Washed Up

Line Up

Ross

Line up. Noun. [lahyn uhp]. The place just outside the breaking waves where surfers wait for their waves.

I lean my head against the wooden back of the lifeguard chair, my eyes lazily scanning the two kids playing in the sand at the edge of the waves. Sun beats down on my face, deepening my already golden brown complexion, and wind tickles the soft cotton of my t-shirt.

Summer. It officially starts tomorrow, bringing the crowds of Mainlanders with their garish beach umbrellas, screaming toddlers, and inability to doggy paddle in the whitecaps. As a year-round islander, I have mixed feelings about the dawn of summer. On one hand, summer brings a huge boost in income to my dad's part-time bike rental business, and I get paid for longer hours as a lifeguard during the prime months for beach going. On the other hand, my peaceful beach will be packed with half-naked tourists instead of wild horses. I'll look out to the ocean and see drowning teenagers instead of pods of dolphins.

Financially, summer's great. I don't have to drive to the mainland every day to work in the Office Max warehouse, loading boxes in the sweltering heat. I get to spend my days in this chair with my rescue tube beside me and my lifeguard whistle around my neck. Sure, I'll have to dive into the freezing waves to rescue a few idiots, but it's a small price to pay for a summer spent on the beach.

After working as a lifeguard for eleven summers, however, I itch for something more. I love the beach and the ocean and my island, but there's more to the world than the sound of the lapping waves and the feel of sand between my toes. I'm not sure what more, but I know there has to be something beyond life tied to one miniscule strip of land next to the Atlantic coast.

I watch as one of the kids passes the black and white checkered flag marking the edge of the swim zone and I lift the whistle to my lips and motion him back into the safe area.

"Still strict as ever, Rossy."

I look down from my chair to find Javier and Earnest, two of the other summer lifeguards I've known for years.

"It's about time you Mainlanders got here," I say, jumping from the chair into the soft sand ten feet below me.

I shake hands with Javier, a spunky Mexican American kid who talks too much, and slap Earnest on the back, disturbing his perfectly combed hair and pressed dress shirt. Javier and Earnest are summer lifeguards, living here for June, July, and August and then returning to their normal Mainland lives.

"How's Dartmouth, Ernie?" I ask, eying the dark haired kid with the serious expression.

"Still in New Hampshire," he responds with a half quirked smile.

Javier slaps him on the back. "Hilarious, Ernie. Real funny. How's our island, Ross? Ready for us?"

"After three years ago?" I joke, remembering the illegal fireworks we set off on the 4th of July.

That almost landed us in jail, but luckily, Earnest runs track, Javier plays soccer, and I run on the beach every morning. We were fast enough to leave our inexperienced Long Beach law enforcement in our dust. Even though Bob Warner and the other local cops know we were the culprits, they couldn't pin anything on us and let it slide.

Still, I'm 24 now, too old for the carefree summer antics of yore. The novelty of spending the summer on the beach wore off years ago, but I don't have any other choices. Instead of enjoying it like I should, I feel stuck here in a Groundhog's Day loop of the same summer, year after year after year.

I glance back at the beach and blow my whistle when I see a gang of surfers getting too close to the surf zone like I've done a thousand times. I tamp down my discontentment and turn to Javier and Earnest.