"Hi there Mr. Lifeguard," the roundish woman began, "I'm just a minister for Minneapolis, and I have a question for you."
"Sure, fire away," I responded, leaning forward on my railing.
"Do you think you are going to heaven?"
If you have been a lifeguard long enough you come to readily accept that you will never see it all. In your rookie year you can't see enough although often times a day can easily overwhelm you. Should you survive, and many do not as the daily stress of being responsible for so many lives does take its toll, your sophomore year leads to a false confidence and the belief that you have seen it all, and certainly know it all. Year three brings the corrective face slap that was needed after year two's hubris. For the swift learners, graduation comes at year three's close. For those a bit behind in the game one, two, maybe even five more years may be needed to matriculate, although, unfortunately, some never do. (They're never pleasant to work with.) Those who do graduate from lifeguarding's direct, demanding, and sometimes brutal school of on the job training learn one certifiable truism: when you think you have seen it all, heard it all, and/or done it all, you haven't and your next contact may very well prove that point.
"Do you think you are going to heaven?" she asked. From a transient violently arguing with his shoes to a couple who nearly drowned as they determinedly had sex in the ocean, I've dealt with my share of unique experiences, but I had never been questioned with respect to my salvation. Yet when the portly, blonde bobbed-topped Minne Min separated herself from her group and asked, "Do you think you are going to heaven?" my answer came naturally.
"Yes." I replied.
"How do you know?" she challenged.
"Because I am a good person."
"I'm sure you are, but my question is, 'How do you know?'"
"I just do."
She paused, sized me up with a look and then asked, "Do you believe in the Bible?"
"As the word of God, no." was my matter-of-fact response.
"Why?"
"Because the Bible is nothing more than a collection of stories written by men, edited by men, and published by men. If I want the the genuine word of God then I need not look any further than this planet. This planet is God's Bible. Earth is his creation. How we treat her says a lot about how well we are willing to listen to him."
My longest response was met with another pause and another size up. She was on the sand below and I on my deck above. She raised her hand in an evangelical fashion and asked, "Mr. lifeguard, will you come down and say a prayer with me?"
"No, thank you."
"Why not?"
"I respect and support your right to celebrate God's word in the fashion that you do. I hope that you will respect and support me in the same way."
She paused for a moment, cocked her head as though thinking and then returned to her group. It was a beautiful day. One that deserved to be celebrated. A post shift body surf session did exactly that.
Note: While I am spiritual, I am not a fan of proselytizing. I feel the more someone tries to force their experience of God (or anything for that matter) down another's throat, the less willing that individual will be to digest it. So then, what is the most effective means to achieve transformation? Just live your life according to the belief system you embrace. If it is real, if it is genuine (read: without hypocrisy), if it is effective people will come to you. They will come to you because you are happy. They will come to you because you are fulfilled. They will come to you because they want the same for themselves. And if they don't, if they don't, let 'em be. Chances are, they are happy. Chances are they are fulfilled. And, chances are, quite possibly, they're the ones who actually got it right.
There are a lot of ways to eat a raw apple. Regardless of the approach the nourishment is the same.
© Copyright 2012 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Tower Tale Shorts: A Ramp Story
Sometimes that which I think is beyond obvious to the public, well, apparently isn't. So, as evidenced by the above title, let's take my ramp for example. If I am inside my tower or standing upon its deck, I have only one safe means of moving from tower to the sand, and that is, yes, my ramp. Sure I could leap over the railing and hope for a soft, safe landing in the sand below, but a twist of an ankle or a foot split by buried glass could quickly turn a rescue into a recovery. A recovery only because I was unable to get to the victim in time.
This is the reason we put cones around the tower. This is the reason we keep the public off our digs. We need our space. By giving us our space you give us the opportunity to execute our duties unimpeded. This is something we appreciate in more ways than you may realize.
And hey, you don't park your car in front of a fire station. So don't block a lifeguard's ramp.
Which brings me to this fellow. He was a softly built, balding fellow who, judging by his accent was either Russian or of one of the former Soviet Republics. He had been jog/walking over the same twenty-five foot stretch of sand for several minutes but had now taken to that arm flapping that often precedes greater physical effort. His arms were completely bent at the elbows. His hands were clenched in chest-level fists. All were shaking in unison. Well the bones were. The soft tissue had its own agenda, and each cell seemingly its own page.
Suddenly, as though attempting to best an oversized rubber band, his elbows shot backwards and his hands punched in, out, up, down, and wherever space was available. His flapping finished, he reached down, untied and retied his speedo, and then, for good measure, pulled it up higher than it was meant to go. Whatever he was about to do was going to be substantial.
So with a head rub then two, he adjusted his aviators, turned on his heel and walked towards my tower.
Anticipating a forth-coming question, I open the door and walked out to greet him. "What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied without looking up. He flexed his arms one last time. He dropped to his knees at the base of my ramp.
"Can I help you?" I asked, my tone changing from curious to concerned.
"No." He replied in his thick accent. A shoulder''s width apart, he extended his hands in front of him.
And assumed the push up position on my ramp.
His feet were at its base, his head not so far from my feet. Given the fact that he was working with the incline he must not have felt too compelled to exert himself. Or even exert the effort to see if my ramp was the most appropriate place for his push ups.
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold on there champ! You can't be doing push ups on my ramp! This is an open lifeguard tower. I'm working here."
He stopped in the mid descent of his first push up and dropped to his knees. "You serious?" he asked to the ground before finally acknowledging me with a look. And it wasn't a friendly one. Perturbed would be a more apt description.
"Yes I'm serious! I can't be running down my ramp to make a rescue and have to leap over you in the process. I know it may not look like there is a lot going on, but that is no reason to start doing push ups on my ramp."
Standing, he brushed the sand from his knees. "Yes, big man. Very important job." he mocked as he again readjusted his speedo. He rubbed his head and walked away but not without one last parting shot. "Very busy. Lot of responsibility. Important man."
There were so many rejoinders that sprinted through my mind each pointed and designed to win the exchange. I chose the best one. I chose silence. He returned to his original spot.
And sat down.
No push ups. No stretching. No jogging. He turned and looked at me. I looked at him. He paused then turned back to the direction of the ocean, arms resting on his spread knees. I returned to the interior of my tower. He laid back in the sand and, judging from the long lack of purposeful movement that followed, fell asleep.
I guess the push ups had not been that important.
© Copyright 2012 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
This is the reason we put cones around the tower. This is the reason we keep the public off our digs. We need our space. By giving us our space you give us the opportunity to execute our duties unimpeded. This is something we appreciate in more ways than you may realize.
And hey, you don't park your car in front of a fire station. So don't block a lifeguard's ramp.
Which brings me to this fellow. He was a softly built, balding fellow who, judging by his accent was either Russian or of one of the former Soviet Republics. He had been jog/walking over the same twenty-five foot stretch of sand for several minutes but had now taken to that arm flapping that often precedes greater physical effort. His arms were completely bent at the elbows. His hands were clenched in chest-level fists. All were shaking in unison. Well the bones were. The soft tissue had its own agenda, and each cell seemingly its own page.
Suddenly, as though attempting to best an oversized rubber band, his elbows shot backwards and his hands punched in, out, up, down, and wherever space was available. His flapping finished, he reached down, untied and retied his speedo, and then, for good measure, pulled it up higher than it was meant to go. Whatever he was about to do was going to be substantial.
So with a head rub then two, he adjusted his aviators, turned on his heel and walked towards my tower.
Anticipating a forth-coming question, I open the door and walked out to greet him. "What can I do for you?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied without looking up. He flexed his arms one last time. He dropped to his knees at the base of my ramp.
"Can I help you?" I asked, my tone changing from curious to concerned.
"No." He replied in his thick accent. A shoulder''s width apart, he extended his hands in front of him.
And assumed the push up position on my ramp.
His feet were at its base, his head not so far from my feet. Given the fact that he was working with the incline he must not have felt too compelled to exert himself. Or even exert the effort to see if my ramp was the most appropriate place for his push ups.
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Hold on there champ! You can't be doing push ups on my ramp! This is an open lifeguard tower. I'm working here."
He stopped in the mid descent of his first push up and dropped to his knees. "You serious?" he asked to the ground before finally acknowledging me with a look. And it wasn't a friendly one. Perturbed would be a more apt description.
"Yes I'm serious! I can't be running down my ramp to make a rescue and have to leap over you in the process. I know it may not look like there is a lot going on, but that is no reason to start doing push ups on my ramp."
Standing, he brushed the sand from his knees. "Yes, big man. Very important job." he mocked as he again readjusted his speedo. He rubbed his head and walked away but not without one last parting shot. "Very busy. Lot of responsibility. Important man."
There were so many rejoinders that sprinted through my mind each pointed and designed to win the exchange. I chose the best one. I chose silence. He returned to his original spot.
And sat down.
No push ups. No stretching. No jogging. He turned and looked at me. I looked at him. He paused then turned back to the direction of the ocean, arms resting on his spread knees. I returned to the interior of my tower. He laid back in the sand and, judging from the long lack of purposeful movement that followed, fell asleep.
I guess the push ups had not been that important.
© Copyright 2012 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Tower Tale Shorts: A Recent Exchange
It's been a while since my last post. My bad. And this one is about yet another dog/owner interaction. Chalk that up to coincidence and less about a fixation of mine.
Summer in February combined with fantastic surf puts such a permanent smile on your face that it reaches deep inside of you and roots itself in your heart. I was so enchanted. And I was more than happy to share the good vibrations.
A scan of the beach revealed a fellow walking a dog that is only affiliated with the canine clan through genes alone. It was a tiny white thing that was probably confused to find itself traveling by its own effort rather than comfortably ensconced within an oversized Gucci bag. Toy breed or otherwise, a dog is a dog and my duty was to inform the owner that an existing ordinance required required his puff ball's immediate exit from the warm sands.
The fellow noticed my approach and as I had his attention, I pointed to the pooch and smiling, shook my head, "Nope. No dogs." He immediately picked up the pup and closed the gap between us.
"Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, but you are more than welcome to walk him on the boardwalk," I said.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! THIS IS THE FUCKING UNITED STATES OF FUCKING AMERICA!!!!" he spat even louder than the all capital letters conveys.
Oh, yep. You would be correct if you assumed that I was taken aback. And more than a bit.
"Ah, that it is sir, but unfortunately you still have to take your dog off the beach."
"I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"
"Okay." I replied. That was all I had. I was still trying to figure out what was going on.
"Hey, you have a nice day." he said with a calm sincerity.
"Thank you?"
"I HATE THIS FUCKING COUNTRY!" he then bellowed, emphasizing each word with increasing venom.
Oh. I got it. I had just been in the eye of the hurricane. It spun its way to the back of the beach and vanished between the hotels that line the boardwalk.
In case you were wondering, the fellow had no accent. And the sun did return. And my smile still stretched from my face to my heart.
An illustration form my forthcoming Children's book.
© Copyright 2012 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
Summer in February combined with fantastic surf puts such a permanent smile on your face that it reaches deep inside of you and roots itself in your heart. I was so enchanted. And I was more than happy to share the good vibrations.
A scan of the beach revealed a fellow walking a dog that is only affiliated with the canine clan through genes alone. It was a tiny white thing that was probably confused to find itself traveling by its own effort rather than comfortably ensconced within an oversized Gucci bag. Toy breed or otherwise, a dog is a dog and my duty was to inform the owner that an existing ordinance required required his puff ball's immediate exit from the warm sands.
The fellow noticed my approach and as I had his attention, I pointed to the pooch and smiling, shook my head, "Nope. No dogs." He immediately picked up the pup and closed the gap between us.
"Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, but you are more than welcome to walk him on the boardwalk," I said.
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?! THIS IS THE FUCKING UNITED STATES OF FUCKING AMERICA!!!!" he spat even louder than the all capital letters conveys.
Oh, yep. You would be correct if you assumed that I was taken aback. And more than a bit.
"Ah, that it is sir, but unfortunately you still have to take your dog off the beach."
"I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!"
"Okay." I replied. That was all I had. I was still trying to figure out what was going on.
"Hey, you have a nice day." he said with a calm sincerity.
"Thank you?"
"I HATE THIS FUCKING COUNTRY!" he then bellowed, emphasizing each word with increasing venom.
Oh. I got it. I had just been in the eye of the hurricane. It spun its way to the back of the beach and vanished between the hotels that line the boardwalk.
In case you were wondering, the fellow had no accent. And the sun did return. And my smile still stretched from my face to my heart.
An illustration form my forthcoming Children's book.
© Copyright 2012 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved
Monday, January 16, 2012
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