Save Me

I love doing photo assignments for work.* I get out, I take some pictures, chat with a few people and get on with my day. Everybody wins!

Except sometimes I have to take photos with my personal camera if the photo editors have the company ones with them, and it’s shit. (The wonderful people I work for are getting me one of my own for these situations, God bless them.) It’s fine if I’m just noodling around taking pics of Sunny frolicking at the beach or Snapper on top of the cabinets, but if there is any quick movement or inadequate lighting, then what we end up with is a giant gray blur. And on work assignments, it can be embarrassing just to be there. You’re standing there with a point n’ shoot next to a professional dude from a competing paper with a six-foot lens and a belt full of special attachments while you’re just trying to act like you aren’t someone’s mother.

So, fast forward to Friday. The assignment in question is some sort of skin-diving/lifesaving training that the local fire department is putting on or putting themselves through or whatever. On my way there, I realized that they were nowhere near where I thought they going to be, which left me wandering around the beach a full half-mile away from where they were doing the training, so by the time I found the site, I was about 10 minutes late. They were already in the water on some sort of giant inflated boat-like thing while a bunch of dudes were in snorkeling gear sniffing around the water. Shit.

Oh my God, I was going to miss it. No! NOOOOOO!!!!! Ugh, the events in retrospect are humiliating.

Um, I swam out to them. In my clothes. And shoes. I launched unnecessarily into Serious Photojournalist mode for reasons that are still completely foreign to me. I went into the water and started swimming, fully clothed, khakis and polo asunder, camera over my head (POINT AND SHOOT, MIND YOU) clicking madly away in the general direction of the snorkelers. People were staring, but I was not going to be deterred, because I am a professional! Bad camera? WHO CARES? I AM A PHOTOJOURNALIST! Would I be less of a writer if I only had a typewriter? Um. Right.

By jove, I was going to get that photo come hell or high water! Or both! God, I was so serious about it. The firefighters – who are all dangerously hot and muscular – were staring at me, this completely insane rogue swimmer in a POLO SHIRT AND SUNGLASSES taking pictures of them while they’re trying to load some dude onto a floatable gurney as they’re banging into me as I tried desperately to maintain control of the camera. God, I was just trying to keep my pants on.

But dude, I got the photos. And, um, then they politely yelled at me to get out of the way as they turned around the boat, picked up the divers and headed back to the beach, because this was apparently only the first in at least four hours of drills and um, would I like to come on the boat later to take pictures instead of swimming in water up to my neck, which was entirely unnecessary?

My God. I was standing there, my sopping wet clothes clinging to me with the grace and forgiveness of too-small Spandex. I was wearing khaki pants and a frigging black thong that seemed harmless under normal circumstances, but sopping wet? Not so much. Hello, thong, nice to meet you! Love, the firemen.

Enter the boat. Or should I say, enter me entering the boat. I tried to climb in, but with my rubber pants, could not properly figure out a graceful way to get in without sticking to the buoy-like orange sides. So I had to roll on my belly and shimmy my way over the edge like I was crawling over a log, which meant not only baring my full, wet behind to an entire cadre of hot firefighters, but it also meant that once I got INTO the boat, I couldn’t regain control. I ended up splayed out face down on the bottom of the boat, completely vanished from the firefighter’s view as they yelled, “Um, photographer lady? Are you there? You okay?” I popped up like a piece of toast and tried to act cool (“Here I am!”), which was impossible in silicone khakis, a black thong and a soaking polo shirt that showed my nipples.

Once I got on the boat and we started to ride out, they handed me a life vest, citing, “you don’t have to zip – “

“I AM ZIPPING IT.” I strapped myself in. I was so nerdy about it, but I wasn’t about to DIE for this photo, for God’s sake. So there I am, wearing Saran Wrap clothing with a giant orange vest zipped up to my earlobes, praying I get out of this assignment with a single shred of dignity intact.

How about a resounding “no?” Sound good?

They casually mentioned they were going to “clear out some of the water,” as we launched off, which meant, unbeknownst to me, that they were going to drive around VERY VERY FAST, which meant that I fell again, and ended up stuck on the bottom of the boat, my notebook in my teeth and my camera over my head A-FREAKING-GAIN, while they panicked and apologized. Through the course of the boat ride, I fell some more, almost fell in to the water again while taking pictures and baring my ass, ended up hugging some strange (and hot!) firefighter’s calf for dear life, fell again, etc. etc. blah blah freakin’ blah.

I came, I saw, I fell, I died. Story of my life.

*Edited to add for the love of God, I am not a photographer, really. I pitch in as needed. Do not expect brilliance in Flickr. Lord. Lord no.

**Remy Zero

20 comments July 23rd, 2006