SOUTH BAY COVER STORY : SINK OR SWIM : A Rookie Braves the Rigors of Lifeguard Academy and Learns It ‘Ain’t Baywatch’

CLUTCHING A RED FLOTATION CAN AND rescue line, I stagger into the surf off Zuma Beach and flop through the breakers. An instructor is posing as a scuba diver in distress, and it is my job as a lifeguard trainee to save him. I churn toward the flailing victim, but somehow the rescue line gets wrapped around my neck and tightens with each crashing wave.

Two fellow cadets sprint toward the water. Normally, the drill would call for them to help save the diver, but this time they’ve got a real rescue on their hands: me.

What else is new? I’ve been outclassed and on the edge of panic every weekend in May, struggling to survive the Los Angeles County Lifeguard Academy against hellish odds.

I fit the profile of a lifeguard about as well as Tommy Lasorda. I swim like a stranded freighter. I surf strictly with my TV remote. The only foam I enjoy floats atop a 16-ounce stein.

But I wanted to learn firsthand what it takes to join what is arguably the best lifeguard service in the world, an elite corps of about 600 men and women that makes an average of 11,000 rescues a year.

Pitted against 50 of the best swimmers in the state, pummeled by cold, unforgiving surf, doomed to leap off Hermosa Beach Pier--not to mention a speeding Baywatch rescue boat--I challenged the elements and my own physical limits and learned two valuable lessons. The first: life-guarding is complex and demanding work. The second: Sometimes it’s better to stay in the office and report by telephone.

Little in my background prepared me for the academy. At age 2, I learned to swim, but not competitively and certainly not in the ocean. Over the years, I amassed multiple layers of abdominal padding, giving me buoyancy, insulation--and the speed of plankton. And frankly, the only life I’ve been interested in saving has been my own.

And so it was with palpable consternation that agency officials agreed to let me audit their rookie class, the county’s first in three years.

Already beleaguered by threatened budget cuts, millions of unappreciative beach-goers and an image warped by television’s hyper-sexed “Baywatch” phenomenon, the last thing administrators needed was the headline, “Reporter Drowns at Lifeguard School.”

Precautions were in order. Starting with a 1,000-meter tryout swim off Santa Monica in April, a career lifeguard would accompany me in the ocean at all times.

*

No less than 225 candidates were on hand that gloomy morning for what literally amounted to a race for work. One of them, Lars Gronholm, flew all the way from Philadelphia to compete.

Anyone who finished in the top 80 would be granted job interviews and physical exams. About 50 of those would be sent to rookie school. The prize for successfully completing the academy: a $14.71-an-hour summer job consisting mostly of sporadic shifts doled out on an on-call basis.

But as they limbered up for the big swim, it was clear that what motivated many of the competitors was the chance to become part of Southern California’s proud lifesaving tradition. Last year, almost 60 million people visited county-guarded beaches and only two drowned, an achievement tragically underscored on Memorial Day when five drowned in a riptide at an unguarded beach near Jacksonville, Fla.

The county’s lifeguards, said Tom Rauth, 17, of Santa Monica, “just seem like a great group of people to work with.”

But what price glory? Before the race, we must all sign a waiver acknowledging the risk of drowning, overexertion, exposure, injuries and illness. A small flotilla of guards on paddleboards bobs in the bay, ready to pluck distressed swimmers from the drink.

Swim coordinator Terry Hearst urges caution and common sense.

“It’s a great job, but it’s not that great to lose your life for,” he tells us.

Fortunately, the only thing I lose is pride, finishing 206th out of 211 finishers.

Slightly seasick from the swells and disoriented by a strong current, I zigzag northward toward Santa Monica Pier for nearly 40 minutes, reality sinking in with each sloppy stroke. Unlike Rauth and Gronholm, who both made the cut, my entrance to the academy will be based on press credentials, not aquatic prowess.

Yet there is cause for hope as rookie school opens on May 1 for the first of seven 10-hour sessions, spread out over four consecutive weekends. I’m no Mark Spitz, but I’ve survived nearly two-thirds of a mile in the ocean, more than can be said of the 14 participants who failed to finish the tryout. Nevertheless, it’s intimidating to be thrown in with these 50 cadets, on paper the most physically gifted rookie class the agency has ever had.

Twelve of the trainees have worked as ocean lifeguards before or are working for other services. Two trainees are Olympic athletes. Eleven are All-American swimmers at either the junior college or NCAA level.

More humbling still: At 32, I’m not even the oldest rookie. Mark Montgomery, a returning county guard, is the most senior professional triathlete in the world, still competing in the open division at age 38. Bonnie Spivey, 35, of Torrance is the mother of a three-year-old.

Some of the candidates are in such superior condition that during county-required physicals, they outlasted treadmill tests aimed at pushing them to their maximum heart rates.

But even our best performers are put on notice when the nine instructors start outlining the rules to live by in the days ahead.

“The Lifeguard Division,” according to a handout passed out in class, “is a paramilitary organization. . . . Harassment is not part of the training, however discipline is.”

We are to respond unquestioningly to instructors’ orders, and refer to them by “Mr.” “Ms.” or appropriate rank. Missing a day of class without permission, or refusing to perform a water drill, is grounds for expulsion. Ditto for cheating on a test.

Only county-issue swimsuits and sweat suits may be worn. No goggles or wet suits. No hats or sunglasses indoors. No sleeping in class. No personal phone calls. No chatting up members of the opposite sex while on duty.

“This ain’t ‘Baywatch,’ ” lead instructor Steve Page growls. He adds: “We don’t allow wimps, whiners or snivelers.”

The rigor is not without reason. From Day 1, fledgling guards will be expected to arrive on time, back up fellow lifeguards, deal firmly but courteously with the public, enforce beach ordinances, perform CPR and other lifesaving measures if necessary, spot gang activity, contend with lost children and, above all, “Watch the Water.”

If the academy has an official credo, “Watch the Water” is it. As the days unfold, our instructors will bellow it as we’re running to drills, climbing towers, even while eating lunch.

Lifeguards can expect distractions ranging from being asked the time of day to being asked to revive a blue-lipped infant, but none of that releases them from their primary duty--to scan the water for victims.

“If you miss a rescue, you should . . . beat yourself with a club,” Page tells the hushed class. He adds: “The first time you look a dead person in the face, you’ll never want to see that again.”

Regrettably, in addition to watching the water, we must also spend time actually in it. One of the toughest exercises on the first day was to cut through the surf using a technique known as “porpoising.” Second nature to most of the trainees, it involves diving under large waves, grasping the bottom with the hands to keep from being swept backward, then springing up and out with the legs to swim before the next breaker comes.

For several hundred yards, we porpoise off Venice Beach, lunging, gasping and being battered by choppy surf. Of all possible marine mammals, the porpoise is not the one I bring to mind, but I gradually catch on and even manage to finish ahead of a few cadets.

Mr. Hearst is not amused.

“A couple of you were beaten by our gentleman from the L.A. Times,” he says contemptuously. “And that’s not acceptable.’

It is a proud moment. After just one day, I have emerged as the universal standard of failure. It is the last time I will finish an event anywhere but last.

*

The second training weekend takes us to Santa Monica, where, after another 1,000-meter ocean swim, Lt. Mickey Gallagher of the agency’s rough-and-tumble Central Section gives us a cheerful rundown of the area extending from Las Tunas Beach south to Marina del Rey.

Central Section presents something of a socioeconomic challenge for lifeguards. It is a destination for everyone from the most affluent to “the lowest of the food chain,” in Gallagher’s delicate phrasing.

People have a tendency to take drugs and swim naked here. Transients love Central Section beaches. Cross-country travelers often punctuate their voyage with a dip here. Fun-seekers who may lack familiarity with the ocean arrive in droves each sunny weekend.

“It’s nuts down here,” Gallagher concludes.

Films and lectures on cardiopulmonary resuscitation come next, followed by hands-on practice on flesh-colored dummies. Lt. Kenny Atkins, our CPR instructor, gets graphic, explaining at one point the intricacies of resuscitating a victim whose false teeth have come loose.

“You’re going to have to scoop up those gums and blow in their mouth like a paper bag,” he chirps brightly, shortly before lunch.

That afternoon, we head down to the beach, where our teachers enthusiastically point out “potential victims”--young children playing near a drop in the ocean floor, drunk bathers, body-boarders edging near a riptide and even a textbook “elbow slapper,” defined as a bad swimmer whose elbows habitually strike the surface of the water.

During the exercise, several cadets actually sprint into the surf to help a couple who have strayed into neck-deep water.

As trainees, we have been taught never to underestimate the stupidity of the beach-going public, and now I see why. The swimmers, looking a bit bedraggled as the trainees escort them from the water, are wearing waterlogged shirts and jeans, clothing likely to bog down even the best of swimmers.

The next exercise is the “saddleback carry,” a technique lifeguards use to haul unconscious victims onto the beach. To impress upon us the effectiveness of the carry, instructor Lee Davis chooses me--by far the beefiest trainee--as a mock victim.

Displaying impeccable form perfected through years of experience, Davis effortlessly scoops me off the beach onto his hips, pauses, groans and spins madly out of control like a chopper hit by a mortar round. We crash to the sand, providing another important lesson: Never underestimate the weight of the beach-going public, either.

*

By now we are learning the lingo of lifeguard school, especially the dreaded RSR--which stands for Run/Swim/Run. These timed events require us to dash in soft sand about 150 yards, swim to a distant buoy and back, then sprint another 150 yards to the finish line. Demanding under any circumstances, RSR takes on near-Sisyphean dimensions for me in our third weekend outing--in the numbing surf of Zuma Beach, heart of the Northern Section.

Winded by the run, I trot into the ocean well behind my classmates, taking a last longing look back toward the beach. The 57-degree water makes it harder still to catch my breath.

I am close to outright panic, too cold and scared to put my head under for more than an instant.

Each time I try, an ice creamheadache shoots through my skull. I resort to the sidestroke, thebreaststroke, even the lowly dog paddle--anything to avoid putting my head down.

Davis, clad in a wet suit and riding a paddleboard, exhorts me to start stroking, but it is not until the buoy is well within reach that I feel confident enough to try a tentative crawl.

On the way back in, the senior ocean lifeguard skillfully steers me around a riptide, but in my hurry to get out of the water, I lose track of a big wave rolling in behind me.

Not good.

A massive breaker sends me cork-screwing out of control, and for a few terrifying moments I have no idea which way is up. Then physics takes over and suddenly I am standing dazedly in knee-deep water.

Considered one of the best beaches in the nation and spared many of the crowd-control issues common to Central Section, Zuma nevertheless has powerful riptides and surf that breaks in dangerously shallow water, often pounding surfers and swimmers into the sand. It is life-guarding at its purest and most demanding.

“We expect 1,000%,” Northern Section Capt. Steve Saylors says in our dank makeshift classroom, a diving equipment storage room at Zuma. “There’s no room for failure in this business.”

At 8 the next morning we are back in the same place doing another RSR, a paddleboard race and still more CPR practice.

We also get to drive the yellow lifeguard trucks, which, like everything else here, is not as easy as it looks.

On the verge of getting stuck, I punch the accelerator and skid sideways through deep sand, causing a cluster of astonished sunbathers to rear back on their beach blanket in fear. “We’re learning to drive!” instructor Chris Rowley assures them from the passenger seat.

*

By the fourth weekend, three rookies have dropped out, but the miseries of the Northern Section have forged a camaraderie among those who remain. It doesn’t hurt that the water off Manhattan Beach, our new training site, is five degrees warmer than Zuma.

Here in the Southern Section, that atmosphere remains intense, but our instructors have loosened up a bit, trading wisecracks and asides with the class as the personalities of individual cadets emerge.

Matt Stoker, an amiable 18-year-old from the Palos Verdes Peninsula, elicits sighs of genuine sympathy when we learn that his longtime girlfriend broke up with him the weekend before, apparently because rookie school ran late, making the couple late for their high school prom.

Lt. Phil Topar decrees that anyone with a prom on this night is exempt from end-of-the-day cleanup duties.

Through it all, I am winning the respect of the class, which now applauds in unison each time I complete a distance event. During an extended RSR at Manhattan Beach, several finishers actually re-enter the water and swim the final leg with me for moral support.

Later, rookie Jason Leroy promises, “We’ll teach you how to surf, dude. It’s rad.”

Lectures fill the weekend, everything from first aid to self-defense to personal grooming. None of it, however, is as thrilling as our Sunday morning agenda at Hermosa Beach.

The TV news cameras are out in force as we huddle atop the pier, stepping off one at a time like sailors walking the plank.

Like everything else we do, the exercise has a practical application: It’s far quicker to run out on a pier and jump off to rescue a swimmer struggling nearby than to swim out from the beach. But this matters not a whit to me as I drop like a sack of spuds toward the hard, green water, wishing I had been nicer to my parents and done more traveling over the years.

Upon resurfacing, I climb aboard a Baywatch boat, whose skipper, in the true tradition of nautical hospitality, promptly sets the throttle at Mach 9 and orders everyone to leap overboard. By the time I come up for air the craft is several hundred yards away.

Minutes later we are immersed in a new activity--and, as always, the water--yanking a panicky swimmer, portrayed by Mr. Hearst, off a barnacle-encrusted pier piling.

Then we practice jetty rescues, a risky maneuver that requires us to belly-flop from the rocks onto a swell to avoid bashing our heads on submerged boulders.

Proving the old saw that fear is sometimes the best motivator, my leap is deemed by instructor Terry Yamamoto “the best rock jump of the day.”

The frantic morning marks the climax of rookie school. Only one full session remains, most of which is spent reviewing for the all-important written and practical exams, which everyone, except for me, will pass.

We’re down to the mundane now--how to line up work with supervisors, fill out time cards, build up seniority, deal with press inquiries. A race around the treacherous Venice Breakwater marks the final water event of the Class of ’94.

Everyone is in a giddy mood. The ordeal is ending, and a long, action-packed summer stretches out before us--well, most of us. “It’s like joining a new family,” says 23-year-old trainee Heidi Hannenian.

A budget crisis that had earlier threatened to decimate the service has been essentially resolved by an organizational switch: starting July 1, lifeguards will be part of the County Fire Department rather than the Department of Beaches and Harbors.

But there’s a twinge of sadness. After the exam, everyone will go their own way, the new guards dispersing among the three sections, and I, despite my improved swimming and hard-won knowledge of the ocean, returning to the ranks of potential drowning victims.

A symbol of closure is in order. Gathering us together for the last time, Mr. Page calls me to the front of the class to present a plaque, a lasting reminder of what really matters in life. It says:

“When the last word is writ

Who gives a $&?

Just watch the water!”