Don Briscoe
1945 to 1949
A Days Work Without Pay
This story begins in Huntington Beach just south of the pier. My wife was a big sun buff and loved the beach. Now that our three daughters are grown and I no longer had to watch them in the water, one would think that I could have a nice relaxing day at the beach. But as all ex-lifeguards know, once a lifeguard always a lifeguard. On this particular day a group of six, two adults and four teenagers spread their towels next to ours. As soon as the teenagers were dripping with perspiration, two boys made a dash for the water. The front runner made a belly slide and was semi-submerged when his buddy, running behind him, jumped up and land with both feet on his friends back. This was so much fun that he jumped in the air and again and pounced on him once again. At this point my lifeguard training took over and I sprinted into the water and shoved the standing teenager off of the victim. I reached down and turned the young boy over so that his face was out of the water. He was breathing and as I supported his head and back, he looked at me with his big sad eyes and said, “Please help me.” I carried him to the beach and by then the local lifeguard was there. They transported him to the hospital. I walked back to where my wife was and one of the adult women said to me, “My son didn’t really mean to hurt Billy.” I said to her, “We can only hope that his neck is not broken.” Unfortunately I read in the paper the next day that Billy’s neck was broken and that he was totally paralyzed.
I am 77 years old and I still cannot go to the beach without lifeguarding
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Hank Butcher Story, By Robin Williams
Hank Butcher Story,
By Robin Williams
The Sandpiper was the hang out for all the Marine pilots from El Toro during the Korean War and Vietnam and maybe even WWII for all I know. My first beer upon turning 21 years of age was celebrated in the Sandpiper!
One night I was sitting at the bar in the Sandpiper and enjoying conversation with the bar tender while a dozen or so Laguna High School people were hustling some great looking girls from South Pasadena. You can always tell the Pasadena girls...they are the ones with white shoes...and pink lipstick...and the scent of an uplifting odor in their neck and shoulders that sends us beach boys into a wild man frenzy of "head banging" on the nearest wall.
I was a Laguna Lifeguard and one of the types that grew up on the rocky coves of Laguna and I knew every handhold and every route through any rock mass to rescue swimmers and scuba divers efficiently. In other words, I was before the LONG SWIM TESTS that allowed the big city pool swimmers to take our jobs and rule in our stead! I was of the era where we had the distinction of never losing a life to drowning. That was the same era as Westgaard and Sorrels and Jake Jacobsen and Phil Jones and Chad Burton. We all knew each other like the back of our own hands and when we called for help from the Main Tower we knew exactly who to send out on the long "RIPS" to pull three or four people in at one time. And we also knew who to send over the rocks or into a swirling mass of white water and suction. We all knew each other's beach background and abilities.
Those were the great days of Life Guarding and they gave us a foundation for living our lives in the real world of swirling masses of business horror!
But one incident prepared me like no other. It happened at the Sandpiper. Captain Hank Butcher sat down beside me. Hank is the consummate man's man. He is the guy that should have been the star of every war movie ever made. If he looks at you without smiling you find yourself running outside to puke. He scares the living puke out of anyone that receives his gaze.
I was on Coast Inn beach that week. This is the beach where women come to drag us into their lair and turn us into either mountain men or send us into early retirement as unfit for duty...in anything other than lying in a fetal position and sobbing uncontrollably for the rest of our lives. The women of Coast Inn Beach should have been the recruiters for the Special Forces. They quickly determined the men from the piddlin' little boys. Coast Inn Beach was the dance of death for every life guard in Laguna.
Hank actually talked to me at the bar that night. I couldn't believe it. He actually engaged me in conversation. I was under the impression that he would only talk to me if he really wanted to know something important. But, here he was...talking and enjoying a beer right next to me at the Sandpiper!
Then he asked me a question. He said, "Volleyball sometimes is tempting isn't it? I mean, while you are on duty?" "Yeah!" I blurted out. But caught myself. "Yeah, but I never play volley ball no matter how tempting it is." I truly did not think I was lying. I truly believed what I had just said. I was probing my mind to see if I remembered playing volleyball while I was on duty but could not remember a single time. Hank said, "Good, that's good. Someone could just disappear under a wave and you would never see him if you were playing volleyball. I am glad you don't do it. Well, that's it for me. See you later, Robin." And....Hank walked out of the Sandpiper and disappeared into the night.
The next day at Coast Inn Beach, it was overcast and cool and nobody in the water. A game of volleyball started up and they all wanted me to play. I took a fast look around, saw that it was virtually void of swimmers and happily joined the game. I was having a great time and actually winning. Then I looked up and here came a vision akin to Tarzan walking up the beach with a cigar in his teeth and smiling at me with a broad smile. It was Captain Hank Bucher ...and I had no pulse. My mind went blank and I did not have any verbal skills whatsoever. He said a few words to me...no way to remember what they were...but it was something like..."Everything ok here?"
I said, "Oh braib dib the all right snuh fert if the sun hahshed moah cattinflaw braypte."
He didn't look at me.... just whispered, “Yeah, I thought so too. Well, keep on it. See you later.” And he walked on toward Wood's Cove.
I stood by my tower for the rest of the day...not thinking. Not talking. Just standing there stunned at my own revelation about myself. It was beyond humiliation. It was heavier than any human emotion. It was pretty horrible. I felt something like a freight train that is stopped and just sitting on the tracks in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Eventually, my wheels began to turn and I began to move with a new vision.
I have never lied again in my damn life.
And nobody drowned during my time on the beach.
Thanks Hank!
And thanks all you big cats from the Main Tower who helped me out whenever I needed it. Especially that huge day at Crescent Cove on the 4th of July in 1957!
Gawd, I miss Westgaard.
Robin D. Williams
Laguna
By Robin Williams
The Sandpiper was the hang out for all the Marine pilots from El Toro during the Korean War and Vietnam and maybe even WWII for all I know. My first beer upon turning 21 years of age was celebrated in the Sandpiper!
One night I was sitting at the bar in the Sandpiper and enjoying conversation with the bar tender while a dozen or so Laguna High School people were hustling some great looking girls from South Pasadena. You can always tell the Pasadena girls...they are the ones with white shoes...and pink lipstick...and the scent of an uplifting odor in their neck and shoulders that sends us beach boys into a wild man frenzy of "head banging" on the nearest wall.
I was a Laguna Lifeguard and one of the types that grew up on the rocky coves of Laguna and I knew every handhold and every route through any rock mass to rescue swimmers and scuba divers efficiently. In other words, I was before the LONG SWIM TESTS that allowed the big city pool swimmers to take our jobs and rule in our stead! I was of the era where we had the distinction of never losing a life to drowning. That was the same era as Westgaard and Sorrels and Jake Jacobsen and Phil Jones and Chad Burton. We all knew each other like the back of our own hands and when we called for help from the Main Tower we knew exactly who to send out on the long "RIPS" to pull three or four people in at one time. And we also knew who to send over the rocks or into a swirling mass of white water and suction. We all knew each other's beach background and abilities.
Those were the great days of Life Guarding and they gave us a foundation for living our lives in the real world of swirling masses of business horror!
But one incident prepared me like no other. It happened at the Sandpiper. Captain Hank Butcher sat down beside me. Hank is the consummate man's man. He is the guy that should have been the star of every war movie ever made. If he looks at you without smiling you find yourself running outside to puke. He scares the living puke out of anyone that receives his gaze.
I was on Coast Inn beach that week. This is the beach where women come to drag us into their lair and turn us into either mountain men or send us into early retirement as unfit for duty...in anything other than lying in a fetal position and sobbing uncontrollably for the rest of our lives. The women of Coast Inn Beach should have been the recruiters for the Special Forces. They quickly determined the men from the piddlin' little boys. Coast Inn Beach was the dance of death for every life guard in Laguna.
Hank actually talked to me at the bar that night. I couldn't believe it. He actually engaged me in conversation. I was under the impression that he would only talk to me if he really wanted to know something important. But, here he was...talking and enjoying a beer right next to me at the Sandpiper!
Then he asked me a question. He said, "Volleyball sometimes is tempting isn't it? I mean, while you are on duty?" "Yeah!" I blurted out. But caught myself. "Yeah, but I never play volley ball no matter how tempting it is." I truly did not think I was lying. I truly believed what I had just said. I was probing my mind to see if I remembered playing volleyball while I was on duty but could not remember a single time. Hank said, "Good, that's good. Someone could just disappear under a wave and you would never see him if you were playing volleyball. I am glad you don't do it. Well, that's it for me. See you later, Robin." And....Hank walked out of the Sandpiper and disappeared into the night.
The next day at Coast Inn Beach, it was overcast and cool and nobody in the water. A game of volleyball started up and they all wanted me to play. I took a fast look around, saw that it was virtually void of swimmers and happily joined the game. I was having a great time and actually winning. Then I looked up and here came a vision akin to Tarzan walking up the beach with a cigar in his teeth and smiling at me with a broad smile. It was Captain Hank Bucher ...and I had no pulse. My mind went blank and I did not have any verbal skills whatsoever. He said a few words to me...no way to remember what they were...but it was something like..."Everything ok here?"
I said, "Oh braib dib the all right snuh fert if the sun hahshed moah cattinflaw braypte."
He didn't look at me.... just whispered, “Yeah, I thought so too. Well, keep on it. See you later.” And he walked on toward Wood's Cove.
I stood by my tower for the rest of the day...not thinking. Not talking. Just standing there stunned at my own revelation about myself. It was beyond humiliation. It was heavier than any human emotion. It was pretty horrible. I felt something like a freight train that is stopped and just sitting on the tracks in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Eventually, my wheels began to turn and I began to move with a new vision.
I have never lied again in my damn life.
And nobody drowned during my time on the beach.
Thanks Hank!
And thanks all you big cats from the Main Tower who helped me out whenever I needed it. Especially that huge day at Crescent Cove on the 4th of July in 1957!
Gawd, I miss Westgaard.
Robin D. Williams
Laguna
Airplane on Main Beach
Airplane on Main Beach
Rod Reihl
On one overcast winter day in the early 1960s, a group of us were sitting in the tiny upstairs room of the Main Beach Tower, which was the headquarters at that time. I was sitting in a chair farthest from the windows. Dean Westgaard and Eugene De Paulis were looking out over the beach. Dale Ghere was busy with some paper work.
All of a sudden De Paulis gasped, stood up and jumped toward the narrow hole in the floor leading to the ladder and the room below. Westgaard yelled and made a dive for the stairwell. I quickly stood up and looked out the window to the north. There, coming directly at the tower only about seventy-five yards away was a small single-engine plane! My leap for the hole was too late as I was rudely elbowed out of the way by the preceding bodies. I practically free fell through the opening, waiting for the crash that never came. Poor Dale Ghere was left upstairs wondering what was going on.
At the last second the plane veered slightly to the south, barely missed the tower, landed in the sand, rolled fifty yards or so, and tilted up on its nose. Luckily, it was a bleak winter day and there was no one on the beach. Later they were able to repair the plane and it actually took off under its own power.
There was no harm done except for some high adrenaline rushes!
Footnote by Dale Ghere,
I remember this day also. I was sitting with my back to the window and looking down at some paper work when everyone just sort of disappeared in a flurry. I figured that something was happening out front that needed immediate action so I turned around to see what was causing all of the commotion.
I was caught in one of those experiences where people say that time seemed to stand still. I was looking eyeball to eyeball with the guy in the plane. I doubt that he even saw me he was so focused on the tower. With eyes fixed and jaw locked he was doing everything he could do to miss the tower and land on the beach. I just sat there transfixed in space and time as he drifted by. It felt like I could have just reached out and touched the wing. If he could have taken a picture of me it would have probably shown a slack jaw, big-eyed Cyclops peering out the window. It was all over before I could even flex.
As it turned out I think that he had some kind of fuel problem. He ordered some parts and got the plane fixed. He put in some gas, got a ticket for landing on the beach and took off for who knows where. I always figured he must have been a pretty good pilot to be able to pull off that trick.
Rod Reihl
On one overcast winter day in the early 1960s, a group of us were sitting in the tiny upstairs room of the Main Beach Tower, which was the headquarters at that time. I was sitting in a chair farthest from the windows. Dean Westgaard and Eugene De Paulis were looking out over the beach. Dale Ghere was busy with some paper work.
All of a sudden De Paulis gasped, stood up and jumped toward the narrow hole in the floor leading to the ladder and the room below. Westgaard yelled and made a dive for the stairwell. I quickly stood up and looked out the window to the north. There, coming directly at the tower only about seventy-five yards away was a small single-engine plane! My leap for the hole was too late as I was rudely elbowed out of the way by the preceding bodies. I practically free fell through the opening, waiting for the crash that never came. Poor Dale Ghere was left upstairs wondering what was going on.
At the last second the plane veered slightly to the south, barely missed the tower, landed in the sand, rolled fifty yards or so, and tilted up on its nose. Luckily, it was a bleak winter day and there was no one on the beach. Later they were able to repair the plane and it actually took off under its own power.
There was no harm done except for some high adrenaline rushes!
Footnote by Dale Ghere,
I remember this day also. I was sitting with my back to the window and looking down at some paper work when everyone just sort of disappeared in a flurry. I figured that something was happening out front that needed immediate action so I turned around to see what was causing all of the commotion.
I was caught in one of those experiences where people say that time seemed to stand still. I was looking eyeball to eyeball with the guy in the plane. I doubt that he even saw me he was so focused on the tower. With eyes fixed and jaw locked he was doing everything he could do to miss the tower and land on the beach. I just sat there transfixed in space and time as he drifted by. It felt like I could have just reached out and touched the wing. If he could have taken a picture of me it would have probably shown a slack jaw, big-eyed Cyclops peering out the window. It was all over before I could even flex.
As it turned out I think that he had some kind of fuel problem. He ordered some parts and got the plane fixed. He put in some gas, got a ticket for landing on the beach and took off for who knows where. I always figured he must have been a pretty good pilot to be able to pull off that trick.
Ocean Godfathers, By Jeff Quam
A letter from Jeff Quam
1969-1979
I was lucky to grow up in such a great town as Laguna Beach. Everywhere around town you got the feeling of extended family. A couple of blocks over from where we lived Mr. Trotter the baker lived, who, if I showed up mid-morning on Saturday and produced a nickel at the back door of his Forest Street bakery, would give me a great bag of day old donuts to sugar my Saturday mornings. Then off down Forest Ave. to our friend Earl, the butcher, to get a big hello and handshake and look over the biggest pickles I could ever have dreamed of. Laguna was full of stand-in parents, not in the bad sense of that meaning as in always telling a kid what to do, but in a good natured way of helping a youngster feel good about things.
For me, being so much in love with the ocean, the most powerful Godfathers in my world were my ocean Godfathers. They helped form and mold me into the ocean athlete I became. There were many influences, which had a great impact on my experience in regards to lifeguard, and surfing was key to that experience. Surfing puts a lot of environmental pressure on one to perform which is perfect for a budding ocean athlete. My foremost Godfather in this regard was Jack Lincke. Always taking me out before and after work, surfing and encouraging me to spend every spare minute in the water at St. Ann’s beach, surf-mat riding. He was also there at my older sister Cindy's wedding to lifeguard captain Eugene DePaulis when several lifeguards, Jack Lincke, John Parlette, Lew Parlette, and a couple of others cornered my Dad to convince him surfing was in my best interest and that none of those bad guys at Thalia St. would ruin my life.
I had swimming Godfathers too. The first I can remember was John Parlette who paddled next to me on one of those huge red rescue boards, during one of my early Jr. Lifeguard rock swims, and dunked my head underwater every time I'd raise it up to look around. A little later, it was Dale Ghere who was Jr. Lifeguard Godfather but also helped me out personally by letting me swim with his swim team during the winter months while I had to go to private school far from the ocean.
Someone who helped me out tremendously with my lifeguard experience both in the water and out was Dean Westgaard. Dean was from the school of " whatever doesn't kill you will only make you stronger or stranger. " He taught me many lessons about how to overcome my fears, mostly about having to do with high places.
All of these great people contributed so much to our department and to my life, I'm sure my experience growing up in Laguna would not have been so wonderful without all of these ocean Godfathers.
Jeff Quam
1969-1979
I was lucky to grow up in such a great town as Laguna Beach. Everywhere around town you got the feeling of extended family. A couple of blocks over from where we lived Mr. Trotter the baker lived, who, if I showed up mid-morning on Saturday and produced a nickel at the back door of his Forest Street bakery, would give me a great bag of day old donuts to sugar my Saturday mornings. Then off down Forest Ave. to our friend Earl, the butcher, to get a big hello and handshake and look over the biggest pickles I could ever have dreamed of. Laguna was full of stand-in parents, not in the bad sense of that meaning as in always telling a kid what to do, but in a good natured way of helping a youngster feel good about things.
For me, being so much in love with the ocean, the most powerful Godfathers in my world were my ocean Godfathers. They helped form and mold me into the ocean athlete I became. There were many influences, which had a great impact on my experience in regards to lifeguard, and surfing was key to that experience. Surfing puts a lot of environmental pressure on one to perform which is perfect for a budding ocean athlete. My foremost Godfather in this regard was Jack Lincke. Always taking me out before and after work, surfing and encouraging me to spend every spare minute in the water at St. Ann’s beach, surf-mat riding. He was also there at my older sister Cindy's wedding to lifeguard captain Eugene DePaulis when several lifeguards, Jack Lincke, John Parlette, Lew Parlette, and a couple of others cornered my Dad to convince him surfing was in my best interest and that none of those bad guys at Thalia St. would ruin my life.
I had swimming Godfathers too. The first I can remember was John Parlette who paddled next to me on one of those huge red rescue boards, during one of my early Jr. Lifeguard rock swims, and dunked my head underwater every time I'd raise it up to look around. A little later, it was Dale Ghere who was Jr. Lifeguard Godfather but also helped me out personally by letting me swim with his swim team during the winter months while I had to go to private school far from the ocean.
Someone who helped me out tremendously with my lifeguard experience both in the water and out was Dean Westgaard. Dean was from the school of " whatever doesn't kill you will only make you stronger or stranger. " He taught me many lessons about how to overcome my fears, mostly about having to do with high places.
All of these great people contributed so much to our department and to my life, I'm sure my experience growing up in Laguna would not have been so wonderful without all of these ocean Godfathers.
Jeff Quam
A Kiwi Tale
A Kiwi Tale
By Tom Redwitz
During the winter of 1978, Mark Klosterman and I traveled to the South Pacific to surf. We had heard about a lifeguard exchange program in New Zealand and thought it would be a great way to start our trip. We’d meet some fellow lifeguards, share ideas and have a place to stay as we explored a new country. In December we arrived in New Zealand to begin our adventure.
In the 70’s, professional lifeguarding was just a concept in New Zealand. “Lifesaving”, as it was more commonly called, was performed by volunteers. These were guys who loved to be at the beach, compete in ocean-orientated activities and “party hardy”. To attract participation, lifesaving clubs were typically established at the popular beaches with expansive clubhouses that facilitated large parties – picture a fraternity house, live bands, kegs of Red Lion lager and watermen in search of women.
Pihia (pronounced “pee-haa”) Lifesaving Club, on the west coast of New Zealand near the city of Auckland, was our first host while Mark and I were there and they generously offered to let us stay in the bunkroom of their clubhouse. Unfortunately, the clubhouse, perched on a bluff overlooking the coast, was showing signs of heavy wear and tear and had a swarm of mosquitoes hovering in the bunkroom. Making matters worse, our first night at Pihia, there was a raging party that made it impossible to go to sleep in the bunkroom. We were beat from traveling and after sizing up the situation, we realized we needed to find somewhere to sleep other than the clubhouse.
Being resourceful Laguna lifeguards, we located a small trailer parked on the sand by the water that served as a mobile lifesaving station. It was the type of travel trailer you might see being towed by a family on a fun summer camping trip. It was an ideal place for us to crash for the night, so we settled in and drifted off to sleep.
Just after dawn, we woke up to a person pounding on the trailer and yelling HELP! Mark and I stumbled out of bed and learned from the frantic man that he had been fishing from the shoreline a mile or so up the beach with his daughter and that she had been swept out to sea by a large wave. We quickly put on our Speedo’s, grabbed our fins and rescue tubes, and jumped into the man’s jeep so he could take us to the scene of the incident.
The beach at Pihia is like Huntington, long and flat. And the surf has multiple break lines both near the shore and far out. As we sped up the beach we could see the surf had picked up to about 10 feet and so we planned our strategy. I would swim to the outside surf line in case the girl was caught in a rip. Mark would search the wave zone closer to shore. Several moments after hitting the water, Mark caught a glimpse of dark hair tumbling in a wave, rushed toward it, grabbed the limp body of a young girl and pulled her to the beach. He immediately extended her neck to open an airway and gave her a few puffs of air. Fortunately, the girl regained consciousness and was soon being comforted by her grateful father.
The story would probably have ended there, one of countless rescues by Laguna lifeguards, except for the fact that a reporter happened to be passing by the scene as Mark and I pulled up and hit the water. She witnessed the whole rescue and thought it would make a great story for her paper, The New Zealand Herald. We agreed to meet her later that day for an interview about the rescue.
We spent quite a while with our new reporter friend explaining what had happened, our plan of attack and our actions at the rescue scene. We also shared with her our background in California and that we were participating in a lifeguard exchange program. During the course of the interview, she asked why we happened to be sleeping on the beach that particular night. This question caught us a little off guard because we certainly didn’t want to offend our host by saying the clubhouse was a dive or admit that we were party wimps and wanted to go to bed early. Mark, in a moment of inspiration, told a little white lie and confidently responded ” In California we believe in a ‘preventive’ form of lifesaving’ (which is true) and the surf was getting bigger (which was also true), and we decided we wanted to be on the beach just in case anything happened”.
The next day, our Pihia lifesaving friends presented us with that morning’s newspaper. There, on the front page, in two-inch high bold letters, read the headline “Lifeguards’ Decision To Stay Saves Life”. Also on the front page was a photograph of Mark and me in Speedo’s, down on one knee holding our rescue tubes. As if this wasn’t enough, The New Zealand Herald was a member of United Press International which daily shares the top news stories with its worldwide membership. Soon we began hearing that the story was in our local California newspapers and that Connie Chung reported it on the 6 o’clock evening news. My parents, who were vacationing in Hawaii at the time, had it flash across their hotel room TV. Mark’s dad heard our story over the radio while walking in Three Arch Bay.
Mark and I completed our lifeguard exchange duties over the following weeks as celebrity lifesavers. We eventually met up with fellow Laguna lifeguards Dick Johnson and John Gill, as well as San Clemente guard Larry Moore. We strapped five surfboards on the top of an Opel station wagon, taped an American flag to the car antenna and spent the next month exploring New Zealand for surf. That’s another lifeguard story.
By Tom Redwitz
During the winter of 1978, Mark Klosterman and I traveled to the South Pacific to surf. We had heard about a lifeguard exchange program in New Zealand and thought it would be a great way to start our trip. We’d meet some fellow lifeguards, share ideas and have a place to stay as we explored a new country. In December we arrived in New Zealand to begin our adventure.
In the 70’s, professional lifeguarding was just a concept in New Zealand. “Lifesaving”, as it was more commonly called, was performed by volunteers. These were guys who loved to be at the beach, compete in ocean-orientated activities and “party hardy”. To attract participation, lifesaving clubs were typically established at the popular beaches with expansive clubhouses that facilitated large parties – picture a fraternity house, live bands, kegs of Red Lion lager and watermen in search of women.
Pihia (pronounced “pee-haa”) Lifesaving Club, on the west coast of New Zealand near the city of Auckland, was our first host while Mark and I were there and they generously offered to let us stay in the bunkroom of their clubhouse. Unfortunately, the clubhouse, perched on a bluff overlooking the coast, was showing signs of heavy wear and tear and had a swarm of mosquitoes hovering in the bunkroom. Making matters worse, our first night at Pihia, there was a raging party that made it impossible to go to sleep in the bunkroom. We were beat from traveling and after sizing up the situation, we realized we needed to find somewhere to sleep other than the clubhouse.
Being resourceful Laguna lifeguards, we located a small trailer parked on the sand by the water that served as a mobile lifesaving station. It was the type of travel trailer you might see being towed by a family on a fun summer camping trip. It was an ideal place for us to crash for the night, so we settled in and drifted off to sleep.
Just after dawn, we woke up to a person pounding on the trailer and yelling HELP! Mark and I stumbled out of bed and learned from the frantic man that he had been fishing from the shoreline a mile or so up the beach with his daughter and that she had been swept out to sea by a large wave. We quickly put on our Speedo’s, grabbed our fins and rescue tubes, and jumped into the man’s jeep so he could take us to the scene of the incident.
The beach at Pihia is like Huntington, long and flat. And the surf has multiple break lines both near the shore and far out. As we sped up the beach we could see the surf had picked up to about 10 feet and so we planned our strategy. I would swim to the outside surf line in case the girl was caught in a rip. Mark would search the wave zone closer to shore. Several moments after hitting the water, Mark caught a glimpse of dark hair tumbling in a wave, rushed toward it, grabbed the limp body of a young girl and pulled her to the beach. He immediately extended her neck to open an airway and gave her a few puffs of air. Fortunately, the girl regained consciousness and was soon being comforted by her grateful father.
The story would probably have ended there, one of countless rescues by Laguna lifeguards, except for the fact that a reporter happened to be passing by the scene as Mark and I pulled up and hit the water. She witnessed the whole rescue and thought it would make a great story for her paper, The New Zealand Herald. We agreed to meet her later that day for an interview about the rescue.
We spent quite a while with our new reporter friend explaining what had happened, our plan of attack and our actions at the rescue scene. We also shared with her our background in California and that we were participating in a lifeguard exchange program. During the course of the interview, she asked why we happened to be sleeping on the beach that particular night. This question caught us a little off guard because we certainly didn’t want to offend our host by saying the clubhouse was a dive or admit that we were party wimps and wanted to go to bed early. Mark, in a moment of inspiration, told a little white lie and confidently responded ” In California we believe in a ‘preventive’ form of lifesaving’ (which is true) and the surf was getting bigger (which was also true), and we decided we wanted to be on the beach just in case anything happened”.
The next day, our Pihia lifesaving friends presented us with that morning’s newspaper. There, on the front page, in two-inch high bold letters, read the headline “Lifeguards’ Decision To Stay Saves Life”. Also on the front page was a photograph of Mark and me in Speedo’s, down on one knee holding our rescue tubes. As if this wasn’t enough, The New Zealand Herald was a member of United Press International which daily shares the top news stories with its worldwide membership. Soon we began hearing that the story was in our local California newspapers and that Connie Chung reported it on the 6 o’clock evening news. My parents, who were vacationing in Hawaii at the time, had it flash across their hotel room TV. Mark’s dad heard our story over the radio while walking in Three Arch Bay.
Mark and I completed our lifeguard exchange duties over the following weeks as celebrity lifesavers. We eventually met up with fellow Laguna lifeguards Dick Johnson and John Gill, as well as San Clemente guard Larry Moore. We strapped five surfboards on the top of an Opel station wagon, taped an American flag to the car antenna and spent the next month exploring New Zealand for surf. That’s another lifeguard story.
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