At fifteen minutes to two on the previous afternoon, I adjusted my helmet to bike out to The Country Club. Sailing down the smooth sidewalks of Larz Anderson Park, I admired the flower and vegetable garden plots. At the often-ignored stop sign on Goddard Avenue, I cautiously looked both ways at the cross walk, especially wary of drivers with ears glued to phones and with eyes blind to all pedestrians. I veered on the bumpy asphalt of Clyde Street, and grit my teeth and bent my elbows to assert my place on the road. Golf caddies stood in the hot sun waiting for Bus 51. I waved hello.
The Country Club entrance has a yellow stop sign with green letters. The yellow buildings with horizontal wooden slats and signs with neat green letters seem to follow a uniform color code. The design evokes friendly greetings between people wearing nametags. Hello, Club House! Hello, Curling Building! Hello, Pool Café!
Station wagons, SUVs with warm engines, and golf carts with keys still in the ignition filled the parking lot. I ditched my bike at the rack, not bothering to lock it up. I doubted anybody here, members or staff, would have interest in lifting a Mongoose with rusty chains and sticky handlebars.
My arrival appeared to please my fellow lifeguards on staff. Another guard could take a break now. The poolside rotation, mapped out on a time sheet and snapped to a clipboard, placed me at the deep end for the first half hour of my shift. I put on my uniform—a red swimsuit and a white T-shirt with my name printed in lowercase red letters—and modestly girded my loins in a white towel. I climbed up the ladder to the white plastic swivel chair, popped open the green canvas umbrella on top of the platform, and proceeded to guard the deep end of the pool.
The afternoon had now heated up to a marked extent. The dry concrete patios scorched the bare feet of children playing four square and kickboard tennis. A cool breeze through the pine trees would have been heavenly. But the trees stood motionless. Shimmering turquoise blue, chlorinated waters sang an irresistible siren to all poolside-goers. No child could resist a game of ‘fishy, fishy, cross my ocean’ or a ‘big splash’ diving contest. Parents gladly dipped in the salty waters to catch their toddlers jumping off the diving board.
Sitting in blazing sunlight, I could feel my temperature begin to rise. The white towel on my lap now seemed an inadequate shield. A pang of longing for my broad-rimmed cowboy hat passed through me. Earlier in the week, I had relinquished my prized hat because it was too unique for staff dress code. The aquatics director had asked about the whereabouts of the red uniform caps. I had missed her drift by a wide margin, and replied the hats could be found in the office or storage room. She proceeded to explain that upper management prohibited guards from wearing the hats of their choice. I may have looked askance at her a bit. I explained my prejudice against sunburns, and that I planned to take a firm line to protect my skin against excessive sun exposure. A moment later, I regretted that I had pitched it so strong. The effect on her was only to express disbelief a lifeguard at an outdoor swimming pool would be afraid of the sun. I was still dumbfounded, but I managed to say that I would wear the uniform cap.
Most members had already tanned and freckled at the pool’s summer opening on Memorial Day weekend. My attention was often drawn to their blistering shoulders, red clavicles, and freckled faces. I would object to being freckled like a pard, as Jeeves would describe it. Brown freckles spelled out disaster to my skin health. Once I tried to explain to a child how a tan could be just as damaging as a burn. I did not see the benefits of baking like a red bliss potato. The child cogently argued that parents liked how tans looked, pointing to the mainstream preference for brown olive skin. Guards and members alike understandably wanted to ‘soak up the sun’ with Sheryl Crow. Umbrellas provided the only shade on the pool deck. So I was shocked when guards actively closed the umbrellas. I would simply reopen the umbrellas.
High above the deep end of the pool, the stale heat stifled all my shouts. Swimmers in the deep end gained temporary immunity to all instructions and warnings. A boy wearing flippers and holding a myriad of toys jumped off the diving board with gleeful abandon. A pair of girls swam over the buoy lines across the lap lanes. I shouted in vain to enforce pool rules. Children did listen when I asked them to return to the café area with their cold snacks. Perhaps they could read my drooling lips. Icy popsicles with artificial red dyes never looked so refreshing.
The Country Club entrance has a yellow stop sign with green letters. The yellow buildings with horizontal wooden slats and signs with neat green letters seem to follow a uniform color code. The design evokes friendly greetings between people wearing nametags. Hello, Club House! Hello, Curling Building! Hello, Pool Café!
Station wagons, SUVs with warm engines, and golf carts with keys still in the ignition filled the parking lot. I ditched my bike at the rack, not bothering to lock it up. I doubted anybody here, members or staff, would have interest in lifting a Mongoose with rusty chains and sticky handlebars.
My arrival appeared to please my fellow lifeguards on staff. Another guard could take a break now. The poolside rotation, mapped out on a time sheet and snapped to a clipboard, placed me at the deep end for the first half hour of my shift. I put on my uniform—a red swimsuit and a white T-shirt with my name printed in lowercase red letters—and modestly girded my loins in a white towel. I climbed up the ladder to the white plastic swivel chair, popped open the green canvas umbrella on top of the platform, and proceeded to guard the deep end of the pool.
The afternoon had now heated up to a marked extent. The dry concrete patios scorched the bare feet of children playing four square and kickboard tennis. A cool breeze through the pine trees would have been heavenly. But the trees stood motionless. Shimmering turquoise blue, chlorinated waters sang an irresistible siren to all poolside-goers. No child could resist a game of ‘fishy, fishy, cross my ocean’ or a ‘big splash’ diving contest. Parents gladly dipped in the salty waters to catch their toddlers jumping off the diving board.
Sitting in blazing sunlight, I could feel my temperature begin to rise. The white towel on my lap now seemed an inadequate shield. A pang of longing for my broad-rimmed cowboy hat passed through me. Earlier in the week, I had relinquished my prized hat because it was too unique for staff dress code. The aquatics director had asked about the whereabouts of the red uniform caps. I had missed her drift by a wide margin, and replied the hats could be found in the office or storage room. She proceeded to explain that upper management prohibited guards from wearing the hats of their choice. I may have looked askance at her a bit. I explained my prejudice against sunburns, and that I planned to take a firm line to protect my skin against excessive sun exposure. A moment later, I regretted that I had pitched it so strong. The effect on her was only to express disbelief a lifeguard at an outdoor swimming pool would be afraid of the sun. I was still dumbfounded, but I managed to say that I would wear the uniform cap.
Most members had already tanned and freckled at the pool’s summer opening on Memorial Day weekend. My attention was often drawn to their blistering shoulders, red clavicles, and freckled faces. I would object to being freckled like a pard, as Jeeves would describe it. Brown freckles spelled out disaster to my skin health. Once I tried to explain to a child how a tan could be just as damaging as a burn. I did not see the benefits of baking like a red bliss potato. The child cogently argued that parents liked how tans looked, pointing to the mainstream preference for brown olive skin. Guards and members alike understandably wanted to ‘soak up the sun’ with Sheryl Crow. Umbrellas provided the only shade on the pool deck. So I was shocked when guards actively closed the umbrellas. I would simply reopen the umbrellas.
High above the deep end of the pool, the stale heat stifled all my shouts. Swimmers in the deep end gained temporary immunity to all instructions and warnings. A boy wearing flippers and holding a myriad of toys jumped off the diving board with gleeful abandon. A pair of girls swam over the buoy lines across the lap lanes. I shouted in vain to enforce pool rules. Children did listen when I asked them to return to the café area with their cold snacks. Perhaps they could read my drooling lips. Icy popsicles with artificial red dyes never looked so refreshing.