Baywatched.

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Saturday 12th July to Friday 18th July, 2008

The events of the previous night had left Phil, Rainer and I all feeling slightly delicate as we stopped off Saturday lunchtime at the supermarket and loaded up the cool boxes with ice before heading off for the fifteen minute drive to Bolsa Chica Beach, part of the continuous wide stretch of sand that runs south along the coast from Long Beach to Huntington Beach and beyond. Faithful and Gould promote themselves as a caring, modern employer who as such believe that giving staff the odd treat will ensure a better return on their investment and as a result we were headed to the F & G Summer Beach Party.

The instructions received via e mail the previous week were simple, just bring yourselves, a towel, some sun cream and anything else required for entertainment purposes and F & G would do the rest. This involved Megan making arrangements for the erection of canopies for shade and for caterers to deliver hot and cold foods in the form of salads, Mexican and burgers and liquid refreshments of a strictly non-alcoholic variety. California has an alcohol ban on all its state beaches but where there is a will there is definitely a way and a number of novel means were employed to ensure the goods got through, in my case an ingeniously disguised tonic bottle containing an ample measure of Absolut.

This part of the coastline is well known for it’s surf, Huntington Beach five miles or so to the south is hosting this years US Open surf competition and that helped make for great day in the sun. In all there were over a hundred employees, family and friends and needless to say we, along with a handful of our Venezuelans friends were the last ones present around six thirty when all else had departed. After two days of party Sunday had to see some form of penance for all that good life and came in a 12:30 killer trip to the gym.

With still no sign of a start on a work proposal I'd been nominated for it was to be another week of office bound F & G University. On Wednesday I was enjoying a nice juicy nectarine for dessert when I felt a crunch and my tongue immediately confirmed my suspicions, that half of my tooth had decided to part ways with the rest of my mouth. The stub of corroded over filled tooth that remained had the feel of a razor blade on my tongue and left me with no alternative but to reluctantly arrange for my maiden trip to the dentist. Lisa gave me the number of the Kirby family dentist, Dr Laura Manuel and when I spoke to her receptionist she told me she could fit me in the following afternoon.

“Is there nothing earlier ?” I asked at the same time spinning a little white lie that I was suffering severe discomfort which did nothing for my conscience but which did manage to get me an appointment for 2.45 that day. I wasn’t suffering but feared that my tongue may not still be in my mouth come the following morning if nothing was done immediately.

There is no such thing as a national health service in America, the idea being that purchased health insurance covers such things when the need arises. My particular plan, for which I pay $50 per month covers 80% of dental fees and knowing these things can get ludicrously expensive it was a nice surprise to see that all the staff at the practice were friendly, attractive and female which helped ease my concerns ever so slightly as I climbed into the chair.

X Rays and photographs were taken before Laura hit me with bad news. There was no way to refill the missing piece and the alternative was to have the tooth crowned or capped, all at a cost of around eight hundred dollars. I had no alternative.

After twenty minutes of drilling to remove the old filling throughout which she considerately kept stopping to ask if I was okay the news got worse. The actual tooth that remained was so minimal that she was unsure whether a cap would hold, furthermore there was a large cavity underneath.

“What does all that mean” I asked.

She hit me with the two words that have always filled me with dread without ever exactly knowing their combined meaning, Root Canal. I thought it fair to assume that the words had something to do with the roots but exactly what I had no idea. She explained and I felt sick to the stomach, not for the cost which would be even more excessive than the crown but for the fact that she told me it was to do with drilling into the gum to remove the old nerves before refilling the holes with a compound that then hardened to receive the crown. Before she went down that road however she said she wanted to have a go at capping and that sounded just fine by me. All told I was in the chair for two and a half hours which seemed half that time due to the sympathetic nature of Laura and her two assistants and I left with a lump of plastic like a half eaten Murray Mint glued to my mouth. I return in a fortnight to have the permanent tooth placed and I’m praying it works.

Thursday evening we went for another Party in the Park and then returned the bikes home before cabbing it downtown to a wake board exhibition which was seeing a 9pm performance of AC/DC tribute band Bonfire. It was a part of town I had yet to visit and was a hive of bars and restaurants, well worth another visit. The band performed on a makeshift stage that had been erected on a parking lot and were the best of their kind that I’ve ever seen.

As Phil and I arrived at Party in the Park Marisa, his youngest, rushed up pleading with me to accompany her, in her parents enforced work related absence, to the Junior Lifeguards Parents day the following afternoon. Junior Lifeguards is a programme run by the real lifeguards which occupies kids during the Summer months five afternoon’s a week much like an aquatic version of the Boy Scouts or the Girl Guides. A couple of years previous she and Olivia had attended unaccompanied and been ‘adopted’ for the afternoon by some parents of a child they barely knew which had led to a less than enjoyable afternoon. I explained it was impossible, that I had to be in work but after more pleading from Marisa, a couple of beakers of a very tasty Merlot and the realization of the possible fun that could be had participating in two of the activities mentioned, the ‘Pier Jump’ and the ‘Boat Drop’, I conceded and decided to take the afternoon off.

At lunchtime the following day we met up with Manchester Mark, a laid back earring and ankle bracelet wearing former neighbour of the Kirby’s in his late forties and his two daughters Sofia and Marina and headed by bike to the meeting place. I’d met Mark and his girls a few times previous and was pleased they were there and by one o’clock the sand around the nominated lifeguard tower was teeming with about fifty or more excitable eleven year old’s and a similar number of even more excited parents and ‘guardians’. As you’d expect for California the majority of the parents were fit and healthy looking thirty and forty something’s although there were a small handful of outcasts who looked as though they’d spent forever sitting on the porch drinking beer. Proceedings commenced by splitting the numbers into three groups and all parents signing a declaration that waivered blame for any mishaps that may occur resulting in scratches, broken limbs or death.! I signed joking that surely if anything was that dangerous they surely wouldn’t be asking us to do it. Little did I know.

The head honcho explained with the aid of a megaphone the agenda for the days proceedings. The ‘Pier Jump’ would involve not surprisingly leaping the fifty foot or so into the frothy waters off the end of Belmont Memorial Pier, an activity that if carried out at any other time would result in a slapped wrist and a hefty fine and would be followed, for anyone who dared, by a ride in one of the large power boats used by the guards to do a ‘Boat Drop’, again a perfectly named manoeuvre which involved rolling off the back of the boat as it roared along at 25mph. I remembered watching the manoeuvre be performed by Pammie Anderson and David Hasselhof every Saturday tea time as a youth and recalled it looked like good fun. I was excited.

Before the fun could begin he explained that firstly there was the matter of introductions and that then we were then going to have a ‘little race’ to get us all in the mood. Each group were ordered into a semi circle and commencing at one end each child was asked to introduce their parent/partner and tell the listening group what it was they liked about them the most. Consequently, from the far end it was a case of little Brad saying something along the lines of “This is my dad Joe, and I like him because he makes me laugh” or Tracey with “This is my mom Stacey and I love her because she cooks the best Apple Pie in the world”. I looked down at Marisa and noticed there was more than a hint of mischief in her eye.

“Don't let me down Marisa.” I said.

Probably through a fear of people thinking her parents had lumped her with the first person off the streets that they could find she looked up and quietly asked if she could call me Uncle Matt. I just had chance to answer “of course” when it was her turn and with a grin like a Cheshire cat she started,

“Erm. This is my Uncle Matt and he………..erm……….erm”

I’d told her as it got closer to her turn that I was going to record it on video so every time she had reason to dislike me in the future I could remind her of this moment when she’d said nice things about me and so in an attempt to prompt her said “C’mon Marisa, I’m getting you on vid here”.

“Erm, well………..he……….erm”. She had a smile plastered right across her face but the longer it went on the more unsure I was whether it was a smile of embarrassment that she really couldn’t think of any reason why or even if she actually liked me or, as I hoped, simply a smile of mischief.

The guy next to us, obviously still reeling with disappointment at his own son’s remark seconds earlier that he liked his pa merely because ‘he buys me things’ attempted to prompt a response. “Make something up” he impatiently urged. Cheeky bugger. I felt like telling him to shut it, that of course she liked me immensely really and that she was only pulling my leg.

“Erm……….. well” she continued.

“He erm, …………. He helps me play soccer”

Laughing I exclaimed “Is that the best you can do?”

“Pretty much” she replied. Charming. Now there’s gratitude for you.

The game, the guard explained would involve a race between two teams, guardians and children which seemed a bit unfair on the kiddies to me and which would involve running to touch the boardwalk at the rear of the beach eighty metres or so behind us across the soft deep sand then running back to the ocean, swimming around a buoy that was bobbing up and down in the surf fifty metres off shore and then running to the boardwalk and back again. How hard could that be ? Olivia and Marisa and all these other children do it every day at junior lifeguards and if they can do it!. If any of the parents weren’t sure whether they could make it they were told they were under no pressure to complete the course but were assured that guards would be out on the water just in case and then the call went up, “Okay, ready. Go”.

I was sitting with Marisa at the back of the group so already had a small head start as I turned and set off towards the boardwalk. Without so much as a touch of the toes by means of a warm up and completely forgetting the term ‘to pace oneself’ I was gone. Over the first sixty yards or so I was traveling with all the stealth of a thoroughbred stallion, powering across the sand in a blur of legs and pumping arms and I reached the boardwalk slapping it hard as I turned to see a hundred or so figures struggling to keep up like the charge of the light brigade heading towards me. “Come on, hurry up” I jokingly shouted as I passed through them on my way back to the ocean.

Halfway through the stretch between the boardwalk and the waters edge the sand had transformed the strong gliding run of the human Nijinsky into a muddied seventies footballer in the dying seconds of extra time of an energy sapping Wembley Cup Final, socks rolled down and legs riddled with cramp almost at a standstill in his surge for the ball. I was struggling.

Yells and screams of encouragement were coming from the seven or eight lifeguards of both sexes who stood by the waters edge which stopped me from doing just as I wanted which was collapsing face first into the sand and a brief glimpse over the shoulder as I approached the water indicated the nearest of the ultra competitive fathers to still be twenty yards behind. Unsurprisingly they looked a hell of a lot healthier than I felt.

As I reached the water I raised my strides slightly in an attempt to carry on running, bouncing like a Gazelle through the shallows in an attempt to penetrate the water as far as possible before the ocean would allow me to run no more. My intended entry was in the manner of a Johnny Weismuller Tarzan in his bid to save Jane as she was swept away by the swirling croc infested river waters, running and diving head first and breaking immediately into a powerful front crawl as soon as my head hit the water but instead I managed three ever shortening strides before collapsing face down into eighteen inches of cloudy, sandy water. I was completely spent.

I somehow managed to pick myself up and started to wade out to sea with the term “Please God Help Me” firmly on the tip of my tongue. Recollections of my experience in Brazil when the ocean had almost claimed me skipped through my mind, I thanked my lucky stars that the water was occupied with five or six float carrying lifeguards sitting astride their surf boards and by the time the water reached my chest the first of the iron men fathers were starting to pass.

Under normal pool circumstances from a fresh start a one hundred metre continuous swim would leave me tired but with at least enough remaining energy to climb the ladder out of the pool but throw in two foot high waves, salt water and a starting condition of near exhaustion and it’s fair to say the odds were stacked heavily against me. Freestyling into the surf was succeeding in doing nothing but drain me of the tiny amount of remaining energy I possessed and filling me from top to toe with salty water causing me to cough and splutter as though I’d swallowed a feather golf ball so after ten seconds or so I ceased and retired to a leisurely breast stroke. Who gave a damn if every last one of these people overtook me, at least I’d still be alive. Breast stroke relies as much on a frog like action of the legs for propulsion as it does on the arms but unfortunately half way to the buoy my legs had transformed into nothing more than two spindly lengths of flesh attached at the hip to my torso. I felt like Pinnochio plonked in the bath with his leg strings severed.

By the time I eventually reached the buoy which seemed like a lifetime seventy five per cent of the parents had passed me including several of the mothers and I was left with the just the ones who it was patently obvious to see had never visited a gymnasium in their lives. I looked across to my left to the kids buoy and noticed even Marisa had stolen ahead of me. I really wanted to just put my arms around the buoy and cling for dear life but a specific rule read out earlier was that it wasn’t to be touched and my rapidly diminishing pride wouldn’t allow it anyway.

As I rounded it I noticed one struggling parent had adopted back stroke as his choice of propelling himself to safety and thought he seemed to be doing okay so rolled over onto my back and was immediately almost sunk by a white horse that decided to break it’s back right on top of me and for the final thirty yards or so the only stroke I could actually physically perform was a economic version of the ‘doggie paddle’.

Finally I felt sand between my toes and started to walk towards the shore. I was in eighteen inches of water and almost at a standstill, my vision blurred and my mouth dry when I was struck just above the knees from behind by the tiniest of waves that brought me down like a sacked Quarterback and I actually left the water on my hands and knees. I must have resembled Tom Hanks in Castaway.

I somehow pulled myself to my feet and attempted to set off in a jog to the boardwalk but found it to be a physical impossibility. My feet felt like huge clumps of lead and it was all I could do to trudge through the sand dragging my feet as I went as competitors from both age groups passed me on their way back from the boardwalk. I walked three quarters of the way to the boardwalk and then, I’m ashamed to say, turned and headed back to the large gathering of completed athletes where I collapsed onto my back and lay eyes closed for a full five minutes.

It took me another five minutes to recover enough energy to simply stand up and when I did it was to run the one and a half miles to the pier. I felt a bit of pride returning as Marisa and I overtook most en route and managed the run without a stop and when everyone had caught up and congregated we walked to the end of the pier. Marisa had asked if we could do the pier jump in tandem with her friend Hayley so I chatted to her dad David, a pleasant goateed, ear ring wearing shoulder length haired tattooed surfer. The jumps were done ten at a time so we waited for the majority of the masses to disappear over the edge then prepared ourselves.

It’s strange how high a drop can look from above compared to from the side and I watched as Marisa nimbly clambered over the rails and plunged arrow like into the water without a second thought. I threw one leg over the rail, just managing to place my tip toes down on either side and trapping my tackle in the process and then realized getting the second leg over whilst avoiding toppling wasn’t going to be easy. How had every other parent, man and woman managed it so gracefully I wondered ? Managing to get the second leg over was easy but now I was clinging to the metal with my back to the water. I turned with a great deal of care to face the water but still wasn’t comfortable. I wanted my entry to be perfect and wasn’t quite mentally prepared so, making sure there was no forward movement jumped the few inches necessary to land my backside on the horizontal bar. I always watch Trapeze artists with a great deal admiration, how they manage to balance everything on a bar a couple of inches in diameter. On terra firma this manouvre would have been a doddle but wary of losing balance and plunging out of control into the waters below I over compensated a tad too much and started a backwards fall to the wooden deck. Thankfully David was on hand to save me from an embarrassment bigger than what I’d just been through a mile and a half down the beach. When I finally felt balanced I counted to three and leapt. What a buzz.

We swam to the waiting boat and scrambled aboard and after a few instructions from the driver to the tune of how to enter the water without entering into a free falling, swallow all underwater spin ie. Grab the bar, crouch and push off backwards when instructed the motors engaged and we were off. This was more like it, the reason I’d taken the afternoon off, not to run myself close to a coronary, purely to have a bit of aquatic fun.

David and I were like a couple of excited teens as the guy on the back called him and Hayley to the ramp and they had just slid into position when, stricken by fear from the roaring engine and the swirling waters she started to cry and say she couldn’t go through with it. Her fear spread like a plague through the kiddie’s side of the boat and poor Marisa, who’d been through it all before was suddenly overcome with panic and joined her friend in reneging. David felt he had to stay on the boat with his daughter but I knew Marisa couldn’t be in better hands and carefully manouvered myself into position and clutched the bar waiting for the order. Twenty five mph on water seems a hell of a lot faster than it does on land and as the call went up I rolled gently backwards and bounced painlessly on my back before coming to a halt. All that was left to do was swim to the shore. That was the last I saw or heard of David as he sulked away in disappointment at his daughter depriving of his moment of fun ignoring her and everyone else. Twat.

The afternoon was completed with a few games of flags, a similar idea to a British Bulldogs, first with kids against parents then boys against girls which unsurprisingly saw some of the more attractive mother’s being hunted down like hare’s by packs of the more testosterone filled dad’s.

I met Phil for a beer when he’d finished work and he couldn’t understand why, after half a day off I could barely keep my eyes open but after a couple of cold ones I’d woken up sufficiently to enjoy an enjoyable evening on 4th Street.

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Photos

Baywatched.
Where it all started. Tower number 12.

Baywatched.
Ugh. Root canal required.

Baywatched.
Ten minutes later I was green. Sofia, Manchester Mark, Marina, Marisa, Olivia, me and Jim.

Baywatched.
Ashley, dental nurse.

Baywatched.
Just like the real thing.

Baywatched.
Angus !

Baywatched.
AC/DC.

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Life Guards.

Baywatched.
Monster.

Baywatched.
Arrogant Bastard !

Baywatched.
Friday night out.

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F & G Party kids.

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F & G Party kids, Grace.

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Shake a leg.

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F & G Party kids, Nathan with mum Van.

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Part kids, Ellie.

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Last ones standing, me, the Kirby's and the Venezuelans.

Baywatched.
The rear window.

Baywatched.
Now I just need some books.

Comments

[waymo]

I can forsee that actually doing some serious work for a change will be a serious wakeup call my lad. Get me the number of that dentist!

[DB]

I've been thinking.Where's your music collection? You could replace the wine bottles with CD's on your new shelves. Also - does this new life mean you've given up golf?

[waymo]

Ha Ha, Dave, I have his music collection!

[Matt The Pig]

Wine, No Women and Song.
The music is all safely tucked away on the ipod. See the white things next to the telly ? Bass boxes that knock the plaster off Phil's ceiling when turned up. The bottles are all empty and just for show (yeah right) and as for the golf..... No way, I'm itching for a game and look forward to kicking your ass (again) soon !