The following is an essay submitted, by request, to Duck Feet Digest. The author is Michael T. Martino, a retired chief lifeguard and lifeguard historian. Mike wrote this essay as a classroom assignment while earning his Master's degree. The assignment was to "pick an important object and tell its story." I think Mike did a very good job telling the story, so I asked him to share it with all of us.
FINS
BEYOND THE CALL OF DUTY
Michael T. Martino
You always remember your first. Mine happened at Seaside State Beach in Encinitas, California.
Day 1. First Weekend of June 1986.
I climb the ladder into tower # 2, gear bag over one shoulder and fins in hand.
“Hi, I’m Mike your rookie for a day.” I extend my hand to the veteran guard. He looks every bit the southern California lifeguard—6 feet tall, white blond hair, tan even in early June, and shoulders to waist a perfect “V”.
He doesn’t extend his hand. “Turn around and watch your water. What did they teach you at rookie school?”
“Never turn your back on the water,” I say automatically just like we said a thousand times in training. I set my fins on the tower deck and take a seat next to them. I dangle my feet over the edge. I look out at the ocean and see at least 200 people. I have no clue what to look for.
“Scan from left to right, right to left, then inside to outside, outside to inside. Remember little kids can go down in an inshore hole.”
I kick my feet nervously as I try to scan. The veteran’s voice floats over my left shoulder while he stands in the tower’s doorway. I glance behind me and see him looking over me and out at the water.
“I won’t tell you again. Watch your water.”
His gaze is far off and distant like a mystic, but he catches my every miscue. For the rest of my time in the tower, we will never look at one another. We watch the water and when we speak it is to the wind itself.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What’s your name again?”
“Alec.”
“Nice to meet you, Alec. I’m yours to mold or warp for the day.”
“I know.”
I try to focus, to keep my mind to the task. Swimmers and surfers mingle in the water. There is a red flag on the beach delineating the swimming and surfing zones, kids build sandcastles, and people hold hands as they walk along the shore. I see boys with their boogie boards attempting to hop over waves rather than riding them. The incoming waves take no notice and breaking fists of whitewater frequently knock them over. The voice floats over my head and calls out a command. “There’s a dog off leash, go make a contact.”
I grab my fins and rescue buoy and run to the contact. After telling the dog owner to put his dog back on leash, I run back to the tower and try to watch my water as I run, but I’m afraid of stumbling over an unseen beach hazard.
“There’s a surfer in the swim zone. Go down and get him to move.”
So I do.
This is my morning. Alec points out a problem area or a weak swimmer and I do his bidding. Run here, run there, always watch my water, anticipate trouble and take action to prevent it. Time ceases to have meaning. Maybe three hours pass or three hundred, when the impressionistic colors of the beach crowd coalesce in my novitiate’s mind and finally begin to take on the tiniest perception of form. I no longer see people, but rather potential problems or minor law violators. I decide to test myself by spotting the problem before Alec sends me. Unfortunately, like a witty comeback or a retort thought of the day after, I notice too late and the voice over my shoulder informs me of my next task.
“Do you see the girl in the surf area?”
I scan and see a little girl bouncing along the bottom. “Yeah.”
“She’s going to be a rescue. Go.”
If my stay in Alec’s tower has taught me anything, it is not to question. I go. My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure any who see me notice it beating against my chest from fifty yards away. I slip my right hand through the rescue tube’s strap and grab my fins in my left. I run to the water and give a hard downward thrust with my right hand. The line uncoils and the buoy flies from my hand to its fullest extension. I loop the line over my head and across my chest. I high step through the water kicking my feet out to the side while I transfer one fin to my now free right hand. I dive into the base of an oncoming wave and below the water’s surface I grab hold of sandy bottom and pull myself forward. I push hard with my feet and explode out of the water. I dolphin once more and as I break the surface behind the crashing wave I flip quickly to my back and put on first one then the other of my Duck Feet fins. I use the force of the fins to propel myself forward and back onto my stomach. I swim head up looking for the girl. She is no longer bouncing on the bottom. She is struggling in the churning force of the rip current enveloping her. The current sweeps her away from shore and into deep water. I swim hard and as I come within touching distance I push the rescue tube to her and say, “grab this.”
Those words prove unnecessary. She grabs the buoy and takes a big, deep breath. “Thanks.”
“You’re going to be fine,” I say as I swim behind her and hook the buoy clip. “Hang your arms over the buoy, lay back and kick your feet. That will help me when I swim in.”
“Ok.”
With the girl secure, I start backstroking to shore. From my back I can watch her and see the oncoming waves and still look around for other swimmers who might be in trouble. My fins propel us easily through the water. Soon we are in the impact zone and a wave rears up. I look at its face and know I don’t have much time. I swim to the girl, grab her with my left arm and hold her close to my chest. I take the final moment to tell her, “Hold your breath.” We plunge headfirst into the base of the breaking wave and emerge out the backside.
Once on shore, I get her name, date of birth, and the city she is from for my rescue report. Information I have long since forgotten. I look out over the water, reach down and pull off my fins, take my looped buoy over my shoulder and run back to the tower.
I climb up, watch the water, rewrap my buoy, put my fins down on the deck and sit down and try to be casual—not too obviously excited—but too many questions race through my mind. How did he know? What did he see before it was seen? When will I do that? The euphoria of success clouds my vision and I struggle to focus on the water and the people in it.
“Nice rescue,” says Alec.
“Thanks.”
I pick up one of my new Duck Feet fins and palm it nervously. On the backside of the fins are two holes slightly larger than the size of a nickel. On my new fins they are covered with a thin coat of rubber. I run my hands up and down the smooth rubber as I look out over the water. My index finger finds one of the little holes and its thin rubber covering. I start to poke it, and I plan to keep pushing until I break through.
“Don’t do that!” Alec yells as animated as I’ve heard him all day. “You’re going to need those intact.”
»»»
Lesson Learned, Early June 1986.
It’s a fact of life. People have to go to the bathroom. A lifeguard sitting in a wooden tower or if they’re lucky one of the newer fiberglass models will sit watching over your family and all the other families visiting the beach, and you may never think to ask, “When do they go to the bathroom?” An obvious answer is when they get into the water, but I have been on rescues whereupon entering the water and swimming after a distressed swimmer I have completely forgotten about having to pee until I’m back up on the tower deck and I feel the stab of my bladder reminding me about what I really needed to do in the water. Various guards have developed strategies that work for them. Empty Big Gulp cups are a favorite, but that means at one time the cup was full and to empty it only increases the amount of times it will be refilled. Plus there is the added expense of a daily Big Gulp purchase. A spendthrift guard can avoid the added cost with a willingness to scavenger hunt the beach trashcans, but management generally frowns upon pursing such activity in uniform. One advantage of good rescue fins with unbroken pee holes is you save money and obviate the need to dumpster dive.
The thin rubber covering the holes on new fins provides the structural integrity to hold a good full pee. Male lifeguards are at a distinct advantage over female guards, but conscientious and accurate females have used the fin method to their advantage. What they may lack in accuracy they make up for in ability to stop full stream flow. Guards with bigger feet also possess an advantage over small-footed guards, but it doesn’t take more than a day in a tower to know when it’s the appropriate time to use the fin.
Approximately Day 20, July 1986.
I have just returned from a body surfing break and the relief guard who provided my break is running down the beach to the next tower he’ll be relieving, thus the novel title of relief guard. I sit on the tower deck and look out at mostly empty water. A swimmer here and there but even these few souls are just splashing knee deep in the white water that rolls in from the waves crashing further out. I pick up one of my fins and examine it. The rubber is smooth and unblemished. The pee holes are still covered, but I hold the fin up to the sun and look through the rubber. One of the trickster veteran lifeguards has been using a pin to poke nearly invisible holes in the fins of unsuspecting rookies. I am well aware of the rumors of rookie pee hole blowouts, and I don’t want to be the next victim. No sunlight shines through the rubber. They are still whole.
I stand up, take the fin with me into the little tower room and shut the door. In a moment I finish my business and step outside with my fin. I scan the area and take an extra glance downward. I dump the contents over the side and onto the sand below. I sit back down on the tower deck and put my recently used fin neatly atop the other and then rotate the foot openings to face the onshore breeze. I pop a handful of sunflower seeds in my mouth and barely start spitting out the first shell when up the tower stairs comes one of the park rangers.
He is a full peace officer, gun belt, baton, pepper spray, badge, and his Stetson ranger hat sternly and securely on his head. He sits down next to me.
“Hi, I’m Bob. Been working here long?”
“My name’s Mike and I’m a rookie.”
He picks up my top fin and rolls it in his hands. “Nice new fins. You liking the job so far?”
“I love it.”
Bob holds the fin up by the blade and an eighth cup of liquid pours out onto his pants. “Dang, you been out on a rescue?” Before I can answer, he sticks his hand in the foot hole and comes to his own conclusion. “Yep, still wet inside.”
I can’t help but smile. “I was out body surfing.”
He puts the fin back on the deck and wipes his wet hand on his uniform pants. “Well, nice to meet you, Mike.” He sticks out his hand to shake mine.
“Nice to meet you too, Bob. Have a good day.”
Since I’m watching my water, I pretend not to see him in my peripheral vision. I don’t shake the proffered hand.
Professional Preferences.
There is considerable debate amongst lifeguards about proper equipment. Lifeguards and lifeguard services fall into two camps when it comes to rescue tubes or rescue buoys—terms that are used interchangeably. Many agencies use a hard plastic torpedo like rescue tube. The buoy has plastic handles on it for the victim to hold onto when the lifeguard swims them to shore. Other agencies like the state of California use foam tubes that are flexible and can be bent around the victim’s body and secured with a clip behind the victim. This allows for control of even unconscious patients.
Getting past the hard can or soft foam issue brings the curious to the bino debates. Some prefer 7X35 power binoculars, others 7X50, many veteran guards disdain binoculars altogether except in the most extreme of long-distance rescue spotting. Binoitis, a condition whereby rookie lifeguards constantly rely on their binoculars to confirm what their eyes already see, limits field of view and is a crutch to be avoided.
Guards will employ all variety of footwear. Usually a cheap slip on blue shoe like Vans is what you’ll find on most feet. Other than that, it’s sandals for the beach. The fins employed on rescues are almost exclusively Duck Feet. Unlike Churchill fins they can be placed on either foot and the only worry for the lifeguard is to make sure the pee holes stay on the bottom, but even if those holes are on the top the fins still function well and won’t slip off. The tower deck of just about every lifeguard tower for California State Parks will have a pair of Duck Feet resting upon it.
»»»
Late May 1991.
The southern section of the Coast Highway running through Encinitas is one of my favorite areas of San Diego County. The only other view I like better is just down the highway from the hill overlooking Torrey Pines State Reserve. You see the point of La Jolla sweeping along the cove to the sandstone cliffs of Blacks Beach and finally to the reserve. At the waterline the lifeguard towers stand like sentinels overseeing the vast Pacific Ocean. With the sun dipping into the water and the waves breaking one after the other along the shore, there is no better view as far as I’m concerned.
Just up the road, back in Encinitas, the surf still breaks along the shore, but depending on the El Nino cycles sand may or may not be present along the shoreline. In years where there is no sand, cobblestones of all sizes line the shore and the sound of the surf through the stones has a rolling melody of its own. In years where there is sand, the cobblestones wait buried and knowing.
In this particular year sand is king and beach visitors enjoy a comfortable resting-place for their beach towels and barbecues. Surfers set their boards face down on the sand to keep the wax from melting and Al, who I ‘ve known long enough to call Al rather than Alec, and I patrol the beach in the lifeguard jeep. The sun is high in the early afternoon sky and the spring coastline fog has burned away hours before. Al drives south along the coast highway while I sit sidesaddle in the passenger seat and look out over the water. I’ve been working the beaches of San Diego for five years, and I still haven’t looked a lifeguard in the eye while we’re talking at work.
“Al, pull in at tower 2. I see something.”
In a moment we’re driving along the beach back to the north and I adjust my position to look past Al and out over his shoulder at the water. He drives and looks out for kids playing in the sand. My responsibility is everything else.
“Mike, there’s a rip pulling. I think you’ll have to go.”
I scan north and see the current gathering strength. “Got it.”
Al stops the jeep and I hop out and grab my buoy and fins. I run north along the shore looking to the rip current and the people still waist deep, but soon to be pulled out over their heads. I am running hard and as I’m about to enter the water, I take one last scan to the north and see two small heads barely above the water and tiny hands trying to grab at anything. My heart jumps and I run past those in the rip current and enter the water. I pop the tube and dive forward. My fins are on without me knowing how and I’m kicking. I slip through the first wave and as I come out the backside, I see two beautiful little brown-eyed girls just under the surface of the water. I see their faces and groping hands. I thrust both my arms under the surface and grab a girl in each arm. I pull them up out of the water. Two coughing, sputtering girls grab my shoulders and I lay back and kick. I don’t even use the buoy.
I touch the bottom and the girls wrap themselves like ivy onto my body. I carry them to the beach and set them down. Al meets me on the shore. He’s wet and has his buoy draped over one shoulder and fins in hand.
“I thought you totally blew that rescue when you ran by those people in the rip. Nice job.”
I look down at the girls. “How old are you ladies?”
They both answer, “Eight.”
And it is then that I notice they are twins. Black curly hair to the shoulders and deep brown eyes. No parent could hope for two more beautiful daughters.
“Where’s your mom and dad?” I ask.
One answers, “Our dad left us on the beach. He said he’d pick us up at five.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I bring the girls back to their towels, do a quick check to make sure they haven’t swallowed water. They are both fine.
“Ladies, I’m going to have one of the rangers come over and check on you and call your dad or mom. Don’t go in the water anymore, ok?”
They both nod. Al and I are off to the jeep. I stand near the passenger door, and I watch the water while I wrap my rescue buoy and jam my fins blade first behind the first-aid box. Still watching the water, I pick up the microphone and make the radio call for the rangers.
We drive south and I look out at the water. I scan left to right, right to left, inside to outside, outside to inside.
“Some people are so stupid,” I say out the window.
“Tell me about it,” Al says behind me.
Present Day.
My fins have been with me for 17 years. I can take my old fin and run it through my hands, feeling the pitted rubber and seeing the lines and cracks running throughout. Close inspection reveals sun baked individual cells like skin on an old man’s hands. The pee holes have long since broken suggesting the incontinence of the aged. I have forgotten most of the people these fins have rescued, but as I reach into my rescue bag and begin the morning ritual of preparing my gear, they transfer jolts of memory to me. Most are of the saved; children, adults, the one-legged man floating on his prosthetic leg. Others are of the lost: cracked ribs on the first compressions of CPR, the rising tide playing with the lifeless legs of the drowned, the fleshless face of someone recovered from the ocean a month after they disappeared. My fins do not discriminate. They transfer the messages they choose, and for that I am grateful.
Post Script
I wrote the above essay in 2002 and since that time continued my career and eventually became the Lifeguard Chief for the State of California. My lifeguard co-worker and early mentor Alec, Al, died a couple years ago. A victim of ALS. May you rest in peace Al and thank you for all the lives you saved.
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