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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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.
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