By Dominique Ficalora
"The weather has been 90 degrees for the last few days — the ocean will be warm. We have no other option but to do well."
She and I were waiting in Jones Beach's West Bathhouse for the start of the rookie lifeguard test.
"How cold do you think the ocean is?"
"Not too bad, but when you put your face in it, it feels like an ice cream headache."
The ocean would come later in the day. For now, we were focused on the first part of the four-part test: a 100-yard swim in the pool. I’d need to finish it in 1 minute, 15 seconds or faster to move on to the other events, and as far as I could tell from my training, I was on the borderline of the time cutoff.
All around me there were thick shoulders, curvy biceps and six-pack abs. Most of the jocks who compete for jobs as Jones Beach lifeguards were built for swimming. They aren't huge and bulging like other athletes; instead they tend to be long, slender and sculpted, with lean musculature.
"If I don't break a minute I'm just going home," one boy said to another.
"Good," said his companion. "If you don't break a minute, you have no business here anyway."
And here I was, wondering whether I’d break 1:15. I’m mostly a runner, having competed in cross-country in college. I’m no better than a very good recreational swimmer, and I was surrounded by kids who spend thousands of lonely hours training at prestigious swim clubs across Long Island.
When it was my turn to swim, the beep of a megaphone signaled the start, and I dived in and sprinted for all I was worth. The winner of our heat came in at in 56 seconds flat. I swam an embarrassing 1:12. Slow, for sure, but fast enough to move on to the next test: the ocean swim.
Kat and I, who met on the St. John's University cross-country team, had trained together for most of the winter, running, swimming and sometimes paddling to build our strength, so it was great that we could endure this punishment together. And we got some useful advice on the ocean swim from lifeguards we knew who’d come to watch us:
"When you enter the water, porpoise under the waves. You'll go faster."
"Watch the sweep when you go past the first buoy."
"You're going to be pulled a bit east, so keep spotting as you swim."
I tried to focus on those details as I high-stepped into the ice-cold Atlantic and started swimming. For the first 100 meters or so I fought through a forest of thrashing arms and legs, trying to avoid getting kicked or punched, but after that everyone fell into a rhythm. I wasn’t keeping up with the fastest swimmers, but I was holding my own.
I made it back to shore and dashed up on the beach, where I was handed a tongue depressor marked with a number that let the timekeepers know how I placed. This practice, used in a variety of sports, is known as "Popsicle sticking."
As each group of swimmers staggered out of the water, people were cheering for each other and shamelessly high-fiving.
"Are you nervous for the run?" Kat asked me as we warmed up for the next test, a three-quarter-mile run on the soft sand.
I was nervous, because I’m a runner, and felt more pressure to do well. Kat and I raced in separate groups. I don't know either of our times, but we both made it under the cutoff time of six minutes and were once again Popsicle-sticked after we crossed the finish line.
We weren’t done yet. We headed back across the sand to the pool for the last challenge, a timed cross-chest carry of a rescue dummy — a yellow, plastic pseudo-human torso that tends to fill with water and grow quite heavy, we soon discovered. Before we swam, Kat and I ate Luna bars to keep our energy levels up.
We were tired and sunburned, but this was my last opportunity to make up any lost time from the other events. Group after group, we hit the water one more time, sprinted a length of the pool and grabbed our dummies. Mine was smooth and slippery, but I wrapped an arm around it, propped it up on my hip and swam sidestroke back to the other end.
"What was my time?" I asked a lifeguard. He checked his clipboard.
"It was a 1:17," he said with a tone that made it clear that 1:17 was pretty embarrassing.
I didn’t care. The test was finally over.
Four hours after we began, somewhere around 65 people had survived all four challenges, and we gathered inside the West Bathhouse to find out who had the best overall performances. Only a precious few jobs were available at Jones Beach and Robert Moses state parks. Other people would be farmed out to other parks patrolled by Jones Beach guards, most of them to Heckscher and Sunken Meadow. We all knew there weren’t enough jobs for all these tan, toned, fast bodies.
"The fastest time swam today was 50 seconds for the 100-yard freestyle," Head Lifeguard Coordinator Joe Scalise announced. That was only 10 seconds slower than Olympic record holder Pieter van den Hoogenband would take to swim 100 yards. More important, it was a humbling 22 seconds faster than me.
One by one, names were called, and the top finishers filled the open spots. Even the last guy to get a job had swum the 100 in 56 seconds; I wasn’t even close.
When all of the jobs had been taken, 50 people sat quietly, clearly disappointed, and Kat and I were two of them. We sent text messages to friends, telling them the bad news, and they zapped back abbreviated condolences. Then we said our goodbyes.
The next day, I went for a run with my triathlon training buddy, Rich Barkan, who’s a Jones Beach guard. "You should be happy that you passed the test, kid," he said. "It's not easy."
"If there was a bigger draft, I could’ve had a spot," I said.
"Just train for next year. We'll get your times down in the hundred."
And maybe next year, one of the names they’ll call will be mine.
Comments about this story? JKellard@liherald.com or (516) 569-4000 ext. 213.
