Dateline: June 8, 2026.
“I Will Always Be A Zuma Guard”, by Greg Braxton-Brown.
Heads up! Here is an absolutely wonderful tribute to ocean lifeguarding by veteran L.A. County Ocean Lifeguard (Ret.), Greg Braxton-Brown. Settle in and get ready to be entertained… ("I Will Always Be A Zuma Guard", Dateline: June 8, 2026, © Greg Braxton-Brown. Published here with permission. Color lead photo of ZUMA FOOD © Will Maguire. Balance of photos courtesy of Greg Braxton-Brown and used here with permission).
"Last weekend, the former youth of summer gathered in Redondo Beach for the annual Los Angeles County Lifeguard Alumni Luncheon. Unable to make the trip west this year, I watched from afar, remembering what seemed perfectly normal at the time: carrying responsibility for every patron going home safely at the end of the day, regardless of what man or nature placed in our path.
The beach rivalries are historic, enduring, and mostly good-natured. Yet every man and woman who has stood on a beach with a rescue buoy in hand, endlessly scanning the water, understands a simple truth. When everything goes sideways, it doesn't matter whether the guard beside you is a first-day rookie or the Chief Lifeguard. In that moment, we are all the same.
For all that modern lifeguarding has become—with swift-water teams, underwater recovery units, cliff rescue specialists, paramedics, giant-wave surfers, international triathletes, channel swimmers, dory champions, and paddlecraft experts—when the call comes, we are simply water athletes trained in lifesaving, committed to our craft and to each other.
Both in lore and in reality, the radio call
"KMC 218, KMC 217" has occasionally been followed by five unforgettable words:
"Zuma is in the water."
It is the call made by the switchboard guard while running down the stairs. It tells South Bay that communications with Zuma have been interrupted because every available lifeguard—tower guards, call-car guards, officers, and even off-duty personnel on the beach—is already in the water.
As long as Baywatch remains operational, the beach is never truly without eyes. The skipper can see most of the chaos unfolding. Fortunately, these incidents are rare, though smaller versions occur almost daily. Open the T-2 Lagoon on a busy Sunday, and every guard from the House Tower through at least T-3 will likely be in the water together. If you are fortunate enough to reach your victims quickly, you may hear the roar of Baywatch approaching at full throttle. The boat bears down directly toward you before making a sharp turn and launching another lifeguard into the containing rip. Looking shoreward, you want to see the flashing lights of the Zuma Call Car, with several guards standing on the bumper, gripping the paddleboard rack as it races toward the next emergency.
We all understand that drownings can occur while we are already engaged in a rescue. The water can never be left unguarded. There were many days when a tower was little more than a place to throw your bag. You'd drop your gear in the shack, grab a rescue can, and head for the berm. It might be hours before you return. The public never saw the beach shift in motion—the subtle movement of one lifeguard that caused others to reposition up and down the line. They never noticed the signals exchanged between towers or realized that headquarters had binoculars trained on every section of the beach. They never saw the rescue boat constantly repositioning itself beside developing hotspots. And all were surprised by how quickly they got into trouble and puzzled as to where the person shouting orders came from.
As the day wore on, crowds grew and surf built. Eventually, the afternoon wind arrived, driving most people from the sand. Only then might you make it back to your tower covered in sand, sunburned, windburned, and dreaming of a hot shower—or at least a dry bathing suit. The day was never truly over. On most evenings, you would drag a director's chair onto the porch and sit facing the Pacific, taking in the ocean's beauty, its immense power, and the rhythm of the day as the sun slowly slipped below the horizon. Eventually, there would be that long-awaited shower, accompanied by a loud, boisterous crew reliving the day's rescues and near-misses. There would be stories, teasing, and instruction—good-natured lessons from guards who, only hours earlier, had helped ensure that you made it safely back to shore.
This job was special. For many of us, it shaped who we became.
It doesn't matter where you guarded open water. You have your stories. You remember the days when you were terrified and dispatched adversity with skill and teamwork. In Los Angeles County, you might rescue windsurfers off Jurassic Beach, watch a motorhome slide into the ocean at a launch ramp, or gaze toward Catalina while recalling dive accidents and buffalo encounters. You might work the circus atmosphere of Venice Beach or navigate the intense crowds of Santa Monica South. Divers get into trouble everywhere. People fall from cliffs. Emergencies happen regardless of whether the victim is a frightened child or a fool with a telephoto lens trying to photograph naked sunbathers at Pirates Cove.
Most of us have an afterlife. We are all good in crisis. No matter what identity we assume, the red suit remains part of us. I will always be a Zuma Guard. We learned that when the call comes, we are all equal in the water—working together. Doing whatever it takes to get everyone home safely.
My grandchildren know me as Papa, a tired older man made from equal parts Uber and ATM. Those I cherish from youth know me as the General.”
Greg Braxton-Brown -- "Greg worked as an OL for L.A. County Dept. of Beaches and Harbors and later with LACoFD Lifeguard Operations from 1973 - 1994. He worked everywhere and did everything including significant work getting the paramedic program started. His lifeguard cred and identity goes to ZUMA but he loved hiding out at *"Jurassic". He also worked for several years on Catalina. His ZUMA nickname was "the General", which came about as the result of him constantly and invariably explaining things to other lifeguards with comments like "the Lt said", "the Lt is watching"... etc. to the point he got flummoxed and aggravated and blurted out, "F**k that, I'm a general!"... and the name stuck." Per Greg: "Like many lifeguard nicknames, it began as a moment of humor and frustration, but over time it became part of the legend—one more story woven into the rich culture and camaraderie of the Zuma lifeguards.
In the photo above, that's Greg at left. (side note: *"Jurassic" for the uninitiated... refers to Cabrillo (in San Pedro) long inhabited by dinosaurs including Burich, Matesich, Whitehead, Pappas and many more great guys from the '50s, '60s iteration." (Attached above is an image provided by Greg showing a t-shirt design from a recent Alumni Luncheon that he attended and which he enjoys attending.)
Many thanks to Greg for stepping up and sharing with all of us this remarkable tribute to Zuma Beach's Ocean Lifeguards.
10-4.
Until next time.....
"County Recurrent" News ---
http://CountyRecurrent.blogspot.com
Service • Training • Commitment
*** Keeping the County Recurrent "in the loop"..... whether he/she likes it or NOT ! ***
DISCLAIMER: County Recurrent is not affiliated with nor sponsored by LACOLA or LACoFD.
*** PLEASE forward to other Recurrents, past and present, so that they can enjoy this article and otherwise be in the loop. ***
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
