Tower Tale Shorts: Three Kids and a Dog

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.