DATE: Tuesday, July 8, 1997                 TAG: 9707080048

SECTION: DAILY BREAK             PAGE: E1   EDITION: FINAL 

SOURCE: BY HOLLY WESTER, CORRESPONDENT 

                                            LENGTH:  103 lines

NOT BAYWATCH: THERE ARE NO LAZY DAYS ON THE BEACH FOR LIFEGUARDS, WHO WORK HARD TO PROTECT PUBLIC.

IT'S THE LIFESTYLE many folks dream about.

Days in the sun, wearing next to nothing, watching the rolling surf. The only work to be done is a run on the warm sand or a swim in the cool ocean.

But for the employees of Lifeguard Beach Service, the oldest guard team on the Outer Banks, a day on the job is no ``Baywatch'' episode. These folks are responsible for the lives of countless beachgoers every summer via 25 stands that stretch across the sands of Kill Devil Hills, Duck and Manteo.

``It's been said that Cape Hatteras has the largest wave energy on the East Coast,'' service captain Jamie Faison, 31, said of the challenge his guards face daily. ``We see the results of that here.''

Faison, a nine-year veteran of the service, is the roving dispatcher responsible for passing 911 calls to his guards and following up on their saves by writing up brief reports.

However, Faison would prefer to eliminate those facets of the job. His lifesaving philosophy stresses the preventive: ``My motto is, a good lifeguard prevents water accidents.''

To accomplish that, the service's operation runs as smoothly as any top-notch military outfit.

Each morning, the guards check in at headquarters, a barn-red building equipped with a couple of four-wheelers, a Yamaha Waverunner and an Avon boat.

Most days begin by 8:45 a.m., but PT days - Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays - start an hour earlier. Top physical fitness is key to this force; in fact, to become a guard, applicants must pass a run/swim test that requires swimming 500 meters in 10 minutes, after running 1.5 miles.

The lifeguards, whose regular gigs range from attending high school to firefighting, then report to their stands. Assignments are based on ability as well as personality.

On chalkboards, each guard writes up a daily report that includes his or her name, expected temperature (water and air), tides, wind direction and a safety message.

The rest of the day, however, is about as predictable as the lottery.

It's Monday morning, and Faison's 4X4 pickup is armed for battle.

A stopwatch hangs from the gear shift, while an orange whistle dangles from the blinker control. Binoculars sit in the slate blue dashboard behind a flashing strobe light. A voice pager labeled LIFEGUARD is clipped to the driver's side visor, and a laminated map is tucked in the passenger's.

The truck slides across the beach like a Honda on ice: smooth at some times, shaky at others. Sand castles, umbrellas and people are among the obstacles.

Every few seconds, various voices come across the radio, announcing codes such as ``10-7'' (leaving the stand) and ``10-8'' (returning to post). Teamwork is evident in each announce-ment.

``Signal 3!'' a shaky voice blurts out. ``Signal 3!''

The panic is understandable, as a ``Signal 3'' is the general code for a possible drowning.

Confident and calm, Faison makes his way to the location. Luckily, all is 10-4, and the save's been made. Brittany Sands, 10, vacationing with her family from Lancaster, Ohio, is curled up on a towel.

``She thinks she's a good swimmer,'' Kimberly Sands says, patting her daughter's shivering back. ``She's OK.''

Within the hour, several similar calls flood the airwaves. Faison listens attentively as voices overlap.

One, however, sounds especially urgent. It's from Southern Shores, a territory guarded by the Outer Banks' other service, Nags Head Ocean Rescue. A lady saw her husband go under but didn't see him come up.

Sirens scream out of the radio, and Faison shudders. Minutes later, a male voice requests that those on the scene confirm the fatality before notifying the family.

The body of Glenn Stallings, 44, vacationing from Lewisville, Texas, was recovered later.

``You hate to get a call like that,'' Faison says. ``It doesn't get any easier. My stomach's in knots.''

By noon, Faison has all the guards off their stands, warning people not to get in the water.

``It's gonna be one of those summers,'' Kill Devil Hills Fire Department Chief Doug Penland says later. ``It's just gonna be. . . .''

Rescues and assists are only part of a lifeguard's duties.

They are psychics, finding lost tots for parents. They are peace makers, keeping clueless swimmers, militant surfers and grumpy anglers from attacking each other. They are quasi-cops, advising law-breakers on local ordinances. They are even town ambassadors, recommending restaurants and nightspots to trusting tourists.

The same goes for Faison, a card-carrying oil changer, truck washer and stand builder.

``People don't think of the work lifeguards do,'' he said. ``Yeah, it might seem like the best job in the world, an easy job where you just sit around.

``But like firemen, when you need lifeguards, you need them. And you see what they do when they're needed.'' ILLUSTRATION: DAVID B. HOLLINGSWORTH / The Virginian-Pilot

Lifeguard Chris Scarborough cautions two young boys that they are

venturing too far out in the surf at Kill Devil Hills.

``A good lifeguard prevents water accidents,'' says Jamie Faison.

Color photos

Senior lifeguard Jamie Faison....

Faison drives the beach to check...

For complete cutline info, see microfilm KEYWORDS: LIFEGUARD OUTERBANKS

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