Surf Lifesaving

Being an ocean lifeguard was a dream summer job. I was only nineteen, but I’d joined the junior surf lifesaving club as a kid, and I’d taken part in hundreds of swimming races and rescue board drills. I was a keen surfer, too, up at dawn to ride the waves whenever there was swell. After seven years of voluntary surf lifesaving patrols, Avoca Beach was my second home.

This beach I knew intimately, but the part where I was often stationed was unusual. Although officially un-patrolled, it was extremely popular. Adjacent to a large car park, it had an invitingly wide stretch of sand with its own naturally-formed lagoon, popular with young families. Nearby shops served fish and chips, cold drinks and ice-creams. The only problem was that the ocean at this particular spot was notoriously dangerous. 

The community had recently built an observation tower here, with views over the long stretch of rip-riddled surf between the two patrolled areas at the northern and southern ends of the beach. Our job was to keep a low profile — we didn’t want to encourage people to swim here, but many did anyway.

One summer morning, I arrived at the beach in my metallic-blue 1966 Ford Cortina, windows down to catch the light nor-easterly breeze. It was going to be a hot one. A sand bank had formed in front of the observation tower, which was a relatively safe place to swim, but large waves were breaking onto it, causing a strong side current which fed into a channel to the right of the sand bank. This channel was the hazard. I dug holes and placed ‘Danger’ signs into them, then carried a rescue board down to the signs. The rescue board was an old clunker, beaten about and very heavy, but with weight came stability. The board would be almost useless for paddling out through waves, but in a rip, it’s solidity was perfect. I walked back to the tower, climbed the ladder, and prepared for the day ahead. I performed the usual Oxy- Viva Resuscitator Kit and radio checks, then switched on my FM radio and as State of the Heart, by Mondo Rock played, I climbed out the window to sit on the balcony in the warm sun. From here, I had the best view of the water. Watching from the tower, I could see people wading into the shallows and making their way onto the sandbank. Most people stayed on their feet close to the beach, but some dived under waves further out. The constant pull of water from left to right meant that those off their feet, would drift towards the rip. Some noticed the drift and would work their way back to the sandbank, then eventually back to the beach to dry off in the sun. Over the course of any day, this cycle would repeat, usually without incident.

But today, I had my eye one particular swimmer. Seemingly unaware of the drift, she was moving closer to danger. When someone drifts off a sandbank, there’s a sudden and frightening realisation that they can no longer stand, and that the flow of water is no longer heading inwards, or to the side, but straight out to sea. I watched as the woman floated into the rip and on her way to deeper water. The strength of the current, and her distance from shore, meant that reversing her course back to the beach was now almost impossible.

I was already on my way down the ladder. I ran across the hot sand and made a beeline towards the clunker. I grabbed the board. It landed on the water with a thump. Jumping on, I immediately felt the flow of the rip and I let it help me paddle the board faster out to sea. It took me about thirty seconds to get to her, but by now she had been in the rip for a few minutes. One moment she’d been a happy young woman, enjoying a day at the beach with friends, and just minutes later, she was facing her own death.

The water in a rip moves outward, but the wave action and breeze moves inward, against the current, causing surface chop. This turbulence makes it easy to swallow water and it’s difficult to stay high enough in the water to breathe. Once fatigue sets in, a swimmer’s legs drop, making it even harder to float, and harder to breathe. It takes another sixty seconds or so before a swimmer starts to submerge. Holding your breath becomes more and more difficult. Water in the trachea causes a spasm that blocks the airway and causes unconsciousness, then cardiac arrest. I’d seen this before. I’d carried out CPR on the beach. Sometimes, a patient will be partially revived, but dies in hospital. This outcome feels particularly terrible. It’s critical to get to the swimmer quickly, before all this happens, but also to be aware of incoming waves that might separate us from the swimmer, or knock us off the rescue board. For professional ocean lifeguards, the rescue process is practised over and over, for many years.

As I drew closer to the woman in trouble, I could see that she was still conscious, but her face was filled with dread. Protocol is to slip off the board, turn it upside down, then, gripping the patient, roll the board back over while lifting the patient onto the board. This works okay if the patient is behind the break in calm water, but in a rip, with water moving in one direction and waves breaking the other, there’s a risk that the swimmer, the rescuer and the rescue board might become separated. This morning, I stayed on the board, sitting with my legs over the side. The swimmer locked her gaze on me but didn’t say anything. I told her that she was ok, and that everything would be fine. She was still terrified, and with her hair plastered over her face, she managed to clamber onto the board. I didn’t have to ask her to hold on tight, I could see the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the handles. She had no regard for decorum at that point; her swimming costume was almost on backwards. All that mattered was that she could breathe.

Watching over my shoulder for incoming breakers, I pointed the board towards the beach and started to paddle. Small, choppy waves lifted us and pushed us forward. I continued to check over my shoulder, making sure I was aware of anything coming up behind us, and trimmed the board’s position so that we maintained our speed against the rip, but didn’t nose-dive. The clunker was slow and heavy. Once we built momentum, it’s weight kept us stable. The woman started to relax, and when she lifted her head and saw that we were getting closer to the beach, her breathing slowed. Sounds from the shore became louder: children laughing, seagulls squawking. A small wave lifted us, and pushed us into shallow water. I dropped my legs to slow us down and eventually we came to a stop in knee deep water. She slipped herself off the board, stood up, thanked me and walked towards the sand. It was over. 

What I remember most about that day, is how something that was so routine for me, was literally a lifesaving act for her. The margin between life and death in that moment was so narrow, and yet the remedy was so simple. You just needed to know the signs, and what action to take.