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.