How you can save lives at ANY age
Thought you had to be a Baywatch babe to be a lifeguard? In fact, there’s no age limit to the training so JANE FRYER goes in at the deep end...
If you think you’re too small to have an impact, try going to bed with a mosquito ANITA RODDICK
WHEN I was 15, I dreamt of becoming a lifeguard; of running down golden sandy beaches, blowing my whistle and clutching my scarlet buoyancy aide, as they all did on the American TV show Baywatch.
My long blonde hair would stream out behind me and my bosoms would bounce joyfully (albeit in slow motion) in a bright red swimsuit that was somehow both impossibly low and impossibly high cut. And I would save lives with my superb swimming skills and feather-light kiss of life.
Sadly, it never happened. For although I have always been an excellent swimmer, I was neither blonde, booby, nor remotely suited to a cutaway swimsuit and so, reluctantly, I became a lawyer instead — before turning to journalism.
But I never quite abandoned my dream. And never say never, because this week, nearly 35 years later, I finally started my lifeguard training at my local pool. It isn’t quite Malibu, but is really very nice, particularly on a sunny day.
In Ireland there’s no age limit to becoming a lifeguard, although you do have to update your training every two years. Recently in Britain there has been a drive by the Royal Life Saving Society (RLSS) to recruit ‘grey lifeguards’, particularly those aged 50 and over, into its ranks.
While the ‘grey’ bit is not, perhaps, the most tempting marketing tag ever and I am not yet (quite) 50, I couldn’t resist the lure of the whistle, the buoyancy aid, the polarised sunglasses (to better see through the water, apparently) and the perch of glory six feet up.
Or, more importantly, ignore the terrifying statistics — more than 140 people drown in Ireland each year; one every 20 hours. In May alone, 10 people drowned in the spell of good weather — although deaths in
pools with lifeguards are rare. And so here I am, being put through my paces by Helen Meckiffe, who got her lifeguard qualification at 16 and is now a trainer assessor.
I am fully dressed in the icy-cold pool, perfecting the ‘extended arm tow’ on a nice woman called Nicola — who is pretending to be moribund.
Given the volume of water she’s being forced to take on as I tow her along, hand cupped under chin, arm straight and outstretched, as I sidestroke to the side, she might well soon be moribund. But she is obliging, and thankfully ‘comes round’ the minute we hit the steps to hop out onto dry land.
Quite often lifeguard recruits are between 16 and 25 years old, which means the job is often a stepping stone to something else — a summer job, a gap-year fill in, a chance to perfect your tan and pose by the poolside. But recently older people are getting in on the act.
The American Lifeguard Association (ALA) started the trend of recruiting senior citizens — including at least one 86-year-old — after numbers of young recruits fell off in recent years.
‘Back when Baywatch was on air, we had so many applicants that we had to turn people away,’ said B.J. Fisher, the ALA’s director of health and safety. But latterly, American students have been keener to spend their summers doing internships and travelling. ‘So we’re starting to think outside the box: baby-boomers, seniors, retired lawyers and accountants,’ Mr Fisher added.
In Ireland, there is no age limit to becoming a lifegaurd, as long as you can pass a revalidation test every two years which is required after your initial qualification, which you must be over 16 to take.
Even the outfit isn’t particularly daunting any more — just a very sensible yellow Tshirt, red shorts, sunglasses and optional floppy red sunhat.
‘Nobody’s mad about the outfit, really,’ says Helen. ‘But it works. It has to be visible. And it’s important for people to know it’s not Baywatch and you don’t have to wear a tight swimsuit or teeny trunks.’
OR, for that matter, have a figure like Pamela Anderson. In fact, so long as they’re fit and able, recruits can be any shape, size or age. ‘Everyone’s equal in water,’ says Helen. ‘I’ve had a lifeguard before who had lost his hand, but could still perform all the skills very competently.’
You do, though, have to be able to swim 50 metres in less than a minute, tread water for 30 seconds, swim to the bottom of the deepest part of the pool (which here, is 3.5 metres), be agile enough to hop out of the pool unaided and without steps, and as Helen puts it, ‘just be willing to learn and be part of a team’.
On top of that, there are monthly physical fitness tests that include timed swims and timed rescue tows. But most of all, you need to be able to focus — completely and utterly — not on the beautiful sunny day or the arrestingly handsome man taking off his top on the grass behind the cafe, but on the noisy, thrashing, splashing sea of overexcited bodies before you.
The need for total focus is daunting. My concentration span has been shot to bits by years of juggling work, kids and home, fuelled by too much coffee and not enough sleep. I suspect I am too used to multitasking to concentrate on one thing only. But I fly through the swimming tests.
When I learned to swim in a foggy, chlorine-rich pool 45 years ago, things were different. The changing rooms were alarmingly communal, the showers swirled with corn plasters and other people’s hair, and every
fifth person wore a white verruca sock.
Our clothes were left in wire hanging baskets, but somehow always got wet and the walls were festooned in cartoon posters telling us what not to do.
I can still remember the poster by heart: no running, no pushing, no bombing, no shouting, no ducking, no acrobatics, no petting, no swimming in diving area and no smoking.
If we didn’t like the water in our faces and started crying, the instructor would empty a bucket over our heads.
And if we still cried, he’d dunk our heads underwater with his foot as he balanced on one leg on the side of the pool. But I loved it. I swam three times a week; I competed in galas; I swam in the icy Irish sea in on holiday when no one else dared.
When I’m stressed, it calms me. When I’m tired, it perks me up. When I was pregnant, it made me sane — and I still swim whenever I can, in pools, rivers, lakes and the sea.
But, of course, there’s a lot more to being a lifeguard than being a competent swimmer. As Helen says: ‘You are responsible for what goes on around the pool, as well as in it.’
Last weekend, the team of 12 guards where I am training were responsible for the safety of more than 6,000 visitors.
‘We had four ambulances called — for heatstroke, seizures and convulsions. One person went into shock. We had abdominal pains, cuts and grazes and headaches to deal with,’ she says.
So next, crouched over a family of legless, armless rubber torsos — adult, child and babysize — I learn the fundamentals of lifeguarding first aid.
She shows me how to check the person is still breathing — look, listen, feel. If they are, move them into the recovery position; if they’re not, how to perform cardiac pulmonary resuscitation (CPR).
We cover choking and the abdominal press — ‘It used to be called the Heimlich manoeuvre, but nobody could pronounce it,’ says Helen.
All of which brings back hazy memory from my Brownies first aid badge back in 1976. I am ashamed never to have refreshed my first aid knowledge, despite having two young boys, who are constantly sticking the wrong things in their mouths — just this week one swallowed a coin— and am relieved to be back on track.
Next we tackle the dreaded focus.
‘Maintaining concentration is very much part of the qualification,’ says Helen. Here in Aldershot, the Lido is so big — 3,000 people are allowed into the grounds every day; 550 in the water — and on a hot day, so busy that each lifeguard has a dedicated ‘zone’.
They start with a visibility test — checking they can see clearly to the bottom of the water and from then on, scan their zone constantly using different patterns — across and back, side to side, round and round — always poised to respond to an emergency. In a normal-sized pool, they’ll moveposition every 30 minutes — here, where it’s so busy, every 15 — and then have a break ‘off poolside’ every hour. They are not allowed to read a book, listen to music or chat. They must keep their yellow shirts on at all times and be constantly scanning.
Helen says the training — much of it theory-based about lifeguarding and the law and the consequences if they mess up — helps focus the mind. ‘And the lifeguards are being assessed all the time,’ she adds.
It clearly works. While drowning is still a big killer in Ireland, it is unusual in a life-guarded swimming pool. The recent spate of heatwave drownings have all been in open water.
‘People who wouldn’t usually swim are going into the water to cool off,’ she says of the high death toll this summer. ‘They’re unsupervised. There are no regulations. The tides and cold water come as a shock.’
While it’s all about prevention, at least one of the guards has to jump into the Aldershot lido at least once every day. And when they do rescue someone, the crowd are extremely appreciative.
While beach lifeguarding sounds more exciting, it is completely different and, thanks to the tides and currents, has totally different regulations. Here, the lifeguard maintains calm and order and does ‘accident prevention’ by giving satisfying blasts on a large black horn at any transgressions.
The old posters have gone but running, smoking and pushing are still ‘no-nos’ and bombing is debatable, says Helen. And, er, ‘petting’? ‘If it’s very busy and someone’s really going for it in the pool, the lifeguards will intervene as it can be a bit off-putting,’ she says. ‘But if it’s quiet and they’re not overdoing it, they maybe let them go for it!’
Of course, there are a few rather less appealing responsibilities involved in policing a pool. Such as ‘pool contamination’.
‘First, you’d identify what sort of contamination it is — liquid or solid,’ says Helen. Then there’s a procedure that generally involves a pool evacuation, a net and chemical treatment...’
But for all that, there are many perks — a very jolly team, free leisure centre membership, career prospects (guards can be upscaled to swimming teachers and into management), a sporty outdoor life (which, of course, is less appealing on a cold, rainy day) and adoring appreciation from the crowds when you do rescue someone.
THE full lifeguard pool course requires five days of pool and classroom work, culminating in an assessment. You come away with a National Pool Lifeguard Qualification (NPLQ). Separate training to become a beach lifeguard is slightly longer at six days per course.But generally the pass rate for those taking part is 90%.
Sadly, I have only a day, so we press on to the ‘vice grip’, which is used for suspected spinal injuries, involves swimming beneath the casualty while keeping them on their back, and is almost impossible.
And, finally, we do some throw and rescue. Nicola hops in and pretends to drown and I throw my red buoyancy aid at her and, kneeling carefully, haul her firmly in to safety.
I know she is not really drowning and that I have not saved her. But I still get a quickening of anxiety and a surge of relief as she reaches safety.
And afterwards, as I perch 6ft up, whistle round my neck, walkietalkie in my hand, surveying my watery empire, I get a surge of power. A swagger. A watery pride. Even if I am manning a municipal swimming pool, rather than a white-gold beach in Malibu.
The most important thing is to focus. Not on the handsome man taking his top off, but on the thrashing sea of over-excited bodies before you