Excerpts From A Summer Guarding Falmouth Beaches

By NOELLE ANNONEN

A seagull stole my sandwich on a Falmouth beach.

As a lifeguard, our seats are tall enough to see out into the water so we can keep an eye on swimmers splashing in the waves. They also leave us vulnerable to the elements: Chapoquoit Beach is a particularly windy spot, so much so that lifeguards often wrap their heads in sweatshirts to protect their skin from being rubbed raw in blustery weather. 

One day last SS, that chair left me vulnerable to something I wasn’t expecting. I was waiting when it happened, postponing the delight of my afternoon: a sandwich to savor. But it was not just any sandwich. It was a sandwich made with my favorite salami, encrusted in pepper, satisfyingly salty and expensive enough for me to spare it for special occasions, like a long day outdoors in stormy weather.

Such was the day I sat at Bristol Beach. Clouds were looming with the promise of rain and wind ripped tears from my eyes and I waited still.

Over the hump of noon, I could wait no longer and opened the parchment paper for lunch. I savored one bite of mostly crust, wanting to make the sandwich last. Then, tragedy.

The sandwich I held close to my chest was ripped from my hand. I looked down and screamed at the sight of a seagull, practically sitting on my shoulder, his beak closed around my sandwich. Just like that, my sandwich was gone.

I stood, turned and looked up to find a flock of seagulls riding the wind, hovering over my stand and shredding my sandwich to pieces between them. Salami dropped to the sand and they dove for the cured meat. I shouted and swung my backpack at them. I cursed their yellow, piercing eyes and sharp beaks, daring them to come within arm’s reach again.

I first moved to Falmouth two years ago, having never been to Massachusetts before and without knowing a soul on the East Coast. I had no idea Cape Cod was a popular summer destination, although the name vaguely rang of board shorts and iced drinks somewhere in the back of my mind. When I got here, it was easy to marvel at the beautiful village, but I had yet to understand why everyone here was so passionately in love with Falmouth. I signed up to be a lifeguard, in part to see if I could make sense of it. But the seagulls had me doubting more than ever that day.

Lifeguarding was relatively uneventful, aside from the seagull-on-sandwich attack I endured. It’s a long day in a hard wooden seat and the strain of watching the water can easily cause a headache. I spent my summer squinting white lines into my sunburned, then tanned face and rubbing sunscreen into my skin. We whistle at people standing on rocks, swimming out too far for comfort, bringing dogs onto the sand or, we dread, at each other to signal an emergency.

The first day I heard the infamous three-whistle warning, I sat with one other lifeguard at Old Silver. We caught wind of the alarm and looked at each other, our red cheeks gone white in an instant as we realized what we heard. We stood as one and blew three whistles in tandem, calling our charges of swimmers and waders back to shore.

We were lucky that day: the emergency ended up being for someone who was beginning to suffer from signs of heatstroke. Nevertheless, the responsibility our positions came with weighed even heavier on our shoulders throughout the rest of the summer.

Lifeguarding is ultimately fun, but it comes with a cost. My eyes strain and my head aches because, against the sharp sunlight bouncing off the water, I’m counting heads. One swimmer there, three swimming together there, two more wading in now. One there, two there—I pause till the third head comes back up and my stomach clenches tighter with each second until I see them. I turn to watch the two waders dive into the waves. I find myself frequently jumping to my feet, pulling my sweatpants off, ready to jump in if a swimmer is under for longer than I like. I ran into the waves once to check on a swimmer whose stroke was slightly lagging in the choppy waves, fearing exhaustion or the beginnings of a medical emergency. The anxiety is taxing but I prefer paranoia to losing precious seconds; the Red Cross taught us that seconds are all it takes sometimes.

Despite the responsibility and somewhere between changing shifts, lost sandwiches and faux emergencies, I find a rhythm. Regulars hike across the sand and perch their chairs on Falmouth’s edge, rain or shine. Children never tire of riding the river behind Woodneck Beach out into Buzzards Bay, their parents laughing in the current with them. Those parents point to me as they lead their children by: “She’s here to keep us safe,” they tell their curious toddlers. I wiggle my fingers at them and they smile. Serious swimmers stroke back and forth across the bay at Stoney Beach or in Grew’s Pond, amazing me with their tirelessness. Some prefer to stay out of the water, lounging in the sun, sunhats and baseball caps tilted low over their brows. Others walk at the water’s edge, sometimes through downpours, searching for sea glass and shells. Large groups gather for parties, enjoying their respite from work or school in the hot sand.

I watch the water, add another layer of sunscreen, and a breeze sweeps against my cheeks. A summer passes by on Falmouth beaches and one day, as I turn to look at the coastline from Menauhant Beach, toward Falmouth Heights Beach, Woods Hole farther down, my breath catches at the sight.

Later that week, I find myself watching a seagull in the absence of swimmers. He soars and circles the sand before dropping his webbed feet to the sand. He watches me, the other seagulls, the other beachgoers. He nestles down, his feet disappearing until he looks like a beaked fluff of feathers on top of the sand. His eyes close and something in my heart squeezes.

The summer is almost over when I step into the cold water, my rescue float strapped to my torso, and stretch my arms out, reaching again and again toward the bay from Megansett Beach. Once the sand has dropped out from under my feet and I’m enveloped between blue sky and water, I roll to my back and trust myself to the rolling waves.

I wish I had words for what I found there. As a particularly talkative woman, I rarely find myself wordless. When the indescribable wells up in my chest, I try to treasure it. I mull it over until it blooms into something I can pin down enough to define.

A seagull stole my sandwich on a Falmouth beach. And slowly, without my noticing, those beaches are where I fell in love with Falmouth.