Reflections From a Part-time Lifeguard
The many lives of Ives Pool from the man who watches over them
The Sebastopol Times has been taking a break from news over the holidays. This is the final essay we’ll be publishing from our first-ever Personal Essay contest.
By Colin Foulke
To qualify as a Red Cross lifeguard in California, you must meet these minimum requirements: be at least 15, swim 300 yards without stopping, tread water for two minutes, and retrieve a 10-pound brick from the bottom of the pool. As a 6’5”, 37-year-old lifelong swimmer, I far exceeded these requirements. And yet, I found myself in a classroom surrounded by pubescent teenagers silently judging me: What went so wrong in your life that you’re here? While I endured and even enjoyed their judgment, the truth differed. It wasn’t what had gone so wrong in my life, but what had gone so right that I became a lifeguard in my late 30s.
Unbeknownst to most, COVID-19 caused a national lifeguard shortage. With pools closed, many lifeguards let their certifications lapse. Our little town of Sebastopol felt that squeeze as the summer of ‘22 approached. Like so many, I had struggled with work-life balance during the pandemic. A few hours a week as a lifeguard at Ives Pool seemed like a way to shift the scales back toward balance. I could carve out time in my work week and step away from career pressures for a few hours to be surrounded by community, chlorine, and sunshine. I joked that I was doing it for my country, but the truth was—I needed this.
What surprised me most about lifeguarding wasn’t the training—it was how rarely I’ve needed to use it. There have been no dramatic rescues, no slow-motion Baywatch moments. Other than the usual bee stings and bandaids, there thankfully has been little need for my formal training. I guard lives every day, but I’ve yet to save one. When people hear I’m a lifeguard, they always ask about rescues. Truthfully, there haven’t been any. Instead, I joke that my specialty is preventative lifeguarding—stopping problems before they happen. Joking aside, it’s an effective way to guard lives. Just ask my kids.
Most days, I’m surrounded by, interacting with, and supporting the vibrant community that swirls through the pool. I give advice about snorkels, how to generate a good catch during backstroke, or even how best to shoot a water polo ball. Questions abound—where’s the lost and found? How much for a punch pass? Does the water really turn red if you pee in it? Summer camps, underwater hockey, aqua aerobics, and the like, all fall under my supervision. I have, and will, remind them all to please walk. WALK!
It took time for me to understand my role as a lifeguard. Yes, my training is important, and I am prepared to respond to an array of emergencies. However, my actual role, which I fulfill most often, is that of community supporter.
If you were at the pool on any given day, you too could be witness to all this. It’s a lovely place full of joy, laughter, and learning, with the occasional miscommunication kerfuffle about circle swimming (for the record, it’s always counterclockwise). But when you’ve been at the pool as long as I have, and you look for it, really look for it, there’s so much more happening. Comedies and tragedies, meet-cutes and myths, legends and tall tales—all unfolding simultaneously right before your eyes.
While swimming is a sport that exposes its user physically, it exposes them emotionally as well. The bravery it takes to step out of the locker room in that new bathing suit, the confidence it takes to join the fast lane for the first time, the fear that’s overcome to touch the bottom of the deep end while your friends are watching. Witnessing someone’s first swim after top surgery was a private triumph made public—a moment of courage, pride, and self-reclamation that radiated with every stroke. Watching a once-graceful butterfly stroke slowed by illness, now propelled by sheer determination rather than ease—a testament to resilience. A child refugee’s first swim since escaping their war-torn country—a profound moment of humanity, revealed in splashes and laughter.
So many challenges are faced, and overcome, just by showing up. Embarrassment in being an adult who never learned to swim, overcoming being fat-shamed as a youth, feeling self-conscious that you’re not as young as you once were. Showing up and putting on the suit is often the hardest part. The traverse from the locker room to the water’s edge is where the battles are fought. It’s the walk of vulnerability, where self-doubt is met with the courage to show up. There is no place to hide in the clear waters, a beautiful brutality to it. The pool holds all these stories in its depths.
The relief that swimmers feel when they get out shows me again and again, the pool is the real hero. With every lap, every flip turn, and every quiet moment of floating, the pool gives something back. A hard swim is an investment in a good night’s sleep. The pool holds the space—a calm, warm rectangle of water where anxiety is reduced, flexibility regained, and frustration dispelled. At 800 times denser than air, the water hugs all, with no judgment, prejudices, or expectations. And while everyone has opinions about the pool’s temperature, not one has ever complained about how it felt once they were enveloped. What was there before the embrace of the water is no longer. All that angst, anxiety, and pent-up frustration about the state of the world, gets washed off. All these feelings, big and small, tender or tough, are left in the pool. Over the years, I’ve come to realize that while I guard the lives, it’s the pool that truly saves them.
Legally, we have to fill out paperwork when there is any incident at the pool, from stubbed toes to heart palpitations. Somewhere there’s a filing cabinet with a folder for these reports. But if we documented every life the pool saved, the cabinet would overflow with stories of courage, resilience, and transformation. My report would be in that stack too—grief and loss, heartaches and heartbreaks, sobriety, divorce, injuries, and birthday parties, all left in those waters. Every time the pool held me, cradled me and supported me as I pulled my emotions through the water, it reminded me of one simple truth: the pool doesn’t just save lives—it transforms them. I know this to be true because the pool transformed mine.
I still lifeguard once a week and swim a fair bit. My kids join me for water polo, and my butterfly has yet to revert to caterpillar. I regularly dive to the depths to clean the filters of all the things that actually end up in the pool (you don’t want to know). I field the questions, give the tips, and help the kiddos get their goggles on the right way. I do these things because I’m in service to the pool and the community it supports.
I’ve thought of those teenagers from my training class over the years and have since realized what went so right in my life: when I became a lifeguard, I was old enough to notice what a teenage version of me would have missed entirely. While I’m always watching the water like I was trained, my gaze often shifts to the little wins, the private victories, and the quiet transformations that could be so easily overlooked.
Sure, it’s a job, and I get paid. But somehow, it’s me who still feels indebted. See you at the pool.
Colin Foulke is a father, an artisan, school board trustee, and one day a week, a lifeguard.
He makes me want to go back to swimming at Ives regularly. It has even much too long since I’ve been there. Thank you for the great motivating column, Colin🤗
Yes, indeed you did save the best for last! All of the essays have been engaging but this one really resonated. Having been a regular lap swimmer at Ives (pre-COVID) I can appreciate the world about which Colin writes. I know what he is talking about when he describes how the water can enfold you. I know that little community that surrounded me in my very early morning swim days. He makes me want to go back. Thanks for this one!