"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
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
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
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
Monday, November 14, 2011
Ocean Lifeguarding, Best Job Ever!
Okay, it is time to change things up a bit. My last several posts have been, well, a tad cranky. Given the full spectrum of humanity that visit the beach, I do experience more than the normal share of individuals who leave me scratching my head, muttering under my breath, or counting to ten in an effort to maintain my composure. Be it someone determined to snatch my rescue can from my hand for their photo op, the druggie on a bad trip, the angry drunk, the gang banger looking to alpha dog the entire beach, or parents who treat a visit to the sand as a vacation from parenting, I encounter all sorts of whack jobs, nut cases, and just generally unpleasant people. Not surprisingly, they do leave an imprint. Also not surprisingly, they are not the only ones who populate the playa. They don't even dominate the percentages so they shouldn't dominate this blog. For all the bad, frustrating, and just plain ridiculous that I encounter there is plenty which is rewarding that offsets it. Today it is time to give the positive its due.
Ocean Lifeguarding is great because...
Well let's start with the obvious. As I have mentioned before, my office is the beach. No fax machines or monkey suits, just sand, surf, and sea. The vast majority of the public spends their week working their tails off just so that they can go play where I work. How can you beat that?
Speaking of monkey suits, sure the single or double breasted has its place and alone can be an aphrodisiac to some. The thought of the daily duty of tying a noose around one's neck, regardless of how fine the silk may be or how much power may pump from its threads, is unpleasant, if not unsettling. Business suit or bathing suit? I think the choice is obvious. Give me the Reds. I'll happily leave the so-called finer threads for those who find repugnant the thought of working 5/6's naked, and sand around the toes instead of socks. (Oh, for those of you not in the know, the "Reds" is the familiar term for the lifeguard swimsuit.)
My job description is in the title. I guard lives. When necessary, I save lives. Sounds great, huh? The funny thing? For whatever reason, there are some who would like to change lifeguard to something like Marine Safety Officer or Aquatic Safety Specialist as if being called a lifeguard is a bad and inadequate thing. You can call a garbage man a sanitation engineer, but it doesn't change the fact that he does the very respectable job of taking out the trash. I'm a lifeguard. I guard people's lives. I don't need to be called something else in order to feel better about myself. The job title is damn fine the way it is.
Have can will rescue. That is all I need to do my job. I need my red rescue can. I am not encumbered by a computer or the aforementioned fax. I am not worried about toner refills, how to fix the electric hole punch, whether table two needs more rolls, or how to sell you these absurdly expensive jeans that make your ass look fat. I look for beach goers in need. I see them. I grab my red rescue can and save them. On big days I will accessorize with fins. On big days, you should too.
As I am not encumbered by a computer, I don't stare at a computer screen all day. I have 20/17 vision when most of my peers are now figuring out which frames are best suited to their face. I scan the horizon while so many scan a monitor a foot or two from their face. You have to love a job that sharpens your physical skills, not dulls them.
My breaks are workouts on the beach. If I feel like a long run, I log some laps between towers. I do not stare at the same potted plant in front of the treadmill. Pumping iron? The tower provides all sorts of opportunities for body weight exercises. Oh, and then there's this little thing called surf. When it is up, I hit the waves for either a bodysurf or surf session. I don't know how many gyms offer wave machines, or pay you to ride them.
I don't suffer from a vitamin D deficiency. I spend the year alternating between a natural base tan and a healthy shade of brown (and periodically an uncomfortable shade of red). Yes, I have to lather on the sunscreen else I meet the reaper due to a melanoma-abbreviated existence. It is the price that one must pay for this employment opportunity. I just try to get the water resistant stuff without the parabens. Winning one battle isn't worth it if you lose the war due to a conspirator in your midst.
I watch dolphins. I don't watch traffic.
The onshore winds blow the stink of urbanity inland. They also bring changing weather. Although not everyone's cup of tea I do enjoy watching the arrival of a front and the pleasure of a summer tropical storm.
I reunite lost children with panicked parents. You can't beat that moment when seven year old scared Sally screams "Mommy!" and rushes into the arms of sobbing Susan and Steve. Trust me one this one, nothing warms your heart more than when loved ones reunite and you are the bridge that closed the gap.
That being said, I realize for that moment to occur, at least one child and one parent must be in a state of great distress. I certainly don't wish that anxiety upon anyone, but I am glad that when said individuals find themselves in such uncomfortable territory I can be of assistance. With that in mind...
I rescue drowning swimmers. Better put, I save lives. I give individuals a chance at a future that had I or any of my coworkers not been there, they would have lost. Permanently. Like the above, I realize that to save someone, that person has to be drowning, i.e. dying. I don't wish that sensation upon anyone, but as a lifeguard I am glad that I have the skills to be there, to give them a second chance, to give them the opportunity of falling in love, knowing their grandchildren, or hiking the Muir Trail.
Simply put I have a job that tells me implicitly I am making a difference. I realize that external validation is not necessary for a fulfilling life, but it is never unwelcomed. Certainly not when you exit the water supporting a teenager who almost discovered what Houdini already knows only to be embraced by the tearful father who cannot stop thanking you. In those moments, the belligerent gangster, the bitchy dog walker, the problematic drunk, the perv, and the just-angry-at-the-world patron all disappear. I remember why it is that I do this job. I remember why it is that I was drawn to it in the first place. And I remember to enjoy that day's sunset all the more. Oh yes, that is something else that makes this job a peerless one. I watch sunsets.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Ocean Lifeguarding is great because...
Well let's start with the obvious. As I have mentioned before, my office is the beach. No fax machines or monkey suits, just sand, surf, and sea. The vast majority of the public spends their week working their tails off just so that they can go play where I work. How can you beat that?
Speaking of monkey suits, sure the single or double breasted has its place and alone can be an aphrodisiac to some. The thought of the daily duty of tying a noose around one's neck, regardless of how fine the silk may be or how much power may pump from its threads, is unpleasant, if not unsettling. Business suit or bathing suit? I think the choice is obvious. Give me the Reds. I'll happily leave the so-called finer threads for those who find repugnant the thought of working 5/6's naked, and sand around the toes instead of socks. (Oh, for those of you not in the know, the "Reds" is the familiar term for the lifeguard swimsuit.)
My job description is in the title. I guard lives. When necessary, I save lives. Sounds great, huh? The funny thing? For whatever reason, there are some who would like to change lifeguard to something like Marine Safety Officer or Aquatic Safety Specialist as if being called a lifeguard is a bad and inadequate thing. You can call a garbage man a sanitation engineer, but it doesn't change the fact that he does the very respectable job of taking out the trash. I'm a lifeguard. I guard people's lives. I don't need to be called something else in order to feel better about myself. The job title is damn fine the way it is.
Have can will rescue. That is all I need to do my job. I need my red rescue can. I am not encumbered by a computer or the aforementioned fax. I am not worried about toner refills, how to fix the electric hole punch, whether table two needs more rolls, or how to sell you these absurdly expensive jeans that make your ass look fat. I look for beach goers in need. I see them. I grab my red rescue can and save them. On big days I will accessorize with fins. On big days, you should too.
As I am not encumbered by a computer, I don't stare at a computer screen all day. I have 20/17 vision when most of my peers are now figuring out which frames are best suited to their face. I scan the horizon while so many scan a monitor a foot or two from their face. You have to love a job that sharpens your physical skills, not dulls them.
My breaks are workouts on the beach. If I feel like a long run, I log some laps between towers. I do not stare at the same potted plant in front of the treadmill. Pumping iron? The tower provides all sorts of opportunities for body weight exercises. Oh, and then there's this little thing called surf. When it is up, I hit the waves for either a bodysurf or surf session. I don't know how many gyms offer wave machines, or pay you to ride them.
I don't suffer from a vitamin D deficiency. I spend the year alternating between a natural base tan and a healthy shade of brown (and periodically an uncomfortable shade of red). Yes, I have to lather on the sunscreen else I meet the reaper due to a melanoma-abbreviated existence. It is the price that one must pay for this employment opportunity. I just try to get the water resistant stuff without the parabens. Winning one battle isn't worth it if you lose the war due to a conspirator in your midst.
I watch dolphins. I don't watch traffic.
The onshore winds blow the stink of urbanity inland. They also bring changing weather. Although not everyone's cup of tea I do enjoy watching the arrival of a front and the pleasure of a summer tropical storm.
I reunite lost children with panicked parents. You can't beat that moment when seven year old scared Sally screams "Mommy!" and rushes into the arms of sobbing Susan and Steve. Trust me one this one, nothing warms your heart more than when loved ones reunite and you are the bridge that closed the gap.
That being said, I realize for that moment to occur, at least one child and one parent must be in a state of great distress. I certainly don't wish that anxiety upon anyone, but I am glad that when said individuals find themselves in such uncomfortable territory I can be of assistance. With that in mind...
I rescue drowning swimmers. Better put, I save lives. I give individuals a chance at a future that had I or any of my coworkers not been there, they would have lost. Permanently. Like the above, I realize that to save someone, that person has to be drowning, i.e. dying. I don't wish that sensation upon anyone, but as a lifeguard I am glad that I have the skills to be there, to give them a second chance, to give them the opportunity of falling in love, knowing their grandchildren, or hiking the Muir Trail.
Simply put I have a job that tells me implicitly I am making a difference. I realize that external validation is not necessary for a fulfilling life, but it is never unwelcomed. Certainly not when you exit the water supporting a teenager who almost discovered what Houdini already knows only to be embraced by the tearful father who cannot stop thanking you. In those moments, the belligerent gangster, the bitchy dog walker, the problematic drunk, the perv, and the just-angry-at-the-world patron all disappear. I remember why it is that I do this job. I remember why it is that I was drawn to it in the first place. And I remember to enjoy that day's sunset all the more. Oh yes, that is something else that makes this job a peerless one. I watch sunsets.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
It's Not the Dogs. It's the Owners Who Walk Them.
Just recently, a local municipality voted to explore the possibility of opening a dog beach in the region. Not surprisingly, everywhere within the county dog owners rejoiced. At least I assume they did, especially those who love taking their pet pooches to the playa even when the present ordinance prohibits it. I can appreciate their enthusiasm, but on this one they are not alone. No, we lifeguards, at least some of us, too clicked our sandals together in joy. Not because we cannot wait to let or our own personal furry fellows romp alongside us in the surf (although it certainly plays a factor in our joy), but chiefly because we will have one less headache to soothe come the end of the day.
Lem'me esplain...
It usually starts like this. I see a dog. On the beach. I groan. I groan, not because the thought of a sudden end to my sedentary lifestyle is repugnant (i.e. get off my lazy ass). I groan because of experience. Sometimes these encounters go well. So often they do not.
A woman and her labrador enters the beach by a closed lifeguard station. Now at this point it could simply be nothing more than she missed the signs in the parking lot or on the back of the tower. In all fairness the ordinance is not particularly well posted and our agency as well as the police do very little to educate the public on this issue prior to their arrival to the beach. At this point I cut the woman some slack, but in the back of my mind lurks this, "She knows." She knows that a closed tower means no lifeguard and no lifeguard means no one to enforce the ordinance. She knows she can do whatever she wants.
So she starts her jog. She lets Jimbo off the leash and he immediately begins terrorizing the local bird population. She continues in my direction. I expel my groan, grab my can, and with a smile I walk to intercept her. What happens next will tell me everything.
Option 1: She sees me and then turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Yep, she knows, and she knows how to play the game. I'm not going to chase her down. I have water to watch and swimmer safety is far more important than running down a jogger and her Jimbo. She'll run until she encounters the next open tower and then once again reverse her field. I once had a woman play this game in between two sequentially open towers. The other guard and myself slowly walked towards each other and she shuttled back and forth like a ping pong ball until he intercepted her and sent her packing. She claimed ignorance. Her actions claimed otherwise. At least she and her pooch covered quite a distance before their day ended with a little lifeguard rain. I do believe the public sees us as the fun police.
Option 2: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and the following explanation, "Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, and you will receive a costly ticket if you remain. Fortunately you are more than welcome to have them on the boardwalk." She apologizes and thanks me for the information. I pet Jimbo. She leashes him and leaves. I love option two! It makes my day easier and allows me to return to that which I value most - watching the water.
Option 3: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps, "I know!" and runs on by. Oh do I feel the love and even more so, the respect. Now in my head I retort, "Really, you do? You know? By any chance do you know my foot? My left one? Because it is about to get acquainted with your ass." But you and I both realize that if that were to make it out of my mouth and into her ears all sorts of ugliness would ensue and quite possibly my continued employment would be in question. Instead I re-emphasize my point, and she re-emphasizes hers with the added, "And what are you going to do about it?"
"Give you a hug," is, again, the thought response because it sure sounds like she could use one. Instead I mention the police and a supervisor. If she's played the game before she knows there is a good chance that neither will respond and so she continues on her jog, sharing the love with each lifeguard she encounters. If she's uncertain, she'll leave the beach at an obtuse angle traveling as far down the soft sand as possible in a final passive/aggressive swipe at me just doing my job.
I'm not a big fan of option 3.
Option 4: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps back, "What about those people? Why do they get to have a dog?" I call option four the grade school option. It brings me back to those days of third grade with the pointed finger seeking supposed fairness and attempting to deflect blame. More often than not there are no "those people" anywhere to be seen, just a long stretch beach devoid of dogs. Somehow she is convinced that I will believe her and respond, "Well, okay, if they have a dog then I guess you can have one too." She believes that I am an unmotivated pushover. She believes her bit of smoke and magic will convince me to ignore her. It doesn't. "I'll talk to them after I'm done speaking with you," I respond.
"You do that. You go and do that now," she barks as she yanks Jimbo from his investigatory snorgling.
"In a moment, but please take your dog off the beach."
"Good job," she sarcastically remarks over her shoulder adding "Dick" in that way that is designed to be soft enough to be under one's breath but loud enough for the intended to hear.
"Thank you."
Yep. First hand experience as well. We love ourselves the public.
I've been told all manner of things including, "It's not a dog. It's a boy.", "It's not mine" (said with leash and doggy bag in hand), "So...", and "You're a racist" (yes, for asking someone to take their dog off the beach). I have also been told "I'm sorry. I didn't know." I much prefer the latter. I know it seems to you, the dog owner that we have specifically singled you out to pull the plug on your day's enjoyment. If you were ignorant, I'm sympathetic. If you were not, I'm not. I'll still approach you with the hope that you'll smile, thank me for the info, and take Benji off the beach. If you do, thank you. Thank you for that little ray of sunshine. You've also smartly avoided a pricey ticket. If you don't, well what follows next is on you. And giving me the finger doesn't change the rules. Yep, I get that too.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Lem'me esplain...
It usually starts like this. I see a dog. On the beach. I groan. I groan, not because the thought of a sudden end to my sedentary lifestyle is repugnant (i.e. get off my lazy ass). I groan because of experience. Sometimes these encounters go well. So often they do not.
Again, lem'me esplain...
A woman and her labrador enters the beach by a closed lifeguard station. Now at this point it could simply be nothing more than she missed the signs in the parking lot or on the back of the tower. In all fairness the ordinance is not particularly well posted and our agency as well as the police do very little to educate the public on this issue prior to their arrival to the beach. At this point I cut the woman some slack, but in the back of my mind lurks this, "She knows." She knows that a closed tower means no lifeguard and no lifeguard means no one to enforce the ordinance. She knows she can do whatever she wants.
So she starts her jog. She lets Jimbo off the leash and he immediately begins terrorizing the local bird population. She continues in my direction. I expel my groan, grab my can, and with a smile I walk to intercept her. What happens next will tell me everything.
Option 1: She sees me and then turns around and heads in the opposite direction. Yep, she knows, and she knows how to play the game. I'm not going to chase her down. I have water to watch and swimmer safety is far more important than running down a jogger and her Jimbo. She'll run until she encounters the next open tower and then once again reverse her field. I once had a woman play this game in between two sequentially open towers. The other guard and myself slowly walked towards each other and she shuttled back and forth like a ping pong ball until he intercepted her and sent her packing. She claimed ignorance. Her actions claimed otherwise. At least she and her pooch covered quite a distance before their day ended with a little lifeguard rain. I do believe the public sees us as the fun police.
Option 2: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and the following explanation, "Unfortunately dogs are not allowed on the beach, and you will receive a costly ticket if you remain. Fortunately you are more than welcome to have them on the boardwalk." She apologizes and thanks me for the information. I pet Jimbo. She leashes him and leaves. I love option two! It makes my day easier and allows me to return to that which I value most - watching the water.
Option 3: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps, "I know!" and runs on by. Oh do I feel the love and even more so, the respect. Now in my head I retort, "Really, you do? You know? By any chance do you know my foot? My left one? Because it is about to get acquainted with your ass." But you and I both realize that if that were to make it out of my mouth and into her ears all sorts of ugliness would ensue and quite possibly my continued employment would be in question. Instead I re-emphasize my point, and she re-emphasizes hers with the added, "And what are you going to do about it?"
"Give you a hug," is, again, the thought response because it sure sounds like she could use one. Instead I mention the police and a supervisor. If she's played the game before she knows there is a good chance that neither will respond and so she continues on her jog, sharing the love with each lifeguard she encounters. If she's uncertain, she'll leave the beach at an obtuse angle traveling as far down the soft sand as possible in a final passive/aggressive swipe at me just doing my job.
I'm not a big fan of option 3.
Option 4: She continues in my direction. I interrupt her jog with a wave and an explanation. She snaps back, "What about those people? Why do they get to have a dog?" I call option four the grade school option. It brings me back to those days of third grade with the pointed finger seeking supposed fairness and attempting to deflect blame. More often than not there are no "those people" anywhere to be seen, just a long stretch beach devoid of dogs. Somehow she is convinced that I will believe her and respond, "Well, okay, if they have a dog then I guess you can have one too." She believes that I am an unmotivated pushover. She believes her bit of smoke and magic will convince me to ignore her. It doesn't. "I'll talk to them after I'm done speaking with you," I respond.
"You do that. You go and do that now," she barks as she yanks Jimbo from his investigatory snorgling.
"In a moment, but please take your dog off the beach."
"Good job," she sarcastically remarks over her shoulder adding "Dick" in that way that is designed to be soft enough to be under one's breath but loud enough for the intended to hear.
"Thank you."
Yep. First hand experience as well. We love ourselves the public.
I've been told all manner of things including, "It's not a dog. It's a boy.", "It's not mine" (said with leash and doggy bag in hand), "So...", and "You're a racist" (yes, for asking someone to take their dog off the beach). I have also been told "I'm sorry. I didn't know." I much prefer the latter. I know it seems to you, the dog owner that we have specifically singled you out to pull the plug on your day's enjoyment. If you were ignorant, I'm sympathetic. If you were not, I'm not. I'll still approach you with the hope that you'll smile, thank me for the info, and take Benji off the beach. If you do, thank you. Thank you for that little ray of sunshine. You've also smartly avoided a pricey ticket. If you don't, well what follows next is on you. And giving me the finger doesn't change the rules. Yep, I get that too.
© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter. All Rights Reserved.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)