Tweakers Don't Make Great Swimmers

Now do I know for certain that the couple were tweakers?  Nope.  Yes, they were emaciated.  Yes, their skin had some interesting bumps and discolorations, but in the end it was one of those things, one of those rescues begin on the sand things, that led me to say, "I should keep an eye on those two."  I wasn't especially concerned that they might skeedadle with some other patron's belongings.  It was late in the afternoon.  The sun had dropped low enough to put a healthy glare on the water and most of the crowd had left for the day.  Had they wanted something that wasn't theirs, the best they could do at that hour was a couple of towels and a t-shirt or two.  Maybe if you are desperate for a score everything has a resale value, but I wasn't getting that from them.  They were in their own little happy land.  Well, not happy, as it seemed as though they were on the return to earth phase, and I think they had hit hard.  They were still in a bit of a stupor from the impact.  My concern wasn't for their sticky fingers (something for which we do look), it was if they decided to go for a swim.

Which is precisely what they did.

Alcohol, drugs, sudden health emergencies (e.g. heart attack), and overwhelming fatigue are among the several causes of passive drowning.  As I mentioned in a previous post, passive drowners just surrender.  They capitulate to the grim reaper's grasp without the slightest sign of struggle.  One moment they are there, the next moment they are gone.  If no one was paying attention then no one is even aware that they are missing, that is until someone starts wondering about Fred.  Now if that person happens to be at home and the sun has set, well then Fred's dead, and not maybe.  Fred's dead.

This is why the lifeguard is constantly scanning the water.  He is constantly cataloging the swimmers, body boarders, surfers, and waders in his area.  He notes the ones of concern and continues on.  On the return pass he accounts for everyone.  If a swimmer appears to be missing, a quick scan of the white water, the beach and back to the original area are made to reconcile the absence.  And this goes on all day, everyday.  The next time you are enjoying a summer day at the beach, give it a go.  It's anything but easy.

The tweakers walked down to the waters edge.  The surf was nonexistent.   They weren't stumbling about.  They just were, and that "were-ing" was enough to send my lifeguard intuition through the roof.  They engaged in a bit of the ol' grab ass, and then headed out into the evening's glass (glass = smooth water surface).  Both the female and the fellow easily swam heads up through the Pacific.  From my vantage point they may have been talking, possibly challenging each other  to swim further and/or faster.  No reason to feel that anything was amiss, yet my gut was insistent that amiss was exactly what was afoot.  Although my gut has a tendency to express itself when silence would be the preferred response, I have learned to listen when it has a premonitory voice.  I grabbed my can from its hook, left the tower and went for a walk.

As I have mentioned, the glare was anything but convenient.  It was directly out in front of me and nearly masked the two with whom I was concerned.  I stood on the beach and swung my can, announcing to the other guards my presence, and in many respects, my concerns.  I looked back at the couple that by now was probably 75 or so yards off the beach.  Her hand went up.  It didn't wave, just straight up like a student asking a question.  I didn't know it at the time but that question was, "Can you save me?"

I looked behind me, certain that she was acknowledging someone on the beach.  I mean she was with her beau and he wasn't freaking in the least.  He was treading water next to her and her head was still above the surface.  I threw one last look towards the back of the beach and thought, "Well, Simon says, 'Sumthin' ain't right.' So I'm going to go, but I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of shit.  They'll probably drop some f-bombs including telling me to 'get the fuck outta here' but I'm a lifeguard and when in doubt I go.  I was sportin' all sorts of doubt.  I went.

I hit the water hard.  Trailing behind me, my can knifed its way through the brine.  As a lifeguard you are taught to always keep your eyes on your rescue.  If you punch through a wave or take several head down strokes, you always pop up and re-establish visual contact with your victim.  When I re-established visual contact with my victim, I saw her boyfriend casually swimming in my direction.  I didn't see her, but I saw him.  He had a heads up stroke, hair still dry, and was arm over arm as if he was pulling himself along a rope back towards sandy safety.  He swam past me as I swam past him.  I guessed everything was cool.

It wasn't.  All that remained of her above the surface was her mid forearm.  It is strange to see just a forearm desperately reaching towards the sky as if Michelangelo's God was about to arrive and deliver life yet again.  I thrust my arm into the ocean's depths, grabbed her by the armpit and yanked her to the surface.  She spat, sputtered, and gasped, grabbed my can and didn't say a word.  My, "Are you okay?" was met only by a nod, as was my, "Can you hold on to my can?"

As I swam her towards the sand all I could think of was her boyfriend swimming back to the beach leaving her behind to drown.  My conclusion?  Well the two of them must of had one hell of a stash and he was rejoicing that it was now no one's but his.  "It's all mine, all mine!" I imagined him saying, albeit with a tweaked out slur and an occasional twitch.

By the time I got her back to the beach, he was nowhere to be seen.  She mumbled something and promptly wandered off towards the back of the beach.  No, "Thank you!" or "Oh my God, you saved my life!" which is not expected but appreciated, just mumbles and stumbles.  I collected my gear and returned to the tower, re-wrapping my can along the way.  As I did so I realized that had I not listened to my intuition, she would have drowned.  She didn't struggle.  She didn't resist the depth's pull.  She just raised her hand, almost as if to wave goodbye rather than wave for help.  She was a passive drowning in action.  Had I not responded she actually would have been a drowning and not a rescue.  This isn't a back pat or the search for one.  It is the description of a passive drowning and why it scares the shit out of us lifeguards.  If you are not looking at the right moment then there is nothing that you can do to prevent it.  It just happens.  It is far more helpful when someone desperate for assistance "climbs the ladder" or screams bloody murder.  It is obvious.  We like obvious.  One of these days I'll tell you what obvious is.

© Copyright 2011 David S. Carpenter.  All Rights Reserved.