HEAR YE! HEAR YE!

MEL BROOKS AND SON MAX, PATRIOTS TO THE CORE

“Search and ye shall find!” Two days ago, I alternated between watching TV and searching the internet for something to change the mood. Between inhaling Dramamine watching the DJI do its dance, and adhering to the six-foot separation edict (hell, after 56 years of marriage to me, Dorothy would likely prefer six miles plus!), washing my hands every whip stitch (the GD diuretic), I came upon the delightful PSA by Max Brooks and his Dad comedic legend, Mel. It sparked a memory…

Mel Brooks and Me: Ouch!

Palm sweating heat, steamy hot August day, 1973, an iced cold Becks, pounding surf, jellyfish and lifeguard for the day to the rescue, Mel Brooks.

The place: Lonelyville, Fire Island, summer paradise for five generations in grandfather Dr. George S. King’s clan, dating back to 1904.

It was around noon, I had just finished replacing some of the planking and frames on our deck. Dorothy and our kids Graham and Jenny were off the island shopping. I popped the top off a Becks, changed into my bathing suit, grabbed a towel and headed for the ocean at a trot.

The breeze was from the north, causing the surf to pound in heavy curling waves. I was so intent on plunging in that I hardly noticed that no one was in the water. I peeled off my shirt, dropped the towel and dove under a big wave.

The rush of the cold water, the sound of the surf breaking behind me gave me momentary relief. My skin began to tingle, then sting. Inside my bathing suit everything was on fire. No wonder why I was the only one in. The surf was full of jellyfish parts pulverized by the pounding waves.

I rode the next wave in and began to run toward the stairs to the over-ramp, grabbing my shirt and towel. I vaulted up two steps at a time. At the top to my left was Mel Brook’s cottage. There he was watering two small trees recently planted. Their house was nestled down behind the dunes with a great deck overlooking the ocean.

The sight of the hose with the stream of cold water was too much, “Mel, the hose, the hose! Please give me the hose!”

He was startled. He handed me the nozzle. I was jumping from one foot to the other, like Elvis Presley careening across a bed of hot coals. I grabbed the nozzle and jammed it down the front of my bathing suit.

Mel’s wife Anne Bancroft was viewing the commotion from above on their deck. Mel was laughing so hard, he couldn’t explain to her what was happening.

Several minutes went by. The cool water did the trick. I settled down. They were both still laughing as I handed the hose back to Mel. I thanked him. As I was about to leave, he asked me if he could use my firewalk in his next movie. I told him that would be fine, only if I played the part!

I resolved to be more observant in the future!

George S.K. Rider

P.S. Another bonus blog post below… this on the one and only Lili St. Cyr and me in the same FI setting.

 

Hi Lili… An Afternoon with Lili St. Cyr

Nineteen! What did I know? The summer between Andover and Yale, there I was, an ocean lifeguard at Ocean Beach, Fire Island, N.Y. My world was opening up. The scales between naïve and sophistication were heavily tilted to the former.

“Two Shorts!” Any lifeguard, ex-lifeguard, or inveterate beachgoer will recognize this whistle signal as the call to action: someone is in trouble. In Lili’s case, it wasn’t used. We took a more personal approach.

Our Head Lifeguard, Buck Wright, was the principal of a high school in Cicero, Illinois. He spent summers on Fire Island supervising a dozen of us tasked to protect ocean and bay swimmers in Ocean Beach.

On any given Saturday or Sunday during the 1950’s, it was tough to find a spot on the beach large enough to unfold a whole blanket. From a distance, the brightly colored umbrellas gave the look of a rainbow canopy covering the sun-bathers. Weekends during July and August, Ocean Beach was home or host to upwards of 10,000 fun seeking revelers.

In those days, Ocean Beach was known as the land of “No.” Strict dress-codes. (Bikinis were just coming into their own). Shirts were required for men walking downtown. No drinking, or picnicking on the beach. Drinking outdoors on the main drag was absolutely prohibited. No nude sunbathing. The Supervisor of Lifeguards, the head lifeguard and I, were deputized and authorized to enforce the laws and issue summonses.

I had just finished my shift in the “chair,” a distance from the front of the lifeguard shack close to the water. The surf and shallow water was teeming with swimmers. The surf was relatively calm, with only an occasional wave big enough to body surf. There was no undertow; the water was clean, clear and a Mediterranean blue.

The spring storms had hollowed out sand from underneath the lifeguard shack and the decks around it, which allowed us to put the shower underneath the deck. I headed straight for it to cool off, a welcome break from the scorching sun.

Buck was on seated on his deck chair. He yelled down to me, “George, get changed and get right up here!” When Buck called, you moved in a hurry.

By the time I changed into a dry bathing suit and joined Buck on the deck, a large crowd had gathered shoulder to shoulder at the water’s edge, all staring offshore. Buck handed me his binoculars. Two younger lifeguards were blowing their whistles at a lone swimmer, just beyond the break. I focused my gaze on the subject of their attention. Good God! There, frolicking in the waves was a topless girl with exquisite large breasts, seemingly oblivious to the crowd that was growing. As assistant head lifeguard, I often got tough assignments. This one may have been given to me to make up for them.

“George, get her out of there.” He handed me a large towel, and sat back in his chair, binoculars in hand, to watch. I took off at a trot through the crowd and waded out. For a moment, her back was to the beach as I approached. I called to her:

“Miss, I’ve been instructed to get you back ashore. You’re creating quite a stir and my boss is concerned with your outfit or lack of it. Where’s your top?”

With that she turned toward me. I forgot about my last question. There she was: Lily St. Cyr, not a stitch from the belly button up. Phew, now What?

I pleaded with her to take the towel and follow me to the beach. She saw my predicament and toyed with me.

“I lost my top. I’m not hurting anyone. I don’t want to go in.” By now the crowd had gotten into it. All I could hear was good natured booing and the occasional “Killjoy, bully, let her go!”

There was Buck, his binoculars trained on us, trying to figure what I would do next. Hell, I had no idea myself.

I swam up next to her with the towel and told her in a stern voice,

“Look, I’m not kidding. Either you cover up with this towel, now, or I’ll have to take you ashore myself. I don’t want to have to do that, but if you force me to, I’ll have to issue a summons for you to appear in court Monday. There’s a hefty fine for indecent exposure (In her case, it was damned decent). Now, please put the towel around you, and let’s go.”

The towel was sopping wet and heavy. I swam next to her. As we got to shallow water and started to wade in, we were hit with a good-sized wave from behind. Off went the towel. I groped for the towel. I fumbled and groped for her. I pulled her to her feet and helped cover her. The crowd applauded as I began to drape the towel around her, a little like a matador, coxing a bull!

On the way to the shack, I introduced myself. Buck was waiting for us. He handed her a red Ocean Beach Life Guard Shirt (XL). Up close he recognized her immediately as Lili St. Cyr, known by many, as “The Queen of Burlesque” in the 40’s and 50’s.*                      No summons was issued.

Among the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd viewing the “rescue” were several photographers clicking away. Monday’s N.Y. Daily Mirror posted a photo of the action on the front page. We pondered later about, was it just a coincidence? I’m sure that the story was told often in the teachers’ lounge at Cicero High that winter!

George S.K. Rider

 

*Lili St. Cyr

(6/3/1918 1/29/1999)                                                                                                                             Wikipedia references, Other Name, “Anatomic Bomb!”

IMBd Writes- “Busty, highly painted blond, Lili St. Cyr was a notorious striptease artist of the 1940’s and 1950’s who replaced Gypsy Rose Lee and Ann Corio on the burlesque pedestal. Lili actually took the striptease out of burlesque and put her squarely on the Las Vegas stage. She was also noted for photos of her, taken by famous photographers.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lili_St._Cyr