Introducing: Sorry, Darwin.

As a lifeguard, my job description is pretty much: save lives.  But I often wonder if said job description requires me to interfere with natural selection.

This may sound like an incredibly callous/cynical/contemptuous and generally awful thing to say, but please don’t judge without granting me a moment to explain myself.

The theory of natural selection is, at its heart, incredibly simple and, I think, equally poetic.  Basically, mother nature in her infinite wisdom, has this evolution shit under control: creatures who prove themselves unworthy of thriving here on planet Earth will remove themselves from the gene pool.  The process is flawless in theory and completely self-regulating.  (Due to severe overpopulation, I do wish it were more expedient, but that’s a topic for another post.)

For those of you unfamiliar with the Darwin Awards, check them out.  They pride themselves in saluting “the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it.”  Amen.

The title of the latest series here on Insolence is Bliss; Sorry, Darwin, is inspired by the inner conflict I often experience at work due to the fear that I’m interfering with the beautiful system that is natural selection.  You see, my job is to protect the patrons who frequent my beach.  It’s just that, well, I remain unconvinced they all merit rescuing.

For example: If a man flagrantly ignores signs, flags and dozens of loud and angry whistle blows, grabs his balls and, in a salute to his manhood, chooses to go for a swim in the middle of an enormous, sucking rip current… maybe I should just let him go.

Many of the folks I come into contact with where the ocean meets the sand aren’t exactly glittering examples of the realized potential of humankind, not the brightest candles on the shrine to the father of evolution.

The following tidbits will give you an idea what I mean.  And you have my word they are all entirely true:

A middle-aged, English-speaking woman waltzed up to my lifeguard tower and asked if “these wooden shacks along the beach” [the lifeguard towers themselves, mind you] were cubby holes for the public to use for changing purposes.

Why, yes.  Yes, of course.  Just a moment while I get out of your way, ma’am.  I wasn’t doing anything important.  May I help you with that sarong?

First thing one morning, a rotund little man marched up to my tower to ask some inane question, prefacing his query with the announcement that he was “an experienced snorkeler.”

Really?  So, you’re experienced at floating on the surface of the water and breathing through a tube.  Wow.  Are you an experienced hammock lounger, too?

One afternoon, an irate woman lodged a complaint about several patrons near the rock jetty.  She was adamant in her conviction that the patrons in question, due to their proximity to the jetty itself, were disturbing the orgasms that live there.  Orgasms.  She very angrily expressed her concern thusly about a half dozen times before proclaiming that she would be taking her gripe to the city.

By all means, lady.  I’m sure everyone at City Hall will agree that no one should be disturbing the rampant orgasms at the beach.

The man who dives right into the heat of a surf zone saturated with 50 surfers all on very sharp, very hard surfboards darting all around him at high rates of speed, and beckons his three young children to follow suit…well, you have to assume that when they were handing out marbles and screws, he was busy eating play-doh or chewing on one of his own body parts.

In short, I meet a lot of people who aren’t, well… aren’t the “fittest” as Darwin so euphemistically phrased it.  I often find myself wondering how they mustered the mental wherewithal to tie their shoes in the morning.  Until it dawns on me that…they didn’t.  They gave up, threw on flip-flops, and headed to the beach.

Stay tuned for future installments, where I’ll share their stories (and mine) with you.

And Darwin?  I really am sorry.