A Retired Lifeguard and Fire Chief-Turned-Chaplain Shows Why Serving Others Leads to Something Deeper

I’m on the verge of lulling her back to sleep outside the tent, doing the daddy-daughter bounce. Delicately, delicately, bounce, bounce … bounce … and then—boom. Back asleep.

Whew. A moment of quiet. Ah. Everything is still.

Just then, off in the distance, a faint yet peculiar sound. A squeaky wheel? A bike pedal in need of WD-40? Odd. With the entire campground still asleep and the first light of day leaking in, I catch a fuzzy glimpse of something far off in the distance—a moving object.

As it gets closer, it starts to take shape. A figure … riding a bike? Yes … someone on a bike … wait … a Strand cruiser?

As the figure comes into focus, I see it is a gentleman gliding down a slight grade through the Upper Pines Campground on his bike, freely carving S-turns with a grin across his face like the cat who ate the canary. A large, barrel-chested, white-haired individual, dressed in a fleece jacket, sunglasses, board shorts and flip-flops (on a 52º morning). In a world all his own, filled with joy and ease, he carves his bike like a warm ice cream scoop cuts the surface of a freshly opened gallon of Dreyer’s.

I’m locked in. Slowly, those carves begin to veer in my direction. As he gets closer, I can see he has a towel over his shoulder and a toothbrush in his mouth. As he whizzes by, no more than 10 feet away, I catch his eye. A smirk peeks out from beneath his white mustache that seems to say, “Well, nice of you to wake up, sunshine. How was your beauty rest?”

I was hooked. That is how I met Barry Nugent.

Barry’s father, a unit manager at NBC, and his stay-at-home mother raised Barry in Westchester, California. They would often find themselves at the beach, where young Barry routinely played in the surf. Being the charismatic type, he soon befriended a local lifeguard who surfed before his shift and would leave Barry “in charge” of the tower, asking that he call him in 10 minutes before his shift started.

Barry remembers looking out over the water from the closed lifeguard tower, pretending it was his water to be responsible for, and that everyone would make it home safely while he was the guy on duty. That’s where it all began. Over 64 years ago, a 10-year-old boy in a tower imagined what it meant to protect and serve his community.

Fast-forward: Barry joined the ranks of the Los Angeles lifeguards in 1969, working the beaches of El Segundo and Dockweiler as a recurrent lifeguard before being promoted to permanent status in April 1972 and working all up and down the Los Angeles coastline.

Barry later became a paramedic lifeguard and helped launch the lifeguard paramedic program in Zuma. You could write a book with his stories (which he has, and its release is scheduled for the latter half of this year). From stories of rescuing people from imminent danger to quite literally dragging some from death back into life, Barry has them all.

That night around the Yosemite campfire, Barry told a story about being at Zuma headquarters during gale-force conditions when a call came in: a 21-foot vessel, about 10 miles offshore, with two people on board—one experiencing full cardiac arrest. Barry and his crew boarded Baywatch Malibu and headed 10 miles out into the blustery Pacific. They reached the vessel and linked up with a Coast Guard helicopter, where Barry was hoisted up into the helo along with the patient.

As he told the story, you could see his eyes change—his pupils dilating, back in the action, right there in the pocket. And again, that infectious smile began to peer out from beneath the white mustache as he told it, like that 10-year-old kid left in the tower to watch the water.

A hundred feet up, with a patient pulled from a boat in a windstorm—pulseless and not breathing—Barry began resuscitation efforts. He regained a pulse, re-established breathing and directed the Coast Guard to the nearest trauma center, ultimately saving the life of a perfect stranger.

When asked about the incident, he smiles and replies, “I dunno, I’m just glad I was there to help.”

By 1986, Barry pivoted to the fire side, working his way up through the ranks and eventually becoming assistant fire chief for the entire Los Angeles County Fire Department. There he served the L.A. community for a number of years before heading back to the lifeguard division in 2012, where he served as chief lifeguard and then retired in 2014.

When you retire, you join the country club, right? Or at least head down to the Elks Lodge every Tuesday to talk about the good old days and throw back a couple of suds? No judgment there—just not Barry’s style.

Today Barry serves as the L.A. County fire chaplain. The stories may look a little different, but they’re no less dramatic and, dare I say, even more impactful.

When someone in the fire or lifeguard service passes away, who shows up at the family’s house? Who leads their memorial service? When the family is left with no answers in their darkest hour, who shows up? Barry.

Over 64 years ago, a 10-year-old boy in a tower imagined what it meant to protect and serve his community.

And in case you were wondering … no, this is not a paid position. It’s a choice—to continue to serve others.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t simply a story about why Barry chooses to make such admirable life decisions. No, no. Like everyone, he openly admits he has flaws. But there’s a larger narrative here.

We live in a world that tells us we deserve to be happy. We deserve more. Do what we want, when we want, and somehow, somewhere along that journey we’ll be able to tap into this thing called happiness from time to time. If I just get this many likes, if I just make this amount of money, if I just get this many followers, if people would just see it my way, why can’t people just vote like I do? Starting to sound familiar? It starts with us. And it ends with us.

I think Chaplain Barry would prescribe something a little different: Start with others. Risk for others. Step into the hard for others. Serve them because you can … besides, life is a gift.

Just ask any cancer survivor or someone who is terminally ill, and they will tell you the same. Life is not a guarantee; it’s actually quite fragile—a fragile gift that was never owed to begin with. So it may as well be shared and enjoyed.

And to answer all those wondering, “Well, what’s in it for me?” One, you’re still not really getting it, but two, get rid of the notion of being happy. It’s so fleeting and will always leave you disappointed. Instead, risk that your investment in others, slowly over time, will return things like contentment, joy and ease.

Contentment vaporizes things like anxiety and depression. Joy is a permanent, redemptive gift of buoyancy despite your external circumstances. Ease … oh man, ease allows for those long, drawn-out S-turns on your pedal bike down the Yosemite Valley floor.

The chaplain has all three. More than just about anyone I know. And he freely spills it back out on everyone he comes in contact with. It’s a beautiful, faith-centered cycle, rooted in a servant’s heart that creates a ripple effect that reaches far beyond perceived outcomes.

That night in Yosemite Valley, after Barry serves his signature chili dogs for dinner, we sit around the campfire while he continues to hold court. For the first time, I see it with my own eyes. In the air hangs a deep sense of contentment. Joy sits at the surface of everything. Ease whistles through the ponderosas above.

As things begin to quiet down and the day begins to fade, I can see Barry just past the campfire—relaxed in a beach chair, his granddaughter asleep on his shoulder. He looks over, and I catch his eye once again. That same grin slips out from under his mustache, and it says everything.

“It’s all worth it. Service compounds love. And love makes happiness look so futile. Keep going; there’s so much more.”

And with that, he shuffles off into the Yosemite night to quietly retreat to his tent with his wife, Joanie, deeply content because today was yet another very, very good day.

Thank you, Barry, for your life of service. The ripple effects have gone far beyond your imagination, and for that, your community is grateful.