing them to flourish. Rains still bring nutrients but now the guys who enjoy these munchies are the microscopic types. The ones who cause the algal blooms commonly know as red tides (note: the term is misleading as the blooms are rarely red and have absolutely nothing to do with the tides).
No biggie, right? Wrong. When these guys get together and party several things happen. First the water turns an ugly shade of brown - almost a toxic shade if it could be so described. Speaking of toxic, their hardcore partying produces a toxin called domoic acid. Look it up. Its effects are not pretty, especially on sea lions. The bloom makes the acid. The fish eat the bloom. The sea lions eat the fish. The acid rots the sea lions' brains making them unpredictable, aggressive, as well as dangerous, and may ultimately kill them. And, if that isn't enough the blooms' population explosion ultimately deprives the water column of oxygen effectively rendering the area an anoxic dead zone to all the fish and their friends.
All this not because it rains, but because of what we do before the first drops fall.
I do wonder what is the last straw? I do wonder at what point will we as a global community finally say, "This shit has got to stop! I'm tired of swimming in a sewer!" I don't care if you are a flag waving member of the extreme left or right. The affiliation is irrelevant. Our actions effect us as a people. Our actions effect us as an individual. Our actions effect us. Period. We have created this mess. We can resolve it. Whether you are a wave rider or not, your actions determine our future. That piece of trash that is getting sweaty in your palm? Toss it in a rubbish bin, not it the gutter. It may be a cigarette butt. It may be a burrito wrapper. It may be a number you have no intention of calling. But this I can guarantee you, whatever it is, as small or as large as it may be, it will have an impact. You don't believe me? Just wait, it won't take long. It will only take a rainstorm.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
It Takes a Ramp
It time to hang this tower's can out front. It has been closed for far too long. And I get to do the hiring around here.
So with my return to Tower Tales, I bring a tale from the tower. A first hand experience with the oh so wonderful public. A word of warning. This one has profanity, and a lot of it. In an effort to make it more palatable to the masses I shall replace a familiar vulgarity with its recognizable euphemism, "eff".
You know. For fuck.
It had been a busy day. The warm weather, water, and sand combined with inconsistent moderate surf had kept us on our toes and, more often than not, cycling through our collection of shorts in order to avoid the much dreaded crotch rash. A wet suit on the willy and thighs will turn said anatomy into hamburger meat over the course of a tower shift. You can always tell the lifeguard rookies from the vets by the number of wet red trunks hanging from the tower railings. None? Well that fellow hasn't learned. And he is probably walking bowlegged.
But I digress...
The busy day in question had finally paused to catch its breath and in doing so, allowed the lifeguards to do the same (and once again change suits). I returned to my tower to grab a jacket in anticipation of the approaching evening's chill. I looked up from inside my tower and noticed a large, fem-mullet sporting, forty-ish female setting up camp on my ramp. Not by my ramp. On my ramp. In other words this tank-top Tammy had just parked her junker-in-the-trunker in front of the fire station.
No bueno.
Now I always endeavor to extend to the public the common courtesy of a smile and the assumption that their stupidity is actually ignorance. Even though her clothes were wet telling of her recent swim, she probably hadn't seen us making rescues. Her leaning against my railing with legs out-stretched must have appeared to her to be the perfect pose at the perfect location for the perfection she sought with respect to her tan.
I left the interior of my tower with a smile stretching across my face. She turned her eyes, but not her head in my direction.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," I offered, "but unfortunately you cannot block my ramp. I need to keep it open in case I have to make a rescue."
"I need to relax, okay?!" she barked chasing my words away as though a pitt on the heels of a postman.
"Okay..." I responded, quickly gauging the volatility of the patron, and evenly continued. "And just how long do you need to relax? You are on my ramp and I would hate to knock you over if I had to run down and make a rescue."
"I'm a human being! I just need 30 seconds, okay! Is that too much to ask?!" She hadn't turned from her original position. She was still facing away from me, while looking in my direction.
I actually started scanning the surrounding beach to see if Alan Funt was in the house. Somewhere Candid Camera had to be rolling.
Hoping that thirty seconds would be enough (and knowing full well that it wouldn't) I acquiesced. The détente between surf and swimmers allowed for it. In the public arena, sometimes the deferral to another can quickly move a storm through the area. And, heck, if I had to knock her over on my way to another rescue, so be it.
I returned to the interior of my tower. She took root at the end of my ramp. I sure you can guess where this is going. It's like watching a film trailer and then going to see the film. The trailer teased action you haven't yet seen so you know that bitching gun battle is right around the corner. Where's the promised profanity, right?
Thirty seconds became a minute, and a minute became two. I had given her a chance. Mary Mullet had to go.
"Excuse me, ma'am..."
"FUCK YOU!" she bellowed, "I'm an effing human being, goddamnit! Treat me like a effing human being! All I effing asked was for one effing second to effing relax on your goddamn effing precious ramp and you can't effing treat me like an effing human being! EFF YOU, you effer! EFF-EFFING YOU, you EFF!!"
Um...okay. Other than my set up, did you see that coming? I sure as hell didn't. Now normally, I admit, I can get kinda cranky when the public PERSISTS in being, well, the public. In this instance, her unexpected tsunami of profane anger actually left me speechless. And rather amused.
"Ma'am..." I calmly responded.
"No! EFF you! Eff you and eff your effing ramp! I'm an effing human being, you effing asshole (oh, hey, she's mixing it up, opting for other vulgarities. Good for her)!
"Ma'am..."
"You can effing go to effing hell for all that I care, you effing EFF! Eff you!" Obviously she had thrown a c-note in the swearing jar and intended to cash it all in.
"Ma'am, I can see that you are upset, but I cannot have you stay on my ramp." I replied, finally getting a word in edgewise. I say I understated the case, don't you think?
"EFF you! Eff YOU! EFF YOU! You are a heartless effing bastard!"
At this point, we have an audience. The earshot public who had initially been acting as though they were not paying attention even though they absolutely were had now turned their chairs in our direction. They flagged down the passing ice cream vendors for munchies and sent the kids off to find popcorn. This was quality entertainment and they weren't about to miss it.
Also not missing it was what must have been a friend if I can call him such. As she kept pulling the pin on and hurling her eff-grenades as quickly as she could grab them, he approached. Out of what could have only been embarrassment, he shielded his face with his hand. And me? At the top of my ramp I held the high ground. With arms across my chest, I smiled. This sent her into an even more profanity-laced tizzy - one that I will spare you.
As her friend led her away she decided to send up Enola Gay. "See that house over there?" She shouted, jabbing her finger in my direction as though jabbing out my eye. "That's my house!"
"Which house?" I asked, "There is a lot of them."
"That one! The big effing one behind you! That's my effing house! And I'm having a effing party and you can't effing come!"
"Well there goes my evening plans." I responded.
Yep, more eff bombs, but thankfully becoming fainter as she was pulled in the direction of the parking lot.
"Hey, isn't your house over there?" I returned. I couldn't resist. She came back with the finger. A salute from the captain on a sinking ship. Give her credit, she rode that one to the bottom.
Now for those of you thinking that I omitted some inciting factor of my creation out of the above, I didn't. This is something that can happen to any lifeguard at any time, unprovoked or otherwise. It is part of being in the public arena. We guard the waters to save lives. It is how we earn those taxpayer dollars. Yes, lifeguards are public servants, but we are not public door mats. If the taxpayer has a need to clean some crap off of the foot, please go somewhere else other than our backs. A therapist might be a good start.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
So with my return to Tower Tales, I bring a tale from the tower. A first hand experience with the oh so wonderful public. A word of warning. This one has profanity, and a lot of it. In an effort to make it more palatable to the masses I shall replace a familiar vulgarity with its recognizable euphemism, "eff".
You know. For fuck.
It had been a busy day. The warm weather, water, and sand combined with inconsistent moderate surf had kept us on our toes and, more often than not, cycling through our collection of shorts in order to avoid the much dreaded crotch rash. A wet suit on the willy and thighs will turn said anatomy into hamburger meat over the course of a tower shift. You can always tell the lifeguard rookies from the vets by the number of wet red trunks hanging from the tower railings. None? Well that fellow hasn't learned. And he is probably walking bowlegged.
But I digress...
The busy day in question had finally paused to catch its breath and in doing so, allowed the lifeguards to do the same (and once again change suits). I returned to my tower to grab a jacket in anticipation of the approaching evening's chill. I looked up from inside my tower and noticed a large, fem-mullet sporting, forty-ish female setting up camp on my ramp. Not by my ramp. On my ramp. In other words this tank-top Tammy had just parked her junker-in-the-trunker in front of the fire station.
No bueno.
Now I always endeavor to extend to the public the common courtesy of a smile and the assumption that their stupidity is actually ignorance. Even though her clothes were wet telling of her recent swim, she probably hadn't seen us making rescues. Her leaning against my railing with legs out-stretched must have appeared to her to be the perfect pose at the perfect location for the perfection she sought with respect to her tan.
I left the interior of my tower with a smile stretching across my face. She turned her eyes, but not her head in my direction.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," I offered, "but unfortunately you cannot block my ramp. I need to keep it open in case I have to make a rescue."
"I need to relax, okay?!" she barked chasing my words away as though a pitt on the heels of a postman.
"Okay..." I responded, quickly gauging the volatility of the patron, and evenly continued. "And just how long do you need to relax? You are on my ramp and I would hate to knock you over if I had to run down and make a rescue."
"I'm a human being! I just need 30 seconds, okay! Is that too much to ask?!" She hadn't turned from her original position. She was still facing away from me, while looking in my direction.
I actually started scanning the surrounding beach to see if Alan Funt was in the house. Somewhere Candid Camera had to be rolling.
Hoping that thirty seconds would be enough (and knowing full well that it wouldn't) I acquiesced. The détente between surf and swimmers allowed for it. In the public arena, sometimes the deferral to another can quickly move a storm through the area. And, heck, if I had to knock her over on my way to another rescue, so be it.
I returned to the interior of my tower. She took root at the end of my ramp. I sure you can guess where this is going. It's like watching a film trailer and then going to see the film. The trailer teased action you haven't yet seen so you know that bitching gun battle is right around the corner. Where's the promised profanity, right?
Thirty seconds became a minute, and a minute became two. I had given her a chance. Mary Mullet had to go.
"Excuse me, ma'am..."
"FUCK YOU!" she bellowed, "I'm an effing human being, goddamnit! Treat me like a effing human being! All I effing asked was for one effing second to effing relax on your goddamn effing precious ramp and you can't effing treat me like an effing human being! EFF YOU, you effer! EFF-EFFING YOU, you EFF!!"
Um...okay. Other than my set up, did you see that coming? I sure as hell didn't. Now normally, I admit, I can get kinda cranky when the public PERSISTS in being, well, the public. In this instance, her unexpected tsunami of profane anger actually left me speechless. And rather amused.
"Ma'am..." I calmly responded.
"No! EFF you! Eff you and eff your effing ramp! I'm an effing human being, you effing asshole (oh, hey, she's mixing it up, opting for other vulgarities. Good for her)!
"Ma'am..."
"You can effing go to effing hell for all that I care, you effing EFF! Eff you!" Obviously she had thrown a c-note in the swearing jar and intended to cash it all in.
"Ma'am, I can see that you are upset, but I cannot have you stay on my ramp." I replied, finally getting a word in edgewise. I say I understated the case, don't you think?
"EFF you! Eff YOU! EFF YOU! You are a heartless effing bastard!"
At this point, we have an audience. The earshot public who had initially been acting as though they were not paying attention even though they absolutely were had now turned their chairs in our direction. They flagged down the passing ice cream vendors for munchies and sent the kids off to find popcorn. This was quality entertainment and they weren't about to miss it.
Also not missing it was what must have been a friend if I can call him such. As she kept pulling the pin on and hurling her eff-grenades as quickly as she could grab them, he approached. Out of what could have only been embarrassment, he shielded his face with his hand. And me? At the top of my ramp I held the high ground. With arms across my chest, I smiled. This sent her into an even more profanity-laced tizzy - one that I will spare you.
As her friend led her away she decided to send up Enola Gay. "See that house over there?" She shouted, jabbing her finger in my direction as though jabbing out my eye. "That's my house!"
"Which house?" I asked, "There is a lot of them."
"That one! The big effing one behind you! That's my effing house! And I'm having a effing party and you can't effing come!"
"Well there goes my evening plans." I responded.
Yep, more eff bombs, but thankfully becoming fainter as she was pulled in the direction of the parking lot.
"Hey, isn't your house over there?" I returned. I couldn't resist. She came back with the finger. A salute from the captain on a sinking ship. Give her credit, she rode that one to the bottom.
Now for those of you thinking that I omitted some inciting factor of my creation out of the above, I didn't. This is something that can happen to any lifeguard at any time, unprovoked or otherwise. It is part of being in the public arena. We guard the waters to save lives. It is how we earn those taxpayer dollars. Yes, lifeguards are public servants, but we are not public door mats. If the taxpayer has a need to clean some crap off of the foot, please go somewhere else other than our backs. A therapist might be a good start.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Rocks: In the Head When They're in the Water?
Often in the course of writing, the rewrite completely changes the previous draft. What seemed so on point and craftily conceived before, falls apart with a modicum of moments and a bit of perspective. This is one of those times.
My earlier draft was brutal, as in direct honesty. Sounds like a good thing, right? Well it can be if you desire to bludgeon your audience with caustic wit. The problem is, regardless of the truth being shared, the content is often lost on the readers because no one wants to listen to a Grumpy Mc'Grumperson - especially one on a rant.
And... one talking about parenting. The one thing parents hate, more than anything, is to be told that they are bad parents, even when all the evidence irrefutably points to that truth.
Today's blog? Swimming by rocks, piers, and other dangerous obstacles. In the earlier draft I took you on a metaphorical trip to Africa. The young wildebeests were blissfully ignorant in their play. Then the lioness pounced and then all sorts of bloody mayhem ensued. It wasn't pretty. Nor was my point that followed.
A more palatable version is this: parents (not all, just those in question), why do you let your children swim by rock jetties? Why do you walk straight down from the parking lot and send them into the surf mere feet from barnacle and mussel encrusted pier pilings? Why do you knowingly jeopardize your child's safety when better options are abundant and obvious? I write 'knowingly' because, let's face it, a pier isn't exactly something wrapped in the hair of a Demiguise (pop culture Harry Potter reference) thereby rendering it invisible to the beach-going public. Nor is a jetty. Nor is a groin. Nor is a breakwater, a seawall, or a beach break swarming with surfers.
And yet time and time again, I take a deep draft from my pints of patience, engage my ujjayi breath, exit my tower and politely point out the obvious to yet another parent. Given all that we see during the day, it can be difficult to prevent one's self from becoming a cynic; one that's uses the veldt for a metaphorical rant.
"Ma'am? Your children shouldn't be swimming next to the pier. One wave and they'll be pinballing through the pilings and on their way to the hospital."
"Excuse me, sir? You shouldn't allow your daughter to play in the surf five feet from the jetty. One wave and she's liable to crack her head against the rocks, and neither one of us wants that to happen."
Now some readers may counter that as a lifeguard, I am privy to knowledge that the general public is not. I've spent years on the beach. A lifetime really. Maybe the individuals above just arrived from the inland communities for their first ever visit to the beach. I should not expect them to be as aware of the ocean's hazards as am I.
Absolutely. I am in complete concurrence with that assertion. Now, let me put it to you this way:
Wide open sandy beach? Or barnacle-blistered jetty?
Wide open sandy beach? Or mussel-laden pier pilings?
How is the answer not obvious? Regardless of one's ocean experience?
Now I freely admit that an open stretch of beach is not without its dangers. There may be underwater obstacles. There may be rip currents. There may be hazardous marine life, or storm drain runoff, or a whole host of threats, but that is where my knowledge protects and guides the public. I don't expect them to be aware of those issues. I do expect them to be responsible when it comes to the obvious, especially when it comes to the safety of their children.
My theory? It isn't going to go over well, but... Laziness. Pure and simple. Those who enter the water next to obvious obstructions or send their children in to do the same just don't want to make the effort to walk the additional distance necessary to enjoy a safer location. Rocks provide a perfect place to stow their gear away from the sand, and so stow they do and directly in the water they go. The parking lot is next to the pier. Everyone can't wait to get into the water. They park their car and travel the shortest distance between two points to begin their beach fun (and quite possibly end it too if I cannot get down to them in time).
The cooler is just too heavy. All the gear is just too cumbersome. The kids are annoying. My legs are sore. The sand is too hot. The sand is too soft. I'm tired.
You're lazy.
I don't want you to be, but you are. I want you to be safe and have a great day on our sands. I want you to return home loaded with memories of fantastic fun. I want you to return to the beach again and again, growing in your confidence in the surf and in tan on your skin. I want you to have a blast.
But... I also want you to take responsibility for yourself and for your children. I want you to be vigilant. I want you to make the obvious decisions and allow me to assist with the other ones. I want you to because I need you to. Remember, I am not always watching the water. Sometimes I'm making a rescue. Sometimes I'm on one side of the jetty assisting the public and therefore cannot see the activity on the other side. If you choose that time to send your child in the water alongside its edge and he bounces off the rocks, well what happens afterwards is on you. Not me. You. The parent. Keeping your child out of harm's way starts with you. Away from rocks. Away piers. Away from the obvious hazards.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
My earlier draft was brutal, as in direct honesty. Sounds like a good thing, right? Well it can be if you desire to bludgeon your audience with caustic wit. The problem is, regardless of the truth being shared, the content is often lost on the readers because no one wants to listen to a Grumpy Mc'Grumperson - especially one on a rant.
And... one talking about parenting. The one thing parents hate, more than anything, is to be told that they are bad parents, even when all the evidence irrefutably points to that truth.
Today's blog? Swimming by rocks, piers, and other dangerous obstacles. In the earlier draft I took you on a metaphorical trip to Africa. The young wildebeests were blissfully ignorant in their play. Then the lioness pounced and then all sorts of bloody mayhem ensued. It wasn't pretty. Nor was my point that followed.
A more palatable version is this: parents (not all, just those in question), why do you let your children swim by rock jetties? Why do you walk straight down from the parking lot and send them into the surf mere feet from barnacle and mussel encrusted pier pilings? Why do you knowingly jeopardize your child's safety when better options are abundant and obvious? I write 'knowingly' because, let's face it, a pier isn't exactly something wrapped in the hair of a Demiguise (pop culture Harry Potter reference) thereby rendering it invisible to the beach-going public. Nor is a jetty. Nor is a groin. Nor is a breakwater, a seawall, or a beach break swarming with surfers.
And yet time and time again, I take a deep draft from my pints of patience, engage my ujjayi breath, exit my tower and politely point out the obvious to yet another parent. Given all that we see during the day, it can be difficult to prevent one's self from becoming a cynic; one that's uses the veldt for a metaphorical rant.
"Ma'am? Your children shouldn't be swimming next to the pier. One wave and they'll be pinballing through the pilings and on their way to the hospital."
"Excuse me, sir? You shouldn't allow your daughter to play in the surf five feet from the jetty. One wave and she's liable to crack her head against the rocks, and neither one of us wants that to happen."
Now some readers may counter that as a lifeguard, I am privy to knowledge that the general public is not. I've spent years on the beach. A lifetime really. Maybe the individuals above just arrived from the inland communities for their first ever visit to the beach. I should not expect them to be as aware of the ocean's hazards as am I.
Absolutely. I am in complete concurrence with that assertion. Now, let me put it to you this way:
Wide open sandy beach? Or barnacle-blistered jetty?
Wide open sandy beach? Or mussel-laden pier pilings?
How is the answer not obvious? Regardless of one's ocean experience?
Now I freely admit that an open stretch of beach is not without its dangers. There may be underwater obstacles. There may be rip currents. There may be hazardous marine life, or storm drain runoff, or a whole host of threats, but that is where my knowledge protects and guides the public. I don't expect them to be aware of those issues. I do expect them to be responsible when it comes to the obvious, especially when it comes to the safety of their children.
My theory? It isn't going to go over well, but... Laziness. Pure and simple. Those who enter the water next to obvious obstructions or send their children in to do the same just don't want to make the effort to walk the additional distance necessary to enjoy a safer location. Rocks provide a perfect place to stow their gear away from the sand, and so stow they do and directly in the water they go. The parking lot is next to the pier. Everyone can't wait to get into the water. They park their car and travel the shortest distance between two points to begin their beach fun (and quite possibly end it too if I cannot get down to them in time).
The cooler is just too heavy. All the gear is just too cumbersome. The kids are annoying. My legs are sore. The sand is too hot. The sand is too soft. I'm tired.
You're lazy.
I don't want you to be, but you are. I want you to be safe and have a great day on our sands. I want you to return home loaded with memories of fantastic fun. I want you to return to the beach again and again, growing in your confidence in the surf and in tan on your skin. I want you to have a blast.
But... I also want you to take responsibility for yourself and for your children. I want you to be vigilant. I want you to make the obvious decisions and allow me to assist with the other ones. I want you to because I need you to. Remember, I am not always watching the water. Sometimes I'm making a rescue. Sometimes I'm on one side of the jetty assisting the public and therefore cannot see the activity on the other side. If you choose that time to send your child in the water alongside its edge and he bounces off the rocks, well what happens afterwards is on you. Not me. You. The parent. Keeping your child out of harm's way starts with you. Away from rocks. Away piers. Away from the obvious hazards.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Pervs
Ladies, this is a head's up for you.
Public beaches are exactly that - public. The larger the population, the greater the diversity of the 'clientele.' From unsavory types to your Bible-beatin' button downs, they will all find their way to the nearby sands for a little sun, a little surf, and some of that other stuff. The unsavory types and the other stuff? Yep, that's today's topic.
I'm working a busy tower. My supervisor pays me a visit. Just in front of us and to our north, a group of eight or so bikinied high school girls have been putting some sun on their education-induced pasty skin. I note two clothed non-swimmers who, as usual, are testing Fate's tangled web, challenging her to snip a thread out of sheer frustration. My supervisor replies, "Check out the dude on my north side."
Dude (as he shall be known) was blocked from my vision by the vehicle, but with one step I see him and he sees me. From his appearance, you probably wouldn't think too much about him except the white theme wasn't working and he loves himself his Christian Audigier. He was clad in a bedazzled white baseball cap, a white parka that dropped just below his buttocks, and a white Euro 'Speedo' - the boxer/brief style. He was standing eight feet away from us, maybe ten feet behind the girls. His hands were in his parka's pockets.
"His speedo is practically see-through," says my supervisor, "you can totally see his junk."
"Wait? What?" I respond. And then it clicks. He's perving on those girls. He's parting his parka and trying to get them to check out his speedo-sheathed sausage. It's not exposure, but it is sure as hell not appropriate.
We immediately look back in his direction. At this point we are acting on experience and suspicion alone. If he was just a tourist sportin' the latest fashion trend and proud of its accentuation of certain manly bits (we see EVERYTHING on our beaches) he would probably take a photo or two of the lifeguard vehicle and then be on his way. Dude didn't do that. He was scooting to the parking lot watching us watch him (and the water).
In the lot he tried the ol' change of clothing routine, but it didn't work. We stood. We pointed at him. We made it very clear to Dude that we were on to him. He climbed into his copper-tinted Corolla and left the lot.
And here's the rub. He probably drove to another beach, looked for his next batch of ladies, but this time well away from an open lifeguard tower. Yes, we do talk to each other and share information about freaks like Dude, but that doesn't mean we'll spot him the next time. Or the next. Or the next. Thankfully this dumbass was so driven by his basest instincts that he was willing to pursue them within eight feet of two lifeguards. What is scary, is that he was so driven by his basest instincts that he was willing to pursue them within eight feet of two lifeguards.
So ladies, be aware. The guy who lays directly behind you? There is a chance he's staring at your crotch, especially if you are lying in the sand with legs apart. And if he has a camera...yes, exactly, he's probably filming you too.
Sorry if this is making you uncomfortable. You need to know. Our public beaches have pervs, and they are counting on your ignorance.
If we see it we address it. Nothing chases Dude and his brethren away quicker than public acknowledgment. I've walked up to a group of women unaware of the camera recording their every move and loudly announced, "Ladies, that man in the safari hat directly behind you is filming you! If you don't wish to be recorded let him know!" I then looked directly at the man and said, "I know what you are doing and now they know. Get out out of here!" He left. They almost always do.
Almost. And that's the problem. Technically, within the framework of the law, they haven't done anything illegal. Immoral, inappropriate, creepy? Absolutely, but in this day and age of ubiquitous cell and/or video cameras there is no law that explicitly forbids garbage such as Dude from pursuing his agenda in the public arena. He exposes himself? Broken law. He touches his no-no in public? Broken law. He touches someone else without consent? Broken law. He stares, thinks, and snaps a picture or two? No law broken. The smart ones know this.
But the smart (and dumb) ones don't like attention. They don't like people calling them out. They don't like people taking their photo, which we've done. They don't like the spotlight. If the beach had shadows, they would slink about in them. You want to drive them away? Bring the surrounding crowd's attention to the perv. Bring the lifeguard's attention to the perv. They hate us. The feeling is mutual.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Public beaches are exactly that - public. The larger the population, the greater the diversity of the 'clientele.' From unsavory types to your Bible-beatin' button downs, they will all find their way to the nearby sands for a little sun, a little surf, and some of that other stuff. The unsavory types and the other stuff? Yep, that's today's topic.
I'm working a busy tower. My supervisor pays me a visit. Just in front of us and to our north, a group of eight or so bikinied high school girls have been putting some sun on their education-induced pasty skin. I note two clothed non-swimmers who, as usual, are testing Fate's tangled web, challenging her to snip a thread out of sheer frustration. My supervisor replies, "Check out the dude on my north side."
Dude (as he shall be known) was blocked from my vision by the vehicle, but with one step I see him and he sees me. From his appearance, you probably wouldn't think too much about him except the white theme wasn't working and he loves himself his Christian Audigier. He was clad in a bedazzled white baseball cap, a white parka that dropped just below his buttocks, and a white Euro 'Speedo' - the boxer/brief style. He was standing eight feet away from us, maybe ten feet behind the girls. His hands were in his parka's pockets.
"His speedo is practically see-through," says my supervisor, "you can totally see his junk."
"Wait? What?" I respond. And then it clicks. He's perving on those girls. He's parting his parka and trying to get them to check out his speedo-sheathed sausage. It's not exposure, but it is sure as hell not appropriate.
We immediately look back in his direction. At this point we are acting on experience and suspicion alone. If he was just a tourist sportin' the latest fashion trend and proud of its accentuation of certain manly bits (we see EVERYTHING on our beaches) he would probably take a photo or two of the lifeguard vehicle and then be on his way. Dude didn't do that. He was scooting to the parking lot watching us watch him (and the water).
In the lot he tried the ol' change of clothing routine, but it didn't work. We stood. We pointed at him. We made it very clear to Dude that we were on to him. He climbed into his copper-tinted Corolla and left the lot.
And here's the rub. He probably drove to another beach, looked for his next batch of ladies, but this time well away from an open lifeguard tower. Yes, we do talk to each other and share information about freaks like Dude, but that doesn't mean we'll spot him the next time. Or the next. Or the next. Thankfully this dumbass was so driven by his basest instincts that he was willing to pursue them within eight feet of two lifeguards. What is scary, is that he was so driven by his basest instincts that he was willing to pursue them within eight feet of two lifeguards.
So ladies, be aware. The guy who lays directly behind you? There is a chance he's staring at your crotch, especially if you are lying in the sand with legs apart. And if he has a camera...yes, exactly, he's probably filming you too.
Sorry if this is making you uncomfortable. You need to know. Our public beaches have pervs, and they are counting on your ignorance.
If we see it we address it. Nothing chases Dude and his brethren away quicker than public acknowledgment. I've walked up to a group of women unaware of the camera recording their every move and loudly announced, "Ladies, that man in the safari hat directly behind you is filming you! If you don't wish to be recorded let him know!" I then looked directly at the man and said, "I know what you are doing and now they know. Get out out of here!" He left. They almost always do.
Almost. And that's the problem. Technically, within the framework of the law, they haven't done anything illegal. Immoral, inappropriate, creepy? Absolutely, but in this day and age of ubiquitous cell and/or video cameras there is no law that explicitly forbids garbage such as Dude from pursuing his agenda in the public arena. He exposes himself? Broken law. He touches his no-no in public? Broken law. He touches someone else without consent? Broken law. He stares, thinks, and snaps a picture or two? No law broken. The smart ones know this.
But the smart (and dumb) ones don't like attention. They don't like people calling them out. They don't like people taking their photo, which we've done. They don't like the spotlight. If the beach had shadows, they would slink about in them. You want to drive them away? Bring the surrounding crowd's attention to the perv. Bring the lifeguard's attention to the perv. They hate us. The feeling is mutual.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Oh S**t!
Hey, looky there. Is that an open lifeguard tower I see? Well I think I'll just romp right up that ramp of hers and give her a good ol' Howdy-do!
There are reasons why lifeguards have a genuine dislike of people just charging up the tower ramps with their questions or overwhelming need to be friendly. It's intrusive - think barging into my house uninvited. It's presumptive. The base of the ramp is like a door. Knock, and then wait for us to answer - figuratively speaking, of course. And we don't need you disturbing us during a call of nature.
Did I just mention a call of nature? Did I? Yep. I bet you never thought of that. You go to work. You have your mandatory lunch breaks. You can hang by the water cooler, or grab a cup of joe. Most importantly, you can drain the main vein whenever you feel even remotely compelled to do so.
I suppose you think we get bathroom breaks, right, because eight - ten hours is a long time to hold it? Uh-uh, no bathroom breaks for the lifeguards. Do we hold it? We try, but as athletic as we are there is a limit to our endurance, especially when it comes to the bladder or the bowels.
So then, what do we do? As you know, we do drink a lot of water...
Heads up folks, for those of you moderately squeamish, it's about to get uncomfortable.
So I am working. It's a regular day - not too busy. I'm struck with an urge to purge. What do I do? First, it is a big ocean. Before you rush to judgment remember this, the ocean is teeming with life large and small. None of them have toilets, sinks, or bidets. The whales are not singing in the shower. The lionfish aren't crouching in the litter box. Contrary to the popular aphorism, all marine life poop where they eat. We swim in it. And as an "evolved" society, we've gotten quite good dumping our dumps in the same grand ocean. We just feel better about ourselves because we "treat" the sewage. As if that makes everything so much better. It doesn't. Not really.
But back to the lifeguard. I'm doing the crossed-legged dance. I can't disco all day so a quick dip cools me off, cleans me out, and puts me back in the comfort zone. Sometimes a rescue provides a perfect moment for release. More often than not, due to the adrenaline surge and the urgency surrounding the moment, I return to my tower in the same bladder-bloated state I left it in, which brings me to option number two.
The piss bottle. Yes, it is exactly as described. A bottle. For piss.
Ugh, right?
Although most towers have a container specifically designated for this purpose, I carry my own. I bring it to work with me everyday. I often fill it, cap it off, then return home to flush the fluid down the toilet (which, ironically, ultimately sends it to the ocean). I am somewhat unique in this approach to the elimination of the bottle's contents. What do other guards do? Well, the ocean is within walking distance of the towers...
Oh, and yes, both wide-mouth bottles and good aim are preferred. For both sexes.
And now we come to the number two. Hoo boy...
Crazy as it sounds, all guards are quite accomplished in coordinating their "movements" with their work schedules. I get up early, get rid of dinner, eat breakfast, and hopefully pass some of brekkie before heading off to work. By the time I return home I'm ready for round three. Anyone uncomfortable yet? Because if you are, it gets better. Sometimes a late night interrupts my circadian rhythm.
If I find myself in that predicament, the first thing I do is hope that I am working near a public toilet and that the activity is slow. If I am so fortunate, I get permission to retreat to the commode. Before leaving, I notify my surrounding towers so that they can cover my water while I am gone. Then I scoot and wrap things up as quickly as possible. No magazines or Uncle John's Bathroom Reader. At any moment things may change in the water and the last thing I need to be is caught with my suit around my ankles. I've got a story about that.
If option one is not available then I hope I can outlast my body's constant demands. Difficult? Yes because my body is insistent and very persuasive. The experience is unpleasant as well, but not nearly as unpleasant as the final option.
Should all else fail, I will find myself staring the rarely used third approach in the face. The emergency toilet kit. I'll spare you the graphic detail and simply note this. The port-a-toilets that you take camping with you? Same thing, except ours involves a plastic bag and a tower trash can. Crap in a sack. Literally.
And just so you know, while this task is being undertaken, I am still watching the water. I'm hoping BEYOND HOPE that someone doesn't chose that specific moment to get in harm's way or come up my ramp. Because that would suck. And in case you are wondering - nope, it hasn't happened to me yet. I really work on my body's rhythm.
As for that story I mentioned? We have an award. It is called the "Oh, Shit!" award, and is given every year to the guard that had the best (or worst for that matter) "Oh, Shit!" moment of the summer. There have been some doozies some of which I will share in the future. The one that originated the award went something like this:
The day had been busy but there had been a long break in the action. The water was empty and the guard in question really had to use the head as he didn't want to use his emergency toilet kit. He got permission to do so. He alerted the surrounding towers. He uncomfortably hoofed it back to the toilet and found that much needed relief. Unfortunately it was short lived because right in the middle of his throne time he heard the approaching wail of multiple sirens. He shot out of the bathroom and turned the corner to see that every available guard was in the water and more were on their way via boats and trucks. In the brief moment that he was away, maybe three minutes or so, a large party of swimmers had jumped in the water the exact same moment a huge rip current had flared. The rip had pulled all the novice swimmers to deep water and they were all actively drowning.
Oh, SHIT! He hit the water too. A streamer of toilet paper trailing behind (not really, but a great image). Everyone was rescued, but Toilet Tom got a whole ration of shit for taking a shit when the shit hit the fan. The award was born. Not surprisingly, it is a toilet seat.
No lunch breaks. No toilet breaks. Skin cancer as a bonus. Still want to be a lifeguard?
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Piers, Piers, Piers...
They look so inviting don't they? Piers, I mean. Long concrete or wooden structures that thrust out into the ocean, almost like diving boards on stilts. I don't know about you, but when I see a pier, I immediately want to vault off its stable deck and plummet the 35 feet into the wet question mark that awaits below. I want to, but I don't and with good reason. Oftentimes that water is not nearly as deep as you think.
So why, then, do lifeguards jump off piers? Sometimes it is the shortest and quickest distance to our victims. And when time is of the essence, that is always the best route to take - depending on the pier, the tide, and the bottom. See, that last bit is of paramount importance. It is what keeps me from jumping off any ol' pier - that and the local law enforcement. I'll only jump off a pier (or anything for that matter) when I know I won't become a permanent fixture in the sandy floor. I'll only jump in safe depths, even if that means running beyond the victim, jumping, and swimming back. I'll only jump when I know where the bottom is.
Which brings us to Bob.
Bob is not his real name. And I never met Bob. I know of Bob through a friend who met Bob after Bob's pier jump. It went something like this:
It was a training morning for some of our future lifeguards. The instructors, including my friend, noticed that there was emergency activity at the base of the nearby pier. They immediately moved to investigate and provide back up because that is what we as lifeguards do. We have each other's backs.
The pier guard had pulled a dreadlocked fellow from the ocean. "Dreadlocks" was Bob, and Bob was anything but a happy camper. See, Bob, in his intoxicated brilliance, had decided to end his all-nighter with a pier jump. He probably thought a splash in the ol' salty would do a body good, maybe even take the edge off the pounding in his head. The problem was that Bob had decided to jump maybe a third of the way out on the pier where the water is still quite shallow. And it was low tide. His thirty foot leap was into maybe four feet of water. It wasn't the ocean that stopped his fall. It was his feet. In the sand.
As Bob screamed in pain, the lifeguards took all the necessary precautions to protect his spine from any further compromise. They stabilized his head, grabbed the backboard and prepared to package him. ("Packaging" is how we refer to securing a patient to a backboard.) But before strapping Bob to the backboard, one last head to toe assessment was necessary to make certain that there weren't any other injuries that were missed on the initial assessment.
Bob was bleeding, but from the front there was no obvious source. The guards log-rolled him (moving the head and body in a single uniform motion to protect the spine). Nothing on his back. Blood, yes, but no injury. His butt was a different matter. Through Bob's torn pants the source of the bleeding was discovered. It was coming from his sphincter. More precisely, it was coming from the tear in his sphincter. A very large tear. See the impact from Bob's jump had blown the femur head from the hip socket and driven it straight upwards and right out his pooper. He had literally ripped himself a new one. Why this wasn't immediately apparent is easily explained. When Bob was removed from the water the femur had retreated back into the thigh.
"Alert and Oriented" is the process by which we determine our patient's level of consciousness. We ask three questions: "What is your name?" "Where are you?" and "What time of day is it?" Answer all three correctly and you'll get an "A/O x 3" (Alert and Oriented times 3) which tells us that although you might be in extreme discomfort you are at least mentally with the program. "A/O x 2", "A/O x 1" or the worst, "A/O x 0" tell us that something isn't right beyond the obvious. Something else might be going on and could be a contributor to or cause of the patient's present distress.
As you can expect, the questions were posed to Bob. "Hey buddy, I can see that you are in a lot of pain but there are a few questions I need you to answer. Can you do that for me?" the lifeguard asked in a calm, soothing voice.
"I guess," blurted Bob, struggling with the pain.
"What is your name?"
"Bob."
"Good, Bob. Can you tell me where you are?" When we ask this question, we don't expect an exact answer. A ballpark response is acceptable as long as it is correct. For example, "Beach." works for someone at the beach. Bob's answer was better.
"I'm in HELL!" He wailed, drawing out the l's as though he was being dragged down towards a permanent visit with Hades. Got to give it to Bob, his femur had blasted through his butt hole and yet somehow he still found the courage for comedy. Maybe it was a hold over from his ill-advised leap.
"Okay, Bob, any idea what time it is?"
"It's morning! In HELL!" he anguished. In his mind, I'm guessing, he had left the beach. Understandable. With one unfortunate choice, Bob's life had just gotten a whole lot different.
Bob was packaged, passed off to the paramedics, and delivered to the hospital. Did he live? Die? I don't know. I've heard people claim both. My friend doesn't know. I'd like to think that he lived. But here is the one unmistakable truth. We all make choices in our lives. One way or another we are ultimately held accountable for them. In Bob's case that moment of accountability was more immediate than others. And he couldn't look to pass it off by claiming ignorance such as, "Not my fault," or "There were no signs," etc. - all the kind of stuff the world attempts these days when they don't want to be held responsible for their own poor decisions. The pier, the jump, the water, and the sand made sure of that. He may have looked before he leaped, but that knowledge is ultimately limited, and Bob paid a very unfortunate price. I don't jump because I want to. I jump when I am certain that I can. And sometimes I don't jump. Sometimes I swim.
I'd like to believe he lived. And without the addition of a colostomy bag.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
So why, then, do lifeguards jump off piers? Sometimes it is the shortest and quickest distance to our victims. And when time is of the essence, that is always the best route to take - depending on the pier, the tide, and the bottom. See, that last bit is of paramount importance. It is what keeps me from jumping off any ol' pier - that and the local law enforcement. I'll only jump off a pier (or anything for that matter) when I know I won't become a permanent fixture in the sandy floor. I'll only jump in safe depths, even if that means running beyond the victim, jumping, and swimming back. I'll only jump when I know where the bottom is.
Which brings us to Bob.
Bob is not his real name. And I never met Bob. I know of Bob through a friend who met Bob after Bob's pier jump. It went something like this:
It was a training morning for some of our future lifeguards. The instructors, including my friend, noticed that there was emergency activity at the base of the nearby pier. They immediately moved to investigate and provide back up because that is what we as lifeguards do. We have each other's backs.
The pier guard had pulled a dreadlocked fellow from the ocean. "Dreadlocks" was Bob, and Bob was anything but a happy camper. See, Bob, in his intoxicated brilliance, had decided to end his all-nighter with a pier jump. He probably thought a splash in the ol' salty would do a body good, maybe even take the edge off the pounding in his head. The problem was that Bob had decided to jump maybe a third of the way out on the pier where the water is still quite shallow. And it was low tide. His thirty foot leap was into maybe four feet of water. It wasn't the ocean that stopped his fall. It was his feet. In the sand.
As Bob screamed in pain, the lifeguards took all the necessary precautions to protect his spine from any further compromise. They stabilized his head, grabbed the backboard and prepared to package him. ("Packaging" is how we refer to securing a patient to a backboard.) But before strapping Bob to the backboard, one last head to toe assessment was necessary to make certain that there weren't any other injuries that were missed on the initial assessment.
Bob was bleeding, but from the front there was no obvious source. The guards log-rolled him (moving the head and body in a single uniform motion to protect the spine). Nothing on his back. Blood, yes, but no injury. His butt was a different matter. Through Bob's torn pants the source of the bleeding was discovered. It was coming from his sphincter. More precisely, it was coming from the tear in his sphincter. A very large tear. See the impact from Bob's jump had blown the femur head from the hip socket and driven it straight upwards and right out his pooper. He had literally ripped himself a new one. Why this wasn't immediately apparent is easily explained. When Bob was removed from the water the femur had retreated back into the thigh.
"Alert and Oriented" is the process by which we determine our patient's level of consciousness. We ask three questions: "What is your name?" "Where are you?" and "What time of day is it?" Answer all three correctly and you'll get an "A/O x 3" (Alert and Oriented times 3) which tells us that although you might be in extreme discomfort you are at least mentally with the program. "A/O x 2", "A/O x 1" or the worst, "A/O x 0" tell us that something isn't right beyond the obvious. Something else might be going on and could be a contributor to or cause of the patient's present distress.
As you can expect, the questions were posed to Bob. "Hey buddy, I can see that you are in a lot of pain but there are a few questions I need you to answer. Can you do that for me?" the lifeguard asked in a calm, soothing voice.
"I guess," blurted Bob, struggling with the pain.
"What is your name?"
"Bob."
"Good, Bob. Can you tell me where you are?" When we ask this question, we don't expect an exact answer. A ballpark response is acceptable as long as it is correct. For example, "Beach." works for someone at the beach. Bob's answer was better.
"I'm in HELL!" He wailed, drawing out the l's as though he was being dragged down towards a permanent visit with Hades. Got to give it to Bob, his femur had blasted through his butt hole and yet somehow he still found the courage for comedy. Maybe it was a hold over from his ill-advised leap.
"Okay, Bob, any idea what time it is?"
"It's morning! In HELL!" he anguished. In his mind, I'm guessing, he had left the beach. Understandable. With one unfortunate choice, Bob's life had just gotten a whole lot different.
Bob was packaged, passed off to the paramedics, and delivered to the hospital. Did he live? Die? I don't know. I've heard people claim both. My friend doesn't know. I'd like to think that he lived. But here is the one unmistakable truth. We all make choices in our lives. One way or another we are ultimately held accountable for them. In Bob's case that moment of accountability was more immediate than others. And he couldn't look to pass it off by claiming ignorance such as, "Not my fault," or "There were no signs," etc. - all the kind of stuff the world attempts these days when they don't want to be held responsible for their own poor decisions. The pier, the jump, the water, and the sand made sure of that. He may have looked before he leaped, but that knowledge is ultimately limited, and Bob paid a very unfortunate price. I don't jump because I want to. I jump when I am certain that I can. And sometimes I don't jump. Sometimes I swim.
I'd like to believe he lived. And without the addition of a colostomy bag.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Lifeguard Towers Are NOT...
In my twenty years of lifeguarding I've come to realize that the public has difficulty in comprehending the true function of a lifeguard tower. Simply put, it is an office. It may not have a desk, or a computer, or an executive assistant, or a copy machine, or any other paraphernalia associated with an office, but that doesn't alter the fact that the tower is exactly that. It is a functional workspace that comes with a first aid kit, a rescue can/tube, tide information, swim signs/flags, binoculars, fins, and maybe even a rescue paddleboard. It isn't a corner suite with a private shower. It is the entire building; windows all around, each with an ocean view.
It is NOT...
A place for you to rest your weary bottom because you have an aversion to the sand. You're at the beach. Bring a towel.
A place to hide from the sun. Again, you're at the beach. The sun shouldn't be a surprise. Bring an umbrella.
A place for you to dump your shoes.
A laundry line for your wet towels, wetsuits, and clothes.
A trash can. If you find a broken bottle or pick up a plastic bag, walk the extra fifteen feet to the garbage can and throw it away. Don't hold the refuse up to me and ask me to do something with it. I'm busy watching the water. I'm busy guarding lives. Thumbs up for the grassroots environmentalism. Now follow the action all the way through to its end.
A place to leave your spent condoms from all different types of humping. Yes, you can tell the difference. If that just made you wince or gag, think of how we react when remnants of your "love-making" are the first things to greet us as we open the tower. Hanging them like Christmas ornaments from the locks or railings doesn't lessen the disgust we experience.
A prop for your photograph. Yes, we are mostly an accommodating bunch. Yes, we realize that your Facebook album is missing that seminal Baywatch reenactment. Yes, if the day's demands allow for it we will probably even let you pose with the can, BUT, folks, you aren't at Disneyland. We are not wearing oversized costumes and merely employed for your Kodak moment. If given the okay, take your picture and move on. Don't take eighty snaps and set up camp. We are working. You are not.
(On that note, if we tell you "No," but direct you to a closed tower that you can use for your photos, don't complain about the one hundred or so yard walk. It tells me this. You don't really want the picture. Certainly not enough to make the additional effort. I get this all the time from professional photographers wanting to take engagement photos on the tower while I'm working. Hey photogs, you won't find me asking to use your computer when you are digitally retouching your photographs, so keep your subjects off my ramp/deck while I'm guarding the lives of the public. Face it. You are lazy.)
A hang out point for you to check out the girls. Yeah, I get it. Letting the ladies believe you are best buds with the lifeguard adds to your sand cred. More often than not it adds to my annoyance. The cones are there for a reason.
A supply hut for your sand castle building activities. If you didn't bring a shovel, use your hands.
A sportswear store. Bring your own swimsuit, fins and/or towel. Don't ask me for mine.
A diner. We don't sell food. Seriously, what ever made you think that we did?
A pharmacy. We don't have Tylenol, or Motrin, or Oxycotin, or... you get the picture. Legally we cannot dispense drugs, even aspirin.
It is NOT...
A place for you to rest your weary bottom because you have an aversion to the sand. You're at the beach. Bring a towel.
A place to hide from the sun. Again, you're at the beach. The sun shouldn't be a surprise. Bring an umbrella.
A place for you to dump your shoes.
A laundry line for your wet towels, wetsuits, and clothes.
A trash can. If you find a broken bottle or pick up a plastic bag, walk the extra fifteen feet to the garbage can and throw it away. Don't hold the refuse up to me and ask me to do something with it. I'm busy watching the water. I'm busy guarding lives. Thumbs up for the grassroots environmentalism. Now follow the action all the way through to its end.
A place to leave your spent condoms from all different types of humping. Yes, you can tell the difference. If that just made you wince or gag, think of how we react when remnants of your "love-making" are the first things to greet us as we open the tower. Hanging them like Christmas ornaments from the locks or railings doesn't lessen the disgust we experience.
A prop for your photograph. Yes, we are mostly an accommodating bunch. Yes, we realize that your Facebook album is missing that seminal Baywatch reenactment. Yes, if the day's demands allow for it we will probably even let you pose with the can, BUT, folks, you aren't at Disneyland. We are not wearing oversized costumes and merely employed for your Kodak moment. If given the okay, take your picture and move on. Don't take eighty snaps and set up camp. We are working. You are not.
(On that note, if we tell you "No," but direct you to a closed tower that you can use for your photos, don't complain about the one hundred or so yard walk. It tells me this. You don't really want the picture. Certainly not enough to make the additional effort. I get this all the time from professional photographers wanting to take engagement photos on the tower while I'm working. Hey photogs, you won't find me asking to use your computer when you are digitally retouching your photographs, so keep your subjects off my ramp/deck while I'm guarding the lives of the public. Face it. You are lazy.)
A hang out point for you to check out the girls. Yeah, I get it. Letting the ladies believe you are best buds with the lifeguard adds to your sand cred. More often than not it adds to my annoyance. The cones are there for a reason.
A supply hut for your sand castle building activities. If you didn't bring a shovel, use your hands.
A sportswear store. Bring your own swimsuit, fins and/or towel. Don't ask me for mine.
A diner. We don't sell food. Seriously, what ever made you think that we did?
A pharmacy. We don't have Tylenol, or Motrin, or Oxycotin, or... you get the picture. Legally we cannot dispense drugs, even aspirin.
A toilet. Either way. And puking.
A doggy daycare. Some beaches do not allow dogs. For better or worse, mine is one of them. Asking me to watch your Pekingese while you go play is absurd, and will be met with a response that you probably don't want to hear. And that is not a real dog.
A child daycare. I'm there to ensure that everyone gets home safely, not that Billy has a play date while you put your head in a towel and promptly fall asleep. You're the parent. I'm the lifeguard. Any questions?
A personal safe. I can't watch your gold Rolex, or your three carat diamond engagement ring, or your wallet. I'm not always in my tower, but sometimes other people are. It's not uncommon for people to try to steal our stuff. I'm not going to get blamed when the stuff stolen is yours. And really, why, WHY are you bringing your valuables to the beach?
A sunscreen dispensary. You chose to go to the beach. Why should you be surprised that you need sunscreen? I burn through bottles of the stuff and I work five days a week.
A drinking fountain. I bring enough water to make it though the day. You should too.
A place to put on your shoes. Look, I know you don't want to get sand on your socks or in your kicks, but my ramp is not the place to ensure that doesn't happen. First, you still have to walk across the beach. Thus you will find, sand on socks and sand in shoes. Second, if I have to make a rescue, I don't need you in the way complicating matters. Your prissiness could cost someone else his life. I'm not about to let that happen. Suggestion, do what we do. Wear flip flops (a.k.a. flaps, sandals).
A dressing room. If you brought a towel, wrap it around yourself and change underneath. If you didn't, use a public restroom or changing area. I do not need a naked woman cavorting about in or under my tower. Public perception is everything. It doesn't take much of an effort to realize how said woman would be perceived.
Folks, if you paid attention to the above, the message is simple. You have chosen to go to the beach. Take the time to make all the necessary preparations so that your day on the sand will be a blast. If you need medical assistance, we are more than happy to provide. Has your child gone missing? We will do our best to bring the two of you back together and alleviate the stress of the situation. Have a question? We might have an answer especially if it has to do with the beach and the surrounding area. Are you being harassed? We will intervene or ask our friends in the ol' black and whites to do so. Need rescuing? You don't have to ask twice. But treat us or our offices in any of the above fashions, expect to receive a withering stare and a not too subtle verbal butt kick. Our job is more difficult than you think. We don't appreciate it when your poor decisions make it even harder. Remember, there are lives on the line.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Tweakers Don't Make Great Swimmers
Now do I know for certain that the couple were tweakers? Nope. Yes, they were emaciated. Yes, their skin had some interesting bumps and discolorations, but in the end it was one of those things, one of those rescues begin on the sand things, that led me to say, "I should keep an eye on those two." I wasn't especially concerned that they might skeedadle with some other patron's belongings. It was late in the afternoon. The sun had dropped low enough to put a healthy glare on the water and most of the crowd had left for the day. Had they wanted something that wasn't theirs, the best they could do at that hour was a couple of towels and a t-shirt or two. Maybe if you are desperate for a score everything has a resale value, but I wasn't getting that from them. They were in their own little happy land. Well, not happy, as it seemed as though they were on the return to earth phase, and I think they had hit hard. They were still in a bit of a stupor from the impact. My concern wasn't for their sticky fingers (something for which we do look), it was if they decided to go for a swim.
Which is precisely what they did.
Alcohol, drugs, sudden health emergencies (e.g. heart attack), and overwhelming fatigue are among the several causes of passive drowning. As I mentioned in a previous post, passive drowners just surrender. They capitulate to the grim reaper's grasp without the slightest sign of struggle. One moment they are there, the next moment they are gone. If no one was paying attention then no one is even aware that they are missing, that is until someone starts wondering about Fred. Now if that person happens to be at home and the sun has set, well then Fred's dead, and not maybe. Fred's dead.
This is why the lifeguard is constantly scanning the water. He is constantly cataloging the swimmers, body boarders, surfers, and waders in his area. He notes the ones of concern and continues on. On the return pass he accounts for everyone. If a swimmer appears to be missing, a quick scan of the white water, the beach and back to the original area are made to reconcile the absence. And this goes on all day, everyday. The next time you are enjoying a summer day at the beach, give it a go. It's anything but easy.
The tweakers walked down to the waters edge. The surf was nonexistent. They weren't stumbling about. They just were, and that "were-ing" was enough to send my lifeguard intuition through the roof. They engaged in a bit of the ol' grab ass, and then headed out into the evening's glass (glass = smooth water surface). Both the female and the fellow easily swam heads up through the Pacific. From my vantage point they may have been talking, possibly challenging each other to swim further and/or faster. No reason to feel that anything was amiss, yet my gut was insistent that amiss was exactly what was afoot. Although my gut has a tendency to express itself when silence would be the preferred response, I have learned to listen when it has a premonitory voice. I grabbed my can from its hook, left the tower and went for a walk.
As I have mentioned, the glare was anything but convenient. It was directly out in front of me and nearly masked the two with whom I was concerned. I stood on the beach and swung my can, announcing to the other guards my presence, and in many respects, my concerns. I looked back at the couple that by now was probably 75 or so yards off the beach. Her hand went up. It didn't wave, just straight up like a student asking a question. I didn't know it at the time but that question was, "Can you save me?"
I looked behind me, certain that she was acknowledging someone on the beach. I mean she was with her beau and he wasn't freaking in the least. He was treading water next to her and her head was still above the surface. I threw one last look towards the back of the beach and thought, "Well, Simon says, 'Sumthin' ain't right.' So I'm going to go, but I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of shit. They'll probably drop some f-bombs including telling me to 'get the fuck outta here' but I'm a lifeguard and when in doubt I go. I was sportin' all sorts of doubt. I went.
I hit the water hard. Trailing behind me, my can knifed its way through the brine. As a lifeguard you are taught to always keep your eyes on your rescue. If you punch through a wave or take several head down strokes, you always pop up and re-establish visual contact with your victim. When I re-established visual contact with my victim, I saw her boyfriend casually swimming in my direction. I didn't see her, but I saw him. He had a heads up stroke, hair still dry, and was arm over arm as if he was pulling himself along a rope back towards sandy safety. He swam past me as I swam past him. I guessed everything was cool.
It wasn't. All that remained of her above the surface was her mid forearm. It is strange to see just a forearm desperately reaching towards the sky as if Michelangelo's God was about to arrive and deliver life yet again. I thrust my arm into the ocean's depths, grabbed her by the armpit and yanked her to the surface. She spat, sputtered, and gasped, grabbed my can and didn't say a word. My, "Are you okay?" was met only by a nod, as was my, "Can you hold on to my can?"
As I swam her towards the sand all I could think of was her boyfriend swimming back to the beach leaving her behind to drown. My conclusion? Well the two of them must of had one hell of a stash and he was rejoicing that it was now no one's but his. "It's all mine, all mine!" I imagined him saying, albeit with a tweaked out slur and an occasional twitch.
By the time I got her back to the beach, he was nowhere to be seen. She mumbled something and promptly wandered off towards the back of the beach. No, "Thank you!" or "Oh my God, you saved my life!" which is not expected but appreciated, just mumbles and stumbles. I collected my gear and returned to the tower, re-wrapping my can along the way. As I did so I realized that had I not listened to my intuition, she would have drowned. She didn't struggle. She didn't resist the depth's pull. She just raised her hand, almost as if to wave goodbye rather than wave for help. She was a passive drowning in action. Had I not responded she actually would have been a drowning and not a rescue. This isn't a back pat or the search for one. It is the description of a passive drowning and why it scares the shit out of us lifeguards. If you are not looking at the right moment then there is nothing that you can do to prevent it. It just happens. It is far more helpful when someone desperate for assistance "climbs the ladder" or screams bloody murder. It is obvious. We like obvious. One of these days I'll tell you what obvious is.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Which is precisely what they did.
Alcohol, drugs, sudden health emergencies (e.g. heart attack), and overwhelming fatigue are among the several causes of passive drowning. As I mentioned in a previous post, passive drowners just surrender. They capitulate to the grim reaper's grasp without the slightest sign of struggle. One moment they are there, the next moment they are gone. If no one was paying attention then no one is even aware that they are missing, that is until someone starts wondering about Fred. Now if that person happens to be at home and the sun has set, well then Fred's dead, and not maybe. Fred's dead.
This is why the lifeguard is constantly scanning the water. He is constantly cataloging the swimmers, body boarders, surfers, and waders in his area. He notes the ones of concern and continues on. On the return pass he accounts for everyone. If a swimmer appears to be missing, a quick scan of the white water, the beach and back to the original area are made to reconcile the absence. And this goes on all day, everyday. The next time you are enjoying a summer day at the beach, give it a go. It's anything but easy.
The tweakers walked down to the waters edge. The surf was nonexistent. They weren't stumbling about. They just were, and that "were-ing" was enough to send my lifeguard intuition through the roof. They engaged in a bit of the ol' grab ass, and then headed out into the evening's glass (glass = smooth water surface). Both the female and the fellow easily swam heads up through the Pacific. From my vantage point they may have been talking, possibly challenging each other to swim further and/or faster. No reason to feel that anything was amiss, yet my gut was insistent that amiss was exactly what was afoot. Although my gut has a tendency to express itself when silence would be the preferred response, I have learned to listen when it has a premonitory voice. I grabbed my can from its hook, left the tower and went for a walk.
As I have mentioned, the glare was anything but convenient. It was directly out in front of me and nearly masked the two with whom I was concerned. I stood on the beach and swung my can, announcing to the other guards my presence, and in many respects, my concerns. I looked back at the couple that by now was probably 75 or so yards off the beach. Her hand went up. It didn't wave, just straight up like a student asking a question. I didn't know it at the time but that question was, "Can you save me?"
I looked behind me, certain that she was acknowledging someone on the beach. I mean she was with her beau and he wasn't freaking in the least. He was treading water next to her and her head was still above the surface. I threw one last look towards the back of the beach and thought, "Well, Simon says, 'Sumthin' ain't right.' So I'm going to go, but I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of shit. They'll probably drop some f-bombs including telling me to 'get the fuck outta here' but I'm a lifeguard and when in doubt I go. I was sportin' all sorts of doubt. I went.
I hit the water hard. Trailing behind me, my can knifed its way through the brine. As a lifeguard you are taught to always keep your eyes on your rescue. If you punch through a wave or take several head down strokes, you always pop up and re-establish visual contact with your victim. When I re-established visual contact with my victim, I saw her boyfriend casually swimming in my direction. I didn't see her, but I saw him. He had a heads up stroke, hair still dry, and was arm over arm as if he was pulling himself along a rope back towards sandy safety. He swam past me as I swam past him. I guessed everything was cool.
It wasn't. All that remained of her above the surface was her mid forearm. It is strange to see just a forearm desperately reaching towards the sky as if Michelangelo's God was about to arrive and deliver life yet again. I thrust my arm into the ocean's depths, grabbed her by the armpit and yanked her to the surface. She spat, sputtered, and gasped, grabbed my can and didn't say a word. My, "Are you okay?" was met only by a nod, as was my, "Can you hold on to my can?"
As I swam her towards the sand all I could think of was her boyfriend swimming back to the beach leaving her behind to drown. My conclusion? Well the two of them must of had one hell of a stash and he was rejoicing that it was now no one's but his. "It's all mine, all mine!" I imagined him saying, albeit with a tweaked out slur and an occasional twitch.
By the time I got her back to the beach, he was nowhere to be seen. She mumbled something and promptly wandered off towards the back of the beach. No, "Thank you!" or "Oh my God, you saved my life!" which is not expected but appreciated, just mumbles and stumbles. I collected my gear and returned to the tower, re-wrapping my can along the way. As I did so I realized that had I not listened to my intuition, she would have drowned. She didn't struggle. She didn't resist the depth's pull. She just raised her hand, almost as if to wave goodbye rather than wave for help. She was a passive drowning in action. Had I not responded she actually would have been a drowning and not a rescue. This isn't a back pat or the search for one. It is the description of a passive drowning and why it scares the shit out of us lifeguards. If you are not looking at the right moment then there is nothing that you can do to prevent it. It just happens. It is far more helpful when someone desperate for assistance "climbs the ladder" or screams bloody murder. It is obvious. We like obvious. One of these days I'll tell you what obvious is.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Don Juan de la Playa
Hey guys, look I know you think you are rockin' those aviators. Heck what woman doesn't like staring into oversized pools of black? You may have committed the ultimate faux pas by going Euro style and sporting a speedo, thong, or maybe even that Borat special, a mankini, but it doesn't matter 'cause you are you. Hell, maybe you added sock padding for some extra cotton confidence. I don't fault you for that. Whatever works, right? So while you are spitting your mad game to that prone vixen thinking you need look no further for your evening's plans, let me tell you something. You're wrong, and in a moment I'll explain why.
When I last sat down and took to the keyboard, I discussed those warning signs for which lifeguards scour the sand. Those extremes and/or signs of ignorance that warn us that we best be warning you before there might not be a you to warn. It only stands to reason that in the midst of our constant search for potential rescues we discover that, well, the public is up to all sorts of shenanigans. Which brings us to round one:
The Pickup Artist
Let's take the fellow in the intro. Yeah, maybe I came down a bit hard on him. He's only trying to make an acquaintance or maybe something even more. He spied an attractive maiden, reached down deep and dug up the courage to approach her, and now he's only trying to seal the deal. Given him some props, right? Naaa... not when he's sporting that ensemble. Throw in a pot belly, a bear skin back along with an excessive amount of jewelry and that is just one visual shudder fest. Or priceless YouTube moment.
But it is not his obvious lack of sand sartorial skill that tells me that his evening plans are actually, for the moment, dinner, party of one. No, it is the woman. Why? Body language.
Fellows, if you approach a prone Penelope (that means she is lying on her stomach) and if after a minute or two of your best lines or obvious questions ("What are you reading?" "Is it any good?") she hasn't propped herself up on her elbows or rolled over to engage you in a more comfortable and friendly position, let me tell you, she's not interested. She is there to enjoy her day under the sun. She's not looking for company, especially yours. She just wants to be left alone. And as unappealing as it may seem, the best way to make a positive impression is to acknowledge her desire instead of forging ahead and clearly illustrating that you are committing that most cardinal of sins - you are not hearing her. Not all communication issues from the mouth. In fact, most of it doesn't.
If you continue to insist upon making her uncomfortable she may leave, politely shoo you away ("I have a boyfriend.") or lay waste to your ego with a righteous verbal smackdown. If she leaves, well that is just sad. She obviously doesn't know how to say, "Go away." and so instead that is what she does. Yes, she could benefit from a carton of confidence, but that is no reason for you to persist. Oh, and please don't follow her off the beach. If it appears predatory you will quickly discover that your actions did not go unnoticed. The police are our friends.
Response number two is the best for all parties involved. If you hear her gentle dismissal, you can depart with your pride intact and she can resume her sun-worshipping. If you don't - water, sand, ego in the ears, whatever the reason may be - well expect option number three. They tend to work hand in hand in an escalating fashion.
This final possibility is far more entertaining for us. Should your insistence be met with a Gina Carano elbow to the ego, take it like a man. Smile and walk away. Had you paid attention to her body cues and not the roar of your ego, you would have avoided the bruising in the first place. You would have made a good impression, and might have improved your chances the next time the two of you crossed paths. And if you approached a group of women, do expect to hear laughter and "Oh my god I thought he'd never leave." as you attempt a smooth exit. It comes with the territory.
Now if she does roll over, or prop herself up, or put down her book, take a deep breath and relax. She is willing to listen to what you have to say. And if she smiles (I am talking eyes AND mouth - just mouth is the same as remaining prone) well, sir, what you got yourself there is a golden ticket. Don't muck it up with the Sharpie of stupidity (example: do not kneel or stand with your crotch in her face, i.e. eye level. It happens so often...)
A note to the ladies, if you are ever uncomfortable at the beach, please remember the lifeguard is your friend. If you set up away from the public it is quite possible that you will find yourself badgered by ignorant brutes. Please do not hesitate to contact the lifeguard for assistance. She will be happy to aid you in whatever way she can.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
When I last sat down and took to the keyboard, I discussed those warning signs for which lifeguards scour the sand. Those extremes and/or signs of ignorance that warn us that we best be warning you before there might not be a you to warn. It only stands to reason that in the midst of our constant search for potential rescues we discover that, well, the public is up to all sorts of shenanigans. Which brings us to round one:
The Pickup Artist
Let's take the fellow in the intro. Yeah, maybe I came down a bit hard on him. He's only trying to make an acquaintance or maybe something even more. He spied an attractive maiden, reached down deep and dug up the courage to approach her, and now he's only trying to seal the deal. Given him some props, right? Naaa... not when he's sporting that ensemble. Throw in a pot belly, a bear skin back along with an excessive amount of jewelry and that is just one visual shudder fest. Or priceless YouTube moment.
But it is not his obvious lack of sand sartorial skill that tells me that his evening plans are actually, for the moment, dinner, party of one. No, it is the woman. Why? Body language.
Fellows, if you approach a prone Penelope (that means she is lying on her stomach) and if after a minute or two of your best lines or obvious questions ("What are you reading?" "Is it any good?") she hasn't propped herself up on her elbows or rolled over to engage you in a more comfortable and friendly position, let me tell you, she's not interested. She is there to enjoy her day under the sun. She's not looking for company, especially yours. She just wants to be left alone. And as unappealing as it may seem, the best way to make a positive impression is to acknowledge her desire instead of forging ahead and clearly illustrating that you are committing that most cardinal of sins - you are not hearing her. Not all communication issues from the mouth. In fact, most of it doesn't.
If you continue to insist upon making her uncomfortable she may leave, politely shoo you away ("I have a boyfriend.") or lay waste to your ego with a righteous verbal smackdown. If she leaves, well that is just sad. She obviously doesn't know how to say, "Go away." and so instead that is what she does. Yes, she could benefit from a carton of confidence, but that is no reason for you to persist. Oh, and please don't follow her off the beach. If it appears predatory you will quickly discover that your actions did not go unnoticed. The police are our friends.
Response number two is the best for all parties involved. If you hear her gentle dismissal, you can depart with your pride intact and she can resume her sun-worshipping. If you don't - water, sand, ego in the ears, whatever the reason may be - well expect option number three. They tend to work hand in hand in an escalating fashion.
This final possibility is far more entertaining for us. Should your insistence be met with a Gina Carano elbow to the ego, take it like a man. Smile and walk away. Had you paid attention to her body cues and not the roar of your ego, you would have avoided the bruising in the first place. You would have made a good impression, and might have improved your chances the next time the two of you crossed paths. And if you approached a group of women, do expect to hear laughter and "Oh my god I thought he'd never leave." as you attempt a smooth exit. It comes with the territory.
Now if she does roll over, or prop herself up, or put down her book, take a deep breath and relax. She is willing to listen to what you have to say. And if she smiles (I am talking eyes AND mouth - just mouth is the same as remaining prone) well, sir, what you got yourself there is a golden ticket. Don't muck it up with the Sharpie of stupidity (example: do not kneel or stand with your crotch in her face, i.e. eye level. It happens so often...)
A note to the ladies, if you are ever uncomfortable at the beach, please remember the lifeguard is your friend. If you set up away from the public it is quite possible that you will find yourself badgered by ignorant brutes. Please do not hesitate to contact the lifeguard for assistance. She will be happy to aid you in whatever way she can.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Rescues Begin on the Sand
So where are the umbrellas, right? Well here's the thing. In conjunction with that blog, I will be creating and posting a humorous video demonstrating the proper installation of the beach umbrella. Whilst brainstorming for the video I realized that there is a far better way to illustrate my points. I just need a little help. I need a little love from Mumsy Nature. When she obliges with the correct elements, I shall oblige you, dear readers, with the correct techniques. Until then we will revisit the tower.
And I'll stop with the misdirection. Maybe.
During my last post I briefly touched upon what we lifeguards call "pre-water assessment." I didn't mention the term, but I described it in action. Remember the family with the coolers and cargo shorts? Skin so white that you gotta wear shades? That was pre-water assessment in action. That was the lifeguard recognizing that if left alone the family in question may have departed the beach with less than they arrived with, and I'm not talking about the contents of the coolers...
Lifeguards look for rescues well before they happen. Why? Simply put, there are a lot more of you than there are of us. It's a numbers game and the lifeguards strive to get the odds in their, and ultimately your favor. A former captain of mine said it the best, "When you are in the tower you are a lifeguard. When you are making a rescue you are a lifesaver." Now I am going to ignore all the obvious jokes about the tasty treat so low in calories and yet so good in the mouth and move on to explain the statement and its profound truth.
When I am in the water, I am not watching it. I am no longer looking for the next rescue, I am making it. So what do you think would happen if all the lifeguards were swimming to the screamers, shriekers, and sinkers? What do you think would happen if no one was watching the water? What do you think would happen if the "cooler" family took that moment to allow their little non-swimming 5 year old Johnny an unattended visit to the surf? And a wave knocked him off his feet? And he got tumbled under the water? And he hit his head? And he didn't resurface? All the lifeguards were in the water. No one is watching, not even the parents. How long before Johnny is recognized as absent? I've dealt with parents looking for their lost child and it is far from uncommon to get 30, 45, or 60 minutes as a response to the question, "How long has he been missing?" The trouble is I don't think Johnny can hold his breath that long.
Sounds morbid? Sure, I'm making a point. Sounds like bad parenting? I deal with it all the time. On a packed summer weekend, I was told (screamed at, actually) by a mother looking for her lost daughter, "She was playing in the sand in front of your tower! It was your job to watch her! Now earn your money and go find her!" I didn't take it personally. I'm sure the mother was as unaware of multiple rescues I had been making as she was of her daughter's location. "Ma'am, I am not a babysitter. My responsibility is all those at the beach, particularly those in the water. Now if I can get a description of your daughter we will do what we can to find her," was my tempered response. Her daughter was three towers down, still looking for sea shells. She didn't even know that she was lost. Kids... Or also appropriately, parents...
I'll go more in depth about lost children later, but for now let us return to pre-water assessment. When I scan the beach I am looking for, among other things:
Skin color - pale means sure as heck haven't spent any time at the beach or they wisely slather on the sunscreen and religiously reapply it. Red skin means they would rather invest in a dermatologist than a tube of the stuff. They, too, haven't been to the beach much, but unlike the lotion-lathered Morlocks, they have no clue as to the discomfort that awaits them that night.
Clothing - do they own a swim suit? 'Nuff said
Wetsuit - zipper in the front? You don't surf much do you?
Gait - staggering? Too much fun imbibing on the boardwalk means no fun on the beach. Alcohol and water do not mix. You get passive drownings with alcohol. The victims don't struggle at all. Just sink. Just take a nappy-nap in the middle of the surf. Think that is crazy? Ever seen a picture of someone passed out? My favorite is the guy with his face in the urinal. Yeah, I'm sure that made sense at the time, too.
Age - the very old and the very young can have difficulty in surf. Not always, but they can.
Disabilities - We got a guy. We call him One-legged Bob. He scares the crap out of every rookie because, well, he has one leg, and when he gets beyond the surf (which he does) he swims in a fashion as to appear as though he is constantly drowning. He's not. He's got one leg (no stump) and his other isn't great. Bob is an exception to the rule, as is Philippe Corizon who, limb-less, swam the English Channel in 2010 (http://www.wired.com/playbook/2010/09/channel-swim-amputee/) But as a rule of thumb it is important for lifeguards to be aware of obvious temporary and/or permanent impediments to play in the surf. My favorite is the guy with the full arm cast wrapped in a plastic bag heading on out to get him some waves.
Weight - as with age, the extremes are a concern. If you are so light a zephyr sends you a-tumblin' then expect much worse from the surf. If you are built like an offensive lineman but lack the conditioning, keep it shallow. I'm sure you don't want the embarrassment of being rescued, and, quite frankly, I'd rather not have to rescue you. You won't be pulling your weight back to the beach, I will. And, yes, I've seen many reedy or big men and women who own it in the surf. I'm not writing about them.
Flotation - legit surfers and body boarders do not need their boards in order to survive. They lose it? Well, they have a nice swim back to the beach. It's those who are utterly lacking in swimming skills and yet are utterly convinced that a piece of foam tethered to their wrist will keep them afloat and well beyond the reaper's grasp that concern the lifeguard. Why? Well, when they lose them, which they often do, they start drowning. How do you spot them? No wax on the surfboard and/or its leash around the wrist and/or a surfboard so aged and dinged as to suggest it was a recent garage sale "score" are several ways. Waterlogged, bent, and/or broken boogie boards with the leash around the ankle are others. A note on boogie boards: that $10-15 fabric-covered styrofoam special that you just bought from a street vendor or from your local supermarket? Yeah, that board... it's a piece of crap. And I am putting it kindly. Show up to the beach with that thing in tow and take off down the beach with it flipping erratically behind you is as clear a sign of ignorance as showing up to a white party dressed in red. Show up with one of those boards so broken that it makes you to appear to be riding a caterpillar in surf is even worse. It says, "I will be drowning in 5 minutes."
Now you know what we are looking for. Next, I'll share what we often see. Not all of it is pretty, but often it is humorous.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
And I'll stop with the misdirection. Maybe.
During my last post I briefly touched upon what we lifeguards call "pre-water assessment." I didn't mention the term, but I described it in action. Remember the family with the coolers and cargo shorts? Skin so white that you gotta wear shades? That was pre-water assessment in action. That was the lifeguard recognizing that if left alone the family in question may have departed the beach with less than they arrived with, and I'm not talking about the contents of the coolers...
Lifeguards look for rescues well before they happen. Why? Simply put, there are a lot more of you than there are of us. It's a numbers game and the lifeguards strive to get the odds in their, and ultimately your favor. A former captain of mine said it the best, "When you are in the tower you are a lifeguard. When you are making a rescue you are a lifesaver." Now I am going to ignore all the obvious jokes about the tasty treat so low in calories and yet so good in the mouth and move on to explain the statement and its profound truth.
When I am in the water, I am not watching it. I am no longer looking for the next rescue, I am making it. So what do you think would happen if all the lifeguards were swimming to the screamers, shriekers, and sinkers? What do you think would happen if no one was watching the water? What do you think would happen if the "cooler" family took that moment to allow their little non-swimming 5 year old Johnny an unattended visit to the surf? And a wave knocked him off his feet? And he got tumbled under the water? And he hit his head? And he didn't resurface? All the lifeguards were in the water. No one is watching, not even the parents. How long before Johnny is recognized as absent? I've dealt with parents looking for their lost child and it is far from uncommon to get 30, 45, or 60 minutes as a response to the question, "How long has he been missing?" The trouble is I don't think Johnny can hold his breath that long.
Sounds morbid? Sure, I'm making a point. Sounds like bad parenting? I deal with it all the time. On a packed summer weekend, I was told (screamed at, actually) by a mother looking for her lost daughter, "She was playing in the sand in front of your tower! It was your job to watch her! Now earn your money and go find her!" I didn't take it personally. I'm sure the mother was as unaware of multiple rescues I had been making as she was of her daughter's location. "Ma'am, I am not a babysitter. My responsibility is all those at the beach, particularly those in the water. Now if I can get a description of your daughter we will do what we can to find her," was my tempered response. Her daughter was three towers down, still looking for sea shells. She didn't even know that she was lost. Kids... Or also appropriately, parents...
I'll go more in depth about lost children later, but for now let us return to pre-water assessment. When I scan the beach I am looking for, among other things:
Skin color - pale means sure as heck haven't spent any time at the beach or they wisely slather on the sunscreen and religiously reapply it. Red skin means they would rather invest in a dermatologist than a tube of the stuff. They, too, haven't been to the beach much, but unlike the lotion-lathered Morlocks, they have no clue as to the discomfort that awaits them that night.
Clothing - do they own a swim suit? 'Nuff said
Wetsuit - zipper in the front? You don't surf much do you?
Gait - staggering? Too much fun imbibing on the boardwalk means no fun on the beach. Alcohol and water do not mix. You get passive drownings with alcohol. The victims don't struggle at all. Just sink. Just take a nappy-nap in the middle of the surf. Think that is crazy? Ever seen a picture of someone passed out? My favorite is the guy with his face in the urinal. Yeah, I'm sure that made sense at the time, too.
Age - the very old and the very young can have difficulty in surf. Not always, but they can.
Disabilities - We got a guy. We call him One-legged Bob. He scares the crap out of every rookie because, well, he has one leg, and when he gets beyond the surf (which he does) he swims in a fashion as to appear as though he is constantly drowning. He's not. He's got one leg (no stump) and his other isn't great. Bob is an exception to the rule, as is Philippe Corizon who, limb-less, swam the English Channel in 2010 (http://www.wired.com/playbook/2010/09/channel-swim-amputee/) But as a rule of thumb it is important for lifeguards to be aware of obvious temporary and/or permanent impediments to play in the surf. My favorite is the guy with the full arm cast wrapped in a plastic bag heading on out to get him some waves.
Weight - as with age, the extremes are a concern. If you are so light a zephyr sends you a-tumblin' then expect much worse from the surf. If you are built like an offensive lineman but lack the conditioning, keep it shallow. I'm sure you don't want the embarrassment of being rescued, and, quite frankly, I'd rather not have to rescue you. You won't be pulling your weight back to the beach, I will. And, yes, I've seen many reedy or big men and women who own it in the surf. I'm not writing about them.
Flotation - legit surfers and body boarders do not need their boards in order to survive. They lose it? Well, they have a nice swim back to the beach. It's those who are utterly lacking in swimming skills and yet are utterly convinced that a piece of foam tethered to their wrist will keep them afloat and well beyond the reaper's grasp that concern the lifeguard. Why? Well, when they lose them, which they often do, they start drowning. How do you spot them? No wax on the surfboard and/or its leash around the wrist and/or a surfboard so aged and dinged as to suggest it was a recent garage sale "score" are several ways. Waterlogged, bent, and/or broken boogie boards with the leash around the ankle are others. A note on boogie boards: that $10-15 fabric-covered styrofoam special that you just bought from a street vendor or from your local supermarket? Yeah, that board... it's a piece of crap. And I am putting it kindly. Show up to the beach with that thing in tow and take off down the beach with it flipping erratically behind you is as clear a sign of ignorance as showing up to a white party dressed in red. Show up with one of those boards so broken that it makes you to appear to be riding a caterpillar in surf is even worse. It says, "I will be drowning in 5 minutes."
Now you know what we are looking for. Next, I'll share what we often see. Not all of it is pretty, but often it is humorous.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
So What Is Really Going on in There?
My first post posed the question, "What is he doing in there?" which ultimately went unanswered. Strategy, my dear friends, strategy. Leave the the curious desiring more and hopefully they return. Given that, it only seems appropriate that the next matter of business would be to pull back the curtain on our bronzed Oz and give the readers what was promised. So Toto, my furry friend, would you please do the honors?
Anyone briefly get the image of the Coppertone girl and her hairy harasser? I did, except it was an elderly fellow sporting a turn of the last century bathing suit and looking oh so white. Hum...
So what is going on inside the lifeguard tower? Simply put: the guard is watching the water. Yes, it is quite possible that you haven't seen the guard emerge for hours. Yes, there may be very little or no surf. Heck, the water may be so cold as to dissuade even our most intrepid bather from anything other than a toe test, but it doesn't matter. Not in the least. That lifeguard is watching the water...oh, and the beach around him/her.
Before I continue I should note the following, first this blog is about ocean lifeguarding. I did spend one year at a municipal pool and so, if appropriate, will post about pool policy/etiquette, but this is a blog about those men and women who provide protection at our best resource for play and exercise - the beach. Additionally, as the discipline is one pursued and executed by both sexes, future references to lifeguards will find the he and she interchangeable.
Now back to the matter at hand, the lifeguard watching the water. Eyes to binoculars, binos to beach, beach to water, up and down, back and forth. She is constantly searching for the next potential rescue. Notice that I wrote "potential." That is of particular importance. Why? The lifeguard doesn't wait until the crap zips itself into the Vornado. She doesn't want a manageable situation stirring itself into a shit storm of panicked, drowning swimmers. The lifeguard is looking for blissfully unaware swimmers splashing their way towards the maw of a hungry rip current. A rip current looking to suck them and their fabric covered styrofoam boogie boards out to sea. (Those boards don't boogie by the way, more like one-legged wiggle.) In being attentive, she is able to prevent most, if not all, the swimmers from an undesired reminder of their own mortality. Instead, she directs them to a much more desirable location for cavorting. In some cases that might be their car.
That's why we watch the water. Lifeguards do not enjoy the benefit firefighters do. We don't go about our day waiting for our next call. We actively scan for our next rescue, our next first aid, our next public assist, or whatever else we may be called to address. Not only do we make the call - dial 911 so to speak - we then respond to the emergency as well. If we are not looking then that call goes unnoticed and someone, or worse, people lose their lives. Try going home with that at the end of your day.
And not every emergency starts in the water or at its edge. No, the lifeguard is also paying attention to all that is going on around him. Consider this: if you saw a family of five traipse on down from the parking lot lugging coolers and chairs with skin that makes Snow White look Tahitian, dressed in cargo shorts and tank tops with no apparent signs of swimsuits but carrying boogie boards and inner tubes, what would you think (other than that was a long-ass sentence?) Would you think this group has been to the beach before? Would you think that they actually know how to use their water equipment in surf that is occasionally head high? Would you think it would be a swell idea for them to just go ride the wild surf in their cargo shorts and tank tops? I'm guessing "No," and if I guessed right then you did as well.
So what do you do? If the beach allows you to do so, head on over, introduce yourself, and in an oh so pleasant fashion suggest that they keep it shallow and then explain why. Now this group could end up surprising you, and at times this does happen, but exceedingly more often than not the opposite proves to be the case. I guess in this day and paranoid age this approach is called profiling. I call it protecting the public from themselves and arming them with information that will prove useful throughout the rest of their lives because that intervention may have just extended theirs beyond the day. And, as often is the case, they end up thanking you, follow your advice, and share it with others when they return home.
By the way, you tell them about sunscreen too.
So that is what the lifeguard is doing. Watching the water. Watching the beach. He's not reading the paper. She's not flipping through the latest issue of Surfer. He's not updating his Facebook status or checking out his fantasy football results. She's not painting her nails or catching some zzz's behind those dark shades of hers. No, they are just scanning their way through the day, sending out their danger sonar pings, hoping that nothing comes back but prepared if it does. See, that is the thing. Most days a lifeguard never knows if something is going to happen. On big surf days with a crowded beach, it is easy to figure that out. The whole place is a hazard zone and the day is going to be relentless in terms of emergencies - real or potential. It's the calm, quiet, overcast days that are the worst. The lifeguard never knows when someone is going to attempt suicide, or radically overestimate his surfing ability, or go for a swim when she don't know how to (yes, this is separate from suicide, and, yes, I have rescued this type of person - on numerous occasions.) The lifeguard doesn't know the "when" or the "where" or the "if" and so he does the only thing he can do. He watches the water.
As for remaining in the tower, the best sunscreen is a building.
Next post, believe it or not, it is going to be umbrellas. Might seem inconsequential, but given what I've witnessed there's some ignorance that needs addressing, and in doing so I just might save a few individuals from the painful groin shots given by the runaway sun shade.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Anyone briefly get the image of the Coppertone girl and her hairy harasser? I did, except it was an elderly fellow sporting a turn of the last century bathing suit and looking oh so white. Hum...
So what is going on inside the lifeguard tower? Simply put: the guard is watching the water. Yes, it is quite possible that you haven't seen the guard emerge for hours. Yes, there may be very little or no surf. Heck, the water may be so cold as to dissuade even our most intrepid bather from anything other than a toe test, but it doesn't matter. Not in the least. That lifeguard is watching the water...oh, and the beach around him/her.
Before I continue I should note the following, first this blog is about ocean lifeguarding. I did spend one year at a municipal pool and so, if appropriate, will post about pool policy/etiquette, but this is a blog about those men and women who provide protection at our best resource for play and exercise - the beach. Additionally, as the discipline is one pursued and executed by both sexes, future references to lifeguards will find the he and she interchangeable.
Now back to the matter at hand, the lifeguard watching the water. Eyes to binoculars, binos to beach, beach to water, up and down, back and forth. She is constantly searching for the next potential rescue. Notice that I wrote "potential." That is of particular importance. Why? The lifeguard doesn't wait until the crap zips itself into the Vornado. She doesn't want a manageable situation stirring itself into a shit storm of panicked, drowning swimmers. The lifeguard is looking for blissfully unaware swimmers splashing their way towards the maw of a hungry rip current. A rip current looking to suck them and their fabric covered styrofoam boogie boards out to sea. (Those boards don't boogie by the way, more like one-legged wiggle.) In being attentive, she is able to prevent most, if not all, the swimmers from an undesired reminder of their own mortality. Instead, she directs them to a much more desirable location for cavorting. In some cases that might be their car.
That's why we watch the water. Lifeguards do not enjoy the benefit firefighters do. We don't go about our day waiting for our next call. We actively scan for our next rescue, our next first aid, our next public assist, or whatever else we may be called to address. Not only do we make the call - dial 911 so to speak - we then respond to the emergency as well. If we are not looking then that call goes unnoticed and someone, or worse, people lose their lives. Try going home with that at the end of your day.
And not every emergency starts in the water or at its edge. No, the lifeguard is also paying attention to all that is going on around him. Consider this: if you saw a family of five traipse on down from the parking lot lugging coolers and chairs with skin that makes Snow White look Tahitian, dressed in cargo shorts and tank tops with no apparent signs of swimsuits but carrying boogie boards and inner tubes, what would you think (other than that was a long-ass sentence?) Would you think this group has been to the beach before? Would you think that they actually know how to use their water equipment in surf that is occasionally head high? Would you think it would be a swell idea for them to just go ride the wild surf in their cargo shorts and tank tops? I'm guessing "No," and if I guessed right then you did as well.
So what do you do? If the beach allows you to do so, head on over, introduce yourself, and in an oh so pleasant fashion suggest that they keep it shallow and then explain why. Now this group could end up surprising you, and at times this does happen, but exceedingly more often than not the opposite proves to be the case. I guess in this day and paranoid age this approach is called profiling. I call it protecting the public from themselves and arming them with information that will prove useful throughout the rest of their lives because that intervention may have just extended theirs beyond the day. And, as often is the case, they end up thanking you, follow your advice, and share it with others when they return home.
By the way, you tell them about sunscreen too.
So that is what the lifeguard is doing. Watching the water. Watching the beach. He's not reading the paper. She's not flipping through the latest issue of Surfer. He's not updating his Facebook status or checking out his fantasy football results. She's not painting her nails or catching some zzz's behind those dark shades of hers. No, they are just scanning their way through the day, sending out their danger sonar pings, hoping that nothing comes back but prepared if it does. See, that is the thing. Most days a lifeguard never knows if something is going to happen. On big surf days with a crowded beach, it is easy to figure that out. The whole place is a hazard zone and the day is going to be relentless in terms of emergencies - real or potential. It's the calm, quiet, overcast days that are the worst. The lifeguard never knows when someone is going to attempt suicide, or radically overestimate his surfing ability, or go for a swim when she don't know how to (yes, this is separate from suicide, and, yes, I have rescued this type of person - on numerous occasions.) The lifeguard doesn't know the "when" or the "where" or the "if" and so he does the only thing he can do. He watches the water.
As for remaining in the tower, the best sunscreen is a building.
Next post, believe it or not, it is going to be umbrellas. Might seem inconsequential, but given what I've witnessed there's some ignorance that needs addressing, and in doing so I just might save a few individuals from the painful groin shots given by the runaway sun shade.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
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