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.
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