A Lucky Miss
By Charlie Ware
From “The Bullhorn”, March 1988
Bluebird Beach on a weekend can be not only crowded, but busy. Not like Main Beach or Crescent Bay, perhaps, but active, none-the-less. It took me only a few seconds to recognize that this Sunday’s eight hour’s duty was going to go quickly. An inconsistent 4-5 foot well was surprising many who’d come to enjoy Laguna on this summer’s day. One moment—Lake Laguna, then—wham! The next moment they were tumbled over and over by the beachbreak
I’d already spread a few items out south of my tower, hoping to save an area for the “Bluebird Bunch.” They always appreciated my saving their “spot” for their late morning arrival. Steadily, they came down the ramp, turning left as they hit the sand with a wave and a “Hello, Charlie.”
Each found their special place—reserved as if it had their names on it. Veteran beach goers, they numbered over 30 when they all got together to talk, play cards, read their Sunday editions, and listen to baseball games while enjoying the beach.
Soon after 1:00 p.m. the beach had completely filled—with my bunch tucked comfortably into their friendly pod. Turning north toward Mountain Road, I saw the MR guard leap off his tower and head a few yards south to a small rip.
I strained my eyes through my bino’s—watching two kids bobbing waist-deep in a strong current. The MR guard was on it fast and I figured he’d be giving them a “danger warning” and some close supervision. I watched it play out, knowing after two summers of guarding this stretch that they’d grab the tube in an instant unless they could struggle out of the turbulence unassisted.
I put my bino’s down—indulging in the old seductive “all’s well” feeling—when suddenly, with some embarrassment—I noticed a more desperate scene being played out in my area. The Agate Street rip had set up suddenly and a thin, unconditioned man in his 40’s was climbing the ladder in the ripcurrent’s choppy turbulence. He was facing the beach and his arms churned the water as he fought the current for all he was worth. But his technique was somewhat less effective than his waning strength. It was obvious he wasn’t going to make it.
Damn! Son-of-Bitch, I muttered, grabbing my tube. How could you let this get so far? I cursed myself as I sprinted leaden-footed across the hot sand. What would Dale Ghere, Dean Westgaard, Jack Lincke and all those who’d taught me preventative lifeguarding say if they saw this? I wove in and out of the crowd hoping nobody would notice my tardiness. My supervisors trusted me, the Bluebird bunch trusted me, the whole beach trusted and I was failing! It didn’t matter how many rescues, how many medical aids, how many Public Relations contacts I’d successfully completed. I’d let this one get a bad start.
“Oh! My god! Somebody help!”
The foundering man’s wife stood at the edge of the rip with her two children clinging to her leg. They cried in fear for their father who was now calling to anyone for help. The whole beach heard the cry and it seemed everyone was watching the drama unfold. As I passed the Bluebird Bunch, a “Go get him Charlie” rang out. I felt like a hometown batter—his team down by one run in the ninth—stepping to the plate and hearing the locals calling him to pull them out.
Popping my tube I passed the frantic family. With my first dolphin lunge I could see time was running out. He was nearly spent when I reached him. He lunged for my orange float—hugging it tight enough to bend both tips upward. Securing him, I swam him in to the open arms
Ware
of his loved ones—still crying—but now with relief. Helping him to his towel, he sat down, winded and pale.
I turned to jog back to my station and with the beach still standing, to my astonishment a slow steady clapping crackled from each group I passed. By the time I got to the “bunch” the applause was loud enough to cause embarrassment. I strained an uncomfortable smile as I stepped quickly up the beach. You got lucky Chucko, I muttered to myself as I reached my perch. Don’t they know I actually blew it? I thought as I fumbled wrapping my tube.
No, they didn’t know.
What they did know was a man and family were safe and I had something to do with that. How many thousands of times do guards perform acts of heroism without a single notice?
On that day a special moment had been rewarded and recognized.
Call it old-fashioned, out of step with today’s lack of consideration, but getting acknowledgment for doing a job feels good. It drove me harder to do my best in future endeavors and to believe that it is all worth it in the end.
Somehow I had lucked-out again. Even through I had taken a hardy swing and missed the ball—I bunted the next pitch. It was enough to bring my man home free and safe. We won the game and defeated disaster one more time.
