Bobbing for Lottery Tickets [final]

The dog days of summer were in full effect as the blazing 90-degree heat wave that had swept the eastern seaboard over the weekend radiated off of the white pavement surrounding the YMCA pool. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon on Memorial Day in the summer before my senior year of high school. As a second-season lifeguard, most of my shifts were spent watching swimmers in a 10-lane lap pool, twirling my whistle, and staying alert for those predictable late day thunderstorms. We had weekly staff meetings to keep our CPR and first aid training up to date, but it didn't matter because nothing could have prepared me for the events that unfolded that afternoon.

Abby, a rookie lifeguard and college freshman, took her seat across the pool from me on the smaller of the two stands. She became a lifeguard when a classmate and friend who already worked at the YMCA assured her that it was a "cush" job and she would have a perfect tan all summer long. She rubbed the coconut-scented tanning lotion all over her skinny arms and adjusted her designer sunglasses just before blowing the whistle to signify that the break that occurs at the top of every hour was finally over.

Children of all ages, who have been sitting impatiently for the past ten minutes, leaped into the refreshing water screaming with joy. There was a line wrapped behind the first row of seating for swimmers waiting to strut their stuff on the 6-foot diving board. Because it was Memorial Day and the first weekend the pool was open to its members, people poured in like they were expecting to dive into a pool of winning lottery tickets. It was undoubtedly the most crowded and warmest day of the summer resulting in the most miserable and dangerous work conditions.

I scanned the water by counting each individual in my section repetitively, insuring that I saw each swimmer with his or her head above water at least once every thirty seconds. The diving board was situated in the 9-foot area of the pool, just to my left.

Jim Payne, an overweight father of two and second-season member of the YMCA pool, was next in line to take the plunge off of the flimsy diving board. His young children were in my swimming lesson at the end of last summer so I had gotten to know the family well.

As Mr. Payne leapt into the air and sprung above the board eyeing another bounce before flipping backwards into a gainer, he somehow miscalculated and in an instant, the board made contact with the back of his head as he fell limp into the deep end.

I immediately blew the whistle three times signifying an emergency as my supervisor and two off-duty lifeguards ran to my assistance after calling 9-1-1. I had already carefully entered the water, and made my way towards the victim who seemed responsive but in a great amount of pain. Abby had made her way over to the far side of the deep end with a backboard and neck stability strap in hand which was protocol for any type of spinal injury.

I placed the rescue buoy under Mr. Payne’s lower back and tried to stabilize his neck with my forearms. At this moment, I didn't know the extent of his injuries but I knew that I needed to get him out of the water. His legs were moving and he was telling us that he was going to be okay, but there was certainly a lot of pain hiding behind his every word. The pool was cleared but a majority of the swimmers had formed a big circle around the rescue operation, including his wife and two children.

Once again, Mr. Payne ensured everyone that he was going to be okay as he laid on the emergency backboard on the pool deck. EMT personnel had just arrived on the scene as we gathered some information for the accident report. He was then taken to Western Wake Hospital for precautionary measures and released later that night according to the report.

The pool reopened just a short time after the incident but Abby and I were relieved for the rest of the afternoon because our nerves were still in shock. We were educated and trained to expect the worst-case scenario and know how to deal with it, but no textbook in the world can explain the feeling of adrenaline that rushes through your veins when faced with an emergency like the one that occurred on that Memorial Day in 2003.