I was a Jersey Shore lifeguard in my late teens and early twenties. I loved guarding, and I was bitterly disappointed by it in the way only a young person could be disappointed by something she loved. In many ways, it was a very beautiful experience. The wholehearted youthful bonding and shared love of the outdoors made it an unforgettable and transformative experience. I have fond memories of long winding conversations with standmates that drifted lazily through humid afternoons; swimming over schools of skates during morning swims; and feeling my suntanned face cooled by soft ocean breezes. Yet just as real were the growing pains I faced as a shy and self-conscious young woman in my late teens and early twenties, when every small triumph and petty humiliation - from a lost race down to a two-pound weight gain - held outsized importance. Lifeguarding remains a vivid and defining experience of my youth even decades later, when an ocean swim is just a distant memory - perhaps, in a way, a brighter summer day.  

I titled this series ‘A Brighter Summer Day’ after Edward Yang’s movie of the same name. An Elvis Presley song re-appears as a leitmotiv throughout the movie, plaintively asking ‘Does your memory stray to a brighter summer day?’  

The tournaments are taken very seriously, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the fact that the only real prestige is local bragging rights. In particular, prowess in rowing sets a guard on a higher plane than the ordinary rank and file. But sometimes, the boats lose control and crash into each other, and other times they flip in shallow water. It is an activity fraught with real danger. In 2021, a 16-year-old boy was killed during a rowing workout. A local newspaper and several social media posts questioned the boats’ continued presence on the beaches, yet nothing changed. Just as in decades prior, boats have persisted as a mainstay of tournaments (the storied Gowdy races took place as usual on the day of the boy’s death). I suppose danger only adds to the mystique.

The tournaments are taken very seriously, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the fact that the only real prestige is local bragging rights. In particular, prowess in rowing sets a guard on a higher plane than the ordinary rank and file. But sometimes, the boats lose control and crash into each other, and other times they flip in shallow water. It is an activity fraught with real danger. In 2021, a 16-year-old boy was killed during a rowing workout. A local newspaper and several social media posts questioned the boats’ continued presence on the beaches, yet nothing changed. Just as in decades prior, boats have persisted as a mainstay of tournaments (the storied Gowdy races took place as usual on the day of the boy’s death). I suppose danger only adds to the mystique.

Helmets are permitted while rowing, but very rarely used. I remember only one tournament in which helmets were required. That mandate was bitterly lampooned. “Helmets are lettuce!! (“Lettuce” was argot coined by my beach patrol.) 

I was always terrified of the boats. But I don’t remember ever saying so. That would be “lettuce.” Especially since I was a girl. Women lifeguards could gain acceptance and even admiration from males, but there were constant reminders that we were bestowed the privilege to participate on (nearly) equal footing in a man’s world, rather than that being our right. While all employees technically did the same job, there were things from which women were excluded, both quasi-officially and officially. They ranged from certain turns of conversation (usually, concerning sexual conquests); to heavy lifting, to sitting on lifeguard stands that were traditionally all-male. In one rowing race, a man told me to “hold my oars,” which meant that I was supposed to sit still and not row at all, with the implication that I’d just get in the way. Always in the background were the constantly running, crudely worded commentaries on the female physique, the blatantly predatory attitude of older men toward much younger women, and the general idea that we women were physically weaker and therefore a possessed a critical deficit in terms of job capability that must be counter-balanced by outsized male brawn and machismo. (As per one guard, “You can only do so much with chick muscles.”) While I was scornful of the boys’ arrogance in one sense, on the other, I was very much taken in by their confidence and panache. The exaggerated masculine posturing - even as I recognized it for what it was - subconsciously served in my mind to underscore lifeguarding’s (and perhaps life’s) assumption of male dominance.

Yet in spite of all that, I wholeheartedly loved guarding. I looked forward to each summer with almost agonizing impatience. From the morning workouts, onerous at first, I gained a lifelong love of barefoot beach running. I tentatively learned to surf, something which I would never have previously attempted. Lifeguard friends dragged me to my first rock concert. I experienced my first wild parties. Yet while the camaraderie was a heady experience, I felt a bit out of my depth, both physically and socially. I earnestly wanted to show that I could not only do the job, but embody the lifestyle, as well or better than any male. I tried a bit too hard at times. 

While I used to feel like an outsider even as an insider, now I am clearly an outsider - a weird girl (or lady, depending upon one’s age) with a camera. Nobody knows or cares much about my history as a former participant. I’m usually ignored but tolerated, looked at in a quizzical kind of way, greeted by a few old friends, and approached by a few friendly and curious souls. My strongest sense is how long ago I was a part of that world, even though in some ways it doesn’t feel like much time has passed at all. Lifeguarding represented something I once desired, a “normal life,” a brighter summer day, perhaps, but it was never to be mine, if it ever is anybody’s. 

Does your memory stray to a brighter summer day?