Shaka Bry - Mercadia Calling

W here are you going, James George?

The call comes from a gaggle of elderly sunbathers directly behind my chair. The old man rushing toward the sea is the bravest of the bunch, casting aside any withering aches and/or pains he might harbor as he splashes into the Atlantic with ageless abandon.

Senior beachgoers in the twilight of their lives rarely opt for a full throttle swim. They tend to linger where the sand meets the predictably unpredictable waters edge, testing the temperature with their wrinkly toes before inevitably making their way over to me. Usually, theyll make small talk about the weather, or the crowds, or whatever other notions may pop into their thoughts on a hot, Jersey Shore beach day. I dont mind making the yuk-yuk with them. As long as they dont have an ulterior, thinly veiled agenda to disclose their grandkids many wondrous achievements. Those conversations are the ones that never seem to find a natural end. And when youre stuck up in the lifeguard stand with no escape, you can only be polite for so long.

James George!

The old man in the ocean turns, smiles, and nods at whoevers shouting his name. I assume this has appeased the mystery caller, as he now ceases his attempts.

James George.

I ponder the gray-haired guys name. A lilting rhyme my grandfather used to sing comes to mind: The man so nice they named him twice. Come to think of it, the old guy could pass for my grandfathers stunt double; that is, if my grandfather had ever acted in a movie (which he never did) or worn such ridiculous swimwear (which he had).

A shrill whistle comes from chair five, followed by Catarinas harsh warning. Shed caught some kid in the unprovoked act of chucking rocks at a helpless seagull. Kids are always assaulting the poor, dumb gulls.

I pick up the walkie talkie and press the part that magically transports my talkie across the beach.

Chair four to chair five, I say with minor authority.

Go ahead.

Is that the same kid you yelled at two hours ago?

No. Different one.

You sure? He looks like the same kid.

Pretty sure. That other kid had a mullet.

In front of my chair and to the left, Jesse and Angel are busy dragging the heavy lifeguard boat back from the rising tide.

Maybe mullets are coming back in style, I joke into the device. Its cool to be retro!

Chair two to chair four, No-Fun-Nancy interrupts us over the airwaves.

Chair four, go ahead, I respond, all official-like.

Keep the chatter to a minimum. Thank you.

Well, that was faster than usual, Jesse says, looking up at me from the side of the boat, now moored in the summer sand.

Signal seven, I respond into the walkie talkie with the affirmative, albeit unnecessary code for copy that or I understand. Do Nancy and the brass of Seaport Beach Patrol think the Russians are listening in? And even if they were, would they be so fooled by our easily broken code?

KUN-330 clear, Nancy shoots back, ending our radio communication officially. So much for levity on a sweltering day.

From atop her chair, about five hundred yards away, Catarina makes a tsk, tsk, tsk motion with her two index fingers. I shrug my shoulders back at her and then return my attention to the water. Or rather, the people in the water.

Where is James George?

Its a Saturday in August, so the beach is packed. Kids are everywhere, in and out of the water. These are the actual threats, kids always are. How many of them know how to swim? Jesse already had to jump down earlier today and pull in a young girl whod gone in too deep, just over her head. Thats all it takes. Just a few steps to Danger City. It happens at least once or twice a day at the height of the season. At some point during their visit, parents just figure they can let their kids roam wild while they get busy working on their tans or drink their not-so-cleverly concealed cocktails.

The lifeguards are on duty. We can ease off on our already lax parenting skills for an afternoon.

They see us as babysitters they dont have to pay. I guess we kinda are.

But that old dude with two names

Where did you go, James George?

I stand in the chair and look left, then right, then behind thinking, hoping, praying the old man just decided against going for a dip after all and returned up the beach.

James George!

I hear his name called again. This time the voice is shouting even louder and his tone is one of sincere worry. A middle-aged, fat man with jet black belly hair comes barreling down the beach. Hes screaming and pointing at the water, confirming my fear.

Ive wasted too much time already. I leap from the chair and hit the sand running. Instinctively, I grab the rescue tube from its place leaning against the stand and toss the straps loop around my neck. The floatation device acts as a thruster in my hand as I rush through the shallow water, creating harried waves of my own that splash beside me.

The old man had gone into the water while I was horsing around on the radio. I cant think about how bad that is for me. As a lifeguard, my one duty is to rescue people before they need rescuing. Im supposed to guard peoples lives! For Chrissake, the ever-loving job description is right there in my title! I whisk the thought away as the waves, more forceful than I expect them to be, try pushing me back to the beach. Im not even sure where Im headed. The only direction I know is forward. The last Id seen the old man was about twenty feet in from the waters edge. When I get to that point, I dive.

Under the water, I avoid many sets of legs dancing with the current. But Im not looking for legs. Im looking for a time-weathered face, hopefully not bloated and/or blue.

Hey Jonah! Angel is by my side when I resurface. Jesses right beside him. What are we doin out here?

Old man, I say. Hes out here somewhere. Angel, go left. Jesse, right. Im going out.

From chair five, Catarina blares the bullhorn. After three seconds of that piercing alert, she will calmly and clearly instruct everyone to exit the water, as per standard procedure. I dont wait for the din to settle or the bodies to vacate. I break for deeper waters.

Ive always been a fast swimmer. Thats actually an understatement, but the fact remains that I placed first in five events and a relay at States this year, as a junior. This feat of athletic prowess has no bearing on whether Im going to locate a possible drowned victim. In the ocean, speed doesnt save lives. Plus, the only stroke you can do, beneath the surface, is breaststroke, which is the slowest, generally speaking. Its also my worst event.

Its dark and I can only see a few inches in front of my face. Ive never been in this type of rescue situation before. Never had to drag the deeps to discover

There he is.

His eyes are wide open and at the moment before I ram into him, I see what those eyes must have beheld just before his own lights went outthe old man looks like hed just witnessed a miracle of miracles.

I grab hold under his armpits and pull him to the surface.