Do you ever watch Law and Order? I mean like night after night, episode after episode? Well I do. And whenever I see an episode about statutory rape or drugged and drunk young girls I wonder where Officers Benson and Stabler were in my hometown back in the 90’s.
When I was a teenager growing up in Florida, there was no better place to be on the weekends than the beach. As soon as the salty air and warm sand hit your senses you knew it was going to be a good day. The girls rocking their Aqua East bikinis and bronzed skin and the boys with zinc on their noses barreling in to the surf with their boards at their sides. All of this steps away from the big white station house that stood proudly where the cement met the sand.
The Lifeguard Station was where it was at. And the girls gathered there each Saturday flirting, giggling, pretending they had just happened by with the hopeful intent of capturing the attention of one of the many male lifeguards who worked there. But the main goal, the mission for the day, was to get an invite to the weekly keg party. This was the end all be all of parties at the beach. Being there gave one the illusion of being special. Chosen. Charmingly, the lifeguards called these girls - the ones who showed up every week ravenously yearning for an invitation - “Station Flies.”
Becoming a lifeguard in my hometown was a big deal. It was a coveted position that came with status and rewards. The tryouts were rigorous and challenging. And all the athletic prowess in the world did not guarantee you a spot. They didn’t accept just anyone. And they never accepted girls.
I remember a conversation I had once with one of the lifeguards that I fancied myself “in love” with. I asked him how come girls weren’t allowed. He told me they were welcome to try out but no matter how well they did they would be blackballed in the end. You see each member was given a white marble and a black marble. A bag would be passed around and they would place the white one in the bag if they wanted you to join and the black one if they didn’t. Blondie went on to tell me that they would decide ahead of time which guy would deposit the black marble assuring that the hopeful female was prevented from making the squad. I cannot 100% verify that this story is true as I never personally saw this ritual take place but what I can attest to is that we girls learned quickly what our value was at the station house - what our use to them was. And it had nothing to do with rushing into the ocean prepared to save a life.
Like good little girls, no one complained. The Saturday ritual was accepted by those of us who wanted to be accepted in return. The anticipation of the party, waiting to find out where it was going to be and who was going to be there was a thrilling and nerve wracking experience for young girls like me. And once you were given the address for Saturday night’s party it was like a Golden Ticket to the Chocolate Factory. The only thing was, you were the candy.
The lifeguards ranged in age from late teens to late 20’s. Maybe a few in their 30’s even. A vast majority of the girls attending the party were underaged, myself included. I attended my first “Lifeguard Party” when I was 16. The boy I was smitten with was 19, one of the younger of the guards who was always kind to me. He was different than most. I remember the feeling of crushing disappointment if he didn’t show up to the party. But then other lifeguards waiting in the wings would make their move. When you’re 16, desperate for validation from the opposite sex and 3 sheets to the wind, you become easy prey. And that is what the girls were to many of these expert players. Every weekend was a sporting event for these “men” who were regarded as The Beaches’ Finest.
I can remember vividly so many different parties. I remember the houses, the furniture, the music, even the clothes that some people were wearing. I remember watching bedroom doors revolve with one underage girl after another. Lifeguards laughing and high-fiving each other after a conquest. I remember consoling friends who had found out the lifeguard they had just hooked up with was now outside wooing another object of his desire. I remember the cops showing up and making everyone leave if they had gotten a complaint. But what I don’t remember…I don’t remember anyone doing anything to ever stop these parties which resulted in the ravaging of girls who were too young to be there and often too drunk to walk much less drive home at the end of the night.
As I reflect on this time so many years ago I cannot imagine that the beach community didn’t know what was going on. That the police weren’t aware that these parties were a cesspool of statutory rape. There were pregnancies, STD’s, drugs slipped into drinks and even actions by some men that were forced, eh hem, “strongly encouraged” if girls asked to stop. There was little to no regard for our safety. There was little to no regard that we were anything more than pleasure factories.
How this went unnoticed for the years it did is not only alarming but quite suspicious. Was there an overlooking of this behavior because these brave young men were saving lives in the riptide? Was it the “boys will be boys” mentality? Do these lifeguards who are now Fathers look back and cringe? Do they recognize their damaging and dangerous actions? I wonder.
When I was in my late teens I was arrested. The one and only time to date. I was sitting with some kids on the beach at night smoking pot when two men dressed in casual clothes approached us. They were undercover cops. They took us all to jail for possessing a tiny bowl of marijuana. This was paramount to the local police department? This is where they found importance in placing their resources? Taking a bunch of kids to jail for such a small infraction while week after week young girls were molested by lifeguards and often left too intoxicated to even know what had happened to them?
The vision of these young girls, of myself, stumbling cluelessly, the smell of vomit on our breath, headed home once again with the empty feeling of unfilled desire. With the dual realization of the wrongness of what had happened yet the sad naivety of hope that next weekend will be different. Better.
The crimes that were committed by lifeguards from that house in the 90’s were significant. And those are only the ones I am aware of. I know there are hundreds of other stories out there. I don’t know who was in charge back then but they failed to protect so many of us from these predators and from our own ignorance and inexperience. As a mother these memories often haunt me. I am assailed with fear that this could happen to my daughter one day. Will I be able to teach her better? Will I be able to protect her? Will she grow into someone who is too confident to fall prey like her Mama did? Will the community she lives in have an intolerance for things of this nature? Will things be different for her?
The big white station house still stands proudly guarding the beach today. I see it every single time I’m home. There have been changes. It now allows and encourages girls to join. Times for women have evolved a great deal in the last 25 years. We still aren’t quite there but at least we have been much more empowered than in my day. Empowered to demand more and recognize how much we deserve it. Empowered to have self worth that cannot be so easily manipulated with a Solo Cup of Hunch Punch and a sexy wink.
I pray what was normal back then is now a thing of the past in my hometown and others. I hope we are demanding better from our sons and for our daughters. But just in case, I’ll be over here warning my kid of the trials of my past. I’ll be doing everything in my power to make sure she never falls prey to the mentality that existed back when I was just a damaged girl without a clue. Back when I was a “Station Fly.”
As Always, Thank You For Reading!