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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.