Scarborough Siren
"Lifeguard Adaeze watches the beach all summer—but the thick Guinean tourist who keeps swimming into dangerous waters wants to be rescued in very private ways."
She swam too far out.
Every day. Same time. Same woman.
Thick curves in a white swimsuit. Guinean features. A smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
"You're going to drown yourself," Adaeze warned after the fifth rescue.
"Then save me." Fatoumata touched her arm. "Again and again."
The flirtation was obvious.
Other lifeguards noticed. Tourists noticed.
"She fancies you," a colleague said.
"She's being reckless."
"Same thing sometimes."
The lifeguard station was empty at sunset.
Fatoumata appeared, still in that white swimsuit.
"Teach me to swim properly," she said. "Private lesson."
"You can swim fine."
"Then teach me something else."
On the narrow cot meant for rest breaks, they found other uses.
Fatoumata's thick body was cool from the sea. Adaeze warmed her slowly, thoroughly.
"This is why I kept swimming," Fatoumata admitted. "To get your attention."
"You had it from day one."
"Then why wait?"
"Lifeguard code."
"What's the code say about this?"
"Nothing. This isn't covered."
The summer became legendary.
Scarborough's safest beach, thanks to one dedicated lifeguard.
And one grateful tourist who kept coming back, year after year.
"Still need rescuing?" Adaeze asked each summer.
"Always."
Some drowning, they learned, was worth diving into.