50 Is the New Lifeguard

After 50 years on earth, a man can dream... and this man is dreaming about being a Huntington Beach lifeguard.

I turn a half-century old in October, and I’ve been trying to figure out an appropriate way to commemorate – I wouldn’t use the word “celebrate” – my five decades on this planet.

The only criterion: It has to be age defying.

I thought about being cute and tying it in with the number 50: a 50-mile run (too painful), 50 consecutive chin-ups and pull-ups (too boring) or 50 straight days of sex (promising, but willing partner needed). They all seemed too gimmicky (except the sex).

But then I had a dream. Literally. I often dream of my old summer lifeguard job in Huntington Beach – making rescues, jumping from the pier, speeding along the coast in the lifeguard boat. In my dreams, I can smell the saltwater, the sunscreen and the beach bonfires. And I always wake up disappointed, wondering once again if I would have been happier making a career out of saving lives on the ocean. After all, as thrilling as it appears, I don’t dream about writing columns.

So after my latest dream about the glory days, I had an epiphany (it probably was just a random idea, but let’s make it something more since it’s my landmark birthday): In my 50th year, why not try to re-join the ranks of the Huntington Beach lifeguards?

This would be the perfect age-defying quest. First, it’s almost impossible. Lifeguard tryouts are strictly physical tests: a half-mile swim around the pier and then a quarter-mile run/quarter-mile swim/quarter-mile run.

About 100 hopefuls show up in March, and the city takes only 20. In other words, I would have to beat 80% of those I toe the line with – and almost all of them will be more than half my age.

There is some encouraging news. I have six months to get into peak shape. I do have a lot of experience in the ocean (I’ve swum around that pier maybe a bazillion times), whereas many of the would-be lifeguards are mostly pool swimmers. And I won’t be partying the night before, like many of the teenagers.

One of my toughest challenges will be the cold. In March, the ocean temperature hovers around 55 degrees, icy enough to take your breath away and give swimmers intense ice-cream headaches. And no wetsuits are allowed.

When I first tried out 33 years ago, I was six feet tall and weighed a buck-forty-five soaking wet. After the first swim, my skinny body turned blue and shook uncontrollably. I was going to quit until I realized I was so numb that I couldn’t feel the freezing water anymore.

Getting used to the cold will be the most unpleasant part of my training. As a 17-year-old, I needed a good summer job to help pay for college. I didn’t have much of a choice but to plunge in. Now, of course, I have an option. Late next winter, I could, for example, be cozy at home, watching March Madness with a beer in one hand and a C’est Si Bon sandwich in the other. Or I could be wading into the chilly Pacific in a Speedo, goggles in one hand, my shriveling privates in the other. That’s when the training gets hard.

And yes, I’m aware that this could go horribly wrong. We’ve all watched old people fail miserably at something that once seemed so easy. We’ve seen an impossibly slow Muhammed Ali get his brains beaten in by second-rate fighters. We’ve looked on in horror as an increasingly senile Frank Sinatra forgot the lyrics to his songs. And more recently, we’ve witnessed White House correspondent Helen Thomas make herself into a national joke. (My favorite funny/sad moment along these lines: rocker Bruce Springsteen struggling to climb on top of a piano during his late Super Bowl halftime performance.)

Still, enough athletes heroically battle Father Time to a standstill to give us hope that we can, too. Olympic swimmer Dara Torres revamped her body and earned three silver medals in Beijing at age 41. Boxer George Foreman, after a 10-year layoff, regained the heavyweight championship at age 45. Last season, NFL quarterback Brett Favre, then 40, had his best statistical season and fell one last-minute interception short of going to the Super Bowl.

I’m pretty sure I won’t remind anyone of Dara Torres or Helen Thomas after my lifeguard tryout. My goal is to finish in the top 20% and earn my way to training and a summer job. How many people get a second chance at reliving their youth? For me, that would mean climbing back into a lifeguard tower and scanning the ocean for swimmers in trouble. Heaven on the beach.

But I’m mature enough to realize that finishing ahead of so many kids – most of them in high school or college swim programs – is a long shot. This is really about the journey, and a chance to compete again.

If after the swims, one of my competitors gets a load of my bald head and wrinkled face and says (even to himself), “Jeez, look at that old guy. He rocked the tryout. Did you see how many people he beat?” that would be the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.