The Lifeguard Tower – Part 1: Dawn Patrol

"Eyes on the water," said Nate.

"They are on the water."

"They were on me."

Jamie flushed to the tips of his ears. It was six in the morning on a wide Sydney beach, the sky just turning peach, the sea long and glassy and empty. He was twenty-eight, a graphic designer by trade, a new volunteer lifeguard by an impulse he still couldn't explain. Nate, thirty-two, the senior guard, sat on the next stool in the wooden tower in red shorts and a whistle, sunglasses pushed up in sun-bleached hair.

"Rule one," said Nate. "Watch for people who aren't waving. They're the ones in trouble. The ones waving are usually fine."

"And rule two?"

"Don't fall off the tower."

They patrolled dawn after dawn through the long summer, sharing a thermos and a pair of binoculars. Nate taught him to read the rips, the dark channels that pull swimmers out to sea. He taught him to spot a tourist from a hundred metres. He taught him to call every swimmer in with a clear, calm voice.

On Thursday a south-easterly blew up and the surf turned rough. Jamie pulled a tangled teenager out of the shore break, wrapped her in a towel and watched her walk away laughing. He climbed back into the tower with his pulse thudding.

"That was good work," said Nate quietly.

"Thanks."

"I'm not saying it to be nice." Nate lowered the binoculars. "I'm saying it because I've been wanting to say a few things for weeks. Is it okay if I say one more?"

"Please," said Jamie.

"Can I take you to breakfast?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Flat Water.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Flat Water.