You learn lots of things working as a lifeguard.
CPR, BLS, EAP’s. They literally make you take a week-long course beforehand—if you’re like me and get your chemical certification with your basic life support so you can earn sixteen bucks an hour instead of thirteen.
My favorite part is what we call the Good Samaritan Law. Or as my instructors called it, the CYA law. (We have an acronym for everything.)
That one stands for “cover your ass”.
It means, in my state, anyway, that a first-responder, like a lifeguard, cannot be sued or jailed for actions taken to save a person’s life in an emergency.
It comes in handy often. I guard a place called the Camrock Quarry. Not its real name, of course, but who cares. It’s a glorified swimming pool, except forty feet deep, and we have parents who think we’re a daycare. I regularly fish two to three kids out the deep end, only to drop them off, crying, to parents lazing in our chairs on their phones, angry that I won’t let their kids back in the water for a half-hour and they actually have to care for them.
They threaten to sue. Every. Goddamn. Day.
Other than that, it’s chill.
I spend one hour scanning an area. Then two beautiful, sharp, whistles blow. And it’s a chair change. And I get to walk over to another area and watch there. We have breaks sometimes. That’s what adult-swim is.
Today, my coworker, Dede, roves toward me.
“That woman’s child vomited watermelon in the toddler pool again.”
I pause. Blink.
“Is that all she feeds it?
Dede shrugs. I rub my face.
“I’ll turn on the pumps.”
I clean the “biomass”. Treat and recycle the water.
Feel the stares of “That woman” on my back.
“Why’s it taking so long?” She asks.
I tell her we have to rerun all the water through our filters.
“Well what am I supposed to do?”
I don’t want to argue.
“Well my manager bought us ice-cream last week. You could have some while you wait.”
Surprisingly, this works. And five minutes later we’re standing in the building kitchen.
“You look like a drumstick man.” I say to the woman’s kid, and make a show of him getting the last in the box. He’s actually really sweet. He’s got acid reflux and his mom doesn’t like to pay for tums.
Then I dig back in the freezer.
“And would you like an ice-pop, ma’am?”
“I think I deserve one, at this point.”
“Yep.”
The boy eats his desert with feral energy. His mother is more hesitant. I watch her face pucker.
“These are sugar-free, aren’t they?” She asks.
I pretend to check the box. It’s my revenge.
“Oh yeah, huh. Sorry.”
She drops it dramatically into our trash. Bitch. We’ll get bees.
Fifteen minutes later she’s pawned her child off to Dede, and I watch her swim in the deepest part of Camrock, what we call “The Pit”. It’s the actual full forty-foot deep part. We don’t allow children there.
You can’t see the bottom. It just goes black after a few feet.
Sometimes I wonder how many bodies have to be beneath that murk.
What else can you do when you spend twelve hours a day staring at water?
I watch that woman swim to the center of the pit.
Then she touches her head.
And she sinks.
Did you know we’re not supposed to call them victims? They’re “GID’s.” Guests in Distress. Because “It’s not their fault they’re in trouble.”
Nonsense.
But I do my job. Just because I hate someone doesn’t mean I want to get fired.
I blow my whistle long and dive in with my rescue tube. People evacuate. Scream. Get directed to call 9-1-1.
By the time I get her on my tube she’s not breathing. I grab her chin and force open her airway.
Someone slides a board into the water. We pull her out.
I begin CPR.
Her ribs crack, her chest caving as I push hard and fast atop her. It sounds like someone stepping on twigs.
Dede runs up with our crash bag.
“I’ve got the AED! I’ve got the AED!”
And she tries to pull the woman’s shirt off while I’m still doing compressions.
“Christ!” I say. “Calm down.”
And then I help cut the woman’s shirt off. Her boy is watching us. Crying. There’s still ice-cream on his face.
We paste the pads on and wait.
“V-TAC. SHOCK ADVISED.” The machine says. “STAND CLEAR.”
The woman’s whole body arcs.
“PULSE DETECTED.”
She doesn’t talk. It’s not like the movies, where someone sits up and speaks. Instead the woman rolls over, crying softly, and vomits. I roll her onto her left side. Dede vacuums out her mouth.
By then the ambulance has arrived.
The EMT’s put her on the stretcher. One of them taps my shoulder after she’s loaded in.
“Hey,” He says. “Congrats. You just saved a life.”
I smile.
Broken ribs. Possible brain damage. She’s going to be in the hospital for months, not to mention the damage of the medical debt.
I think of her boy.
Saved indeed.
All I needed was an ice-pop tray and the key to our chemical shed. And I’m legally protected.
Just thought I’d say.
Enjoy your Summer.