Yes, I used a thesaurus to find that word.
I have quite a few memories from my time
at the Sportsplex, the Mattagami River, Gilles Lake. Some of them good, some of
them not. As I remember it, there was quite a bit of fun, some horseplay, too,
hopefully always out of the public view. But sometimes not, either. What can I
say? We were teens. Controlling us was like herding cats.
The lake and river were the most sought-after
posts. We spent the entire winter cooped up in the Sportsplex, no windows,
always humid, as depressing as a tomb when one spent one’s whole day in its
confines. We never knew what the weather was like, unless there was such a
deluge that we could hear the thumbing of the downpour on the roof. We only saw
the sun when we were not scheduled to guard a swim and were left with a free
hour; no long enough to go anywhere, but enough time to crash out on the patch
of grass out back and catch some rays. So, to spend one’s summer out in the
sun? Heaven!
There could be loneliness out there, too,
depending on when one’s shifts at Gilles Lake or the Mattagami River were. In
July, there were so many swimmers at the lake and river that there were four of
us stationed at each site. Days were full. I’d arrive at the musty old guard
shack at Gilles, drop the wood panel shutters, and fill out the log. We’d man
the two chairs, 15 minutes at a time, the others basking in the sun, gaining
the best tans of our lives. In August, on the other hand, the temperature
slipped, the rains fell, the beaches emptied, and we were reduced to one per
site. Owing to my living on Hart Street, I never worked at the Mattagami River,
although I did hang out there on my off days when friends were stationed there,
usually Jodie Russell, Sean Light, or Jeff Chevrier. I’d arrive later, some
beer stashed in my backpack, and stow them away in the water tank of the Men’s
toilet, where the water was colder than ice. After 8 pm, we’d lock everything up,
retrieve the beer, and while away a couple hours before heading to Top Hats.
But left alone for 8 hours there in those guard shacks? Mattagami’s was a
narrow cinderblock room; Gilles’, a musty old wooden shack.
At Gilles, I’d only open one of the
shutters, so that the wind would not howl through, carrying the icy rains with
it. I’d wrap myself in a musty old wool blanket, one of many at hand there, one
stripped from the bed in the back room. Yes, there was an old cot there. Use
your imagination, in that regard. And I’d curl up and read what book I was lost
in at the time, waiting for my sister to bring me what supper my mother would
send up, talking, on occasion, on the phone with whomever was whiling away
their hours at the river.
Once, I had to rescue an idiot. It was
August. I was alone. He was drunk. He staggered up to the beach, stripped down
to his jeans and plunged in, swimming out to the Hydro tower in the middle of
the lake. It was a rare, hot day; but there was no one to guard, as the threat
of swimmer’s itch at Gilles in August was another reason for the absence of
everyone but me. I watched him make early swift progress, then none at all. So,
I grabbed the guard board (sort of like a big surf board), and paddled out to
him. I wouldn’t normally have been able to do that, leave the beach unattended,
but as I said, there was no one else to guard. I paced him, telling him he’d
never make it and to climb on board. He gasped at me to fuck off. His words. But
I didn’t. I wasn’t going to let him drown, foul mouthed idiot that he was, or
not. He finally climbed aboard having failed to reach the tower, but he was not
pleased with my leisurely progress back to shore, so he paddled hard. Then said
I was a “fuckin’ shitty lifeguard,” and stormed away. Ah, the memories.
One day, I got a call. Cold, rainy, windy
day. It was Jodie, spending his cold shift at the river. He said, in a wildly
thrilled voice, said “We can do anything! I mean anything! And nobody will say
a thing.” What? I asked. He explained. He too had not bothered to open up much
of the river site, deciding to wait to see if the day improved and swimmers
arrived. It didn’t. They didn’t. His girlfriend did, though, and one thing led
to another. And then Tory Kullas, our supervisor, did. She just walked right in
on them, catching them in their state of somewhat undress. Tory stepped back
outside, and closed the door gently behind her. Jodie and girlfriend composed
themselves, the girlfriend left. And when Tory re-entered the guard shack, she
didn’t say a word about what had just transpired. Not one word. She left after
a few minutes, and before she’d gained her car, Jodie was on the phone with me.
I gaped into the phone, not sure how to process what I’d just heard. Ah, good
times.
One day in August, the Timmins Press
arrived to report on how the local beaches had emptied out, due to a weeklong
cold snap. The reporter asked Jeff if he would submit to being photographed.
Jeff was bored, there were no swimmers, so he agreed; but he was chilled to the
bone in his speedo and polyester guard’s tank top, so the report suggested he
put on his jeans and jean jacket to warm up. The reporter also set Jeff up with
his back to the water, to show that the beach was empty. Jeff didn’t think
anything of it. Not until Fred Salvador, head of Parks and Rec, saw the picture
in the Press. There was one of his lifeguards, back to the water, out of
uniform, while on duty. He wanted Jeff fired on the spot. Tory eventually
cooled Fred down and saved Jeff’s job but we were all given a stern talking to
about “professionalism.” Like that helped. Jeff told me and Sean all about it
over a beer at 8 pm.
There was quite a bit of boredom, as well.
Time creeps and slows to a crawl and a stop while guarding a less than popular
swim, most notably, the adult noon swim. One finds one timing swimmer’s laps to
pass the time, and later finds oneself watching the clock tick, second by
second, realizing that one cannot escape that swim, not once, that all one’s
shifts will span its eternity.
During one such swim, I was guarding the
shallow end of the pool, watching the thinly spread bathers swim laps, walk
laps, hang off the buoy lines in conversation. I had not reached the point of
stifling yawns, but I was not far from it, either. Adults were never as quick
to enter the pool as the kids were, who were eager to gain as many seconds in
the water for their money as possible. Adults, on the other hand, were more
orderly, more composed and leisurely minded, and may spend quite some time in
the sauna before even exiting the change room, so there were still a few
leaking out on deck even thirty minutes into the swim. I was on my second
position of the swim, my first seated, when I watched a middle-aged Asian
gentleman exit the change room and make his way to the furthest corner from me
of the shallow end. He stretched and reached, spun his arms to warm them up
before entering the water. He had a well-sculptured pompadour. Okay, maybe not
a pompadour, as the hair flowed around his head, beginning from behind his ear,
drawn up to his forehead, before sweeping up and back over the top of his head.
It was an unparalleled engineering feat. He dove in, with grace, with hardly a
splash in his wake, and flowed beneath the surface for half the length of the
pool before surfacing opposite me. His hair flowed behind him, as long as his
shoulders at the back and on the left, no longer than an inch on the right. His
glistening pate shone in the lights. I watched him swim back and forth,
fascinated at the transformation. When Jodie relieved me after another ten
minutes, I pointed the Asian gentleman out, and said, absolutely deadpan, “If
you ever see me do that, take me out back and shoot me.”
