Malibu beach had a particular stink to it—seaweed, banana boat sunscreen, and toddlers shrieking through their third identity crisis of the day. Lifeguard Station 4 was planted near the dunes, where the sand could sear through flip-flops and dignity. Blake Callahan sat on his tower like a sunburned gargoyle with a whistle tan and no patience for tourists.

By 11 AM, he’d already confiscated two inflatable swans and broken up a volleyball game that was one spike away from a concussion lawsuit. It was shaping up to be a routine Saturday.

Until the tourist happened.

He clocked the guy the second he hit the sand. Shirtless. Glowing. Sunglasses that screamed “I paid too much for these” and swim trunks that looked like they’d been stolen from a toddler’s dress-up box. The tourist walked like the tide should part for him—barefoot, bouncing slightly like life was a music video and he was the main character.

Then he stepped directly on a jellyfish.

The collapse was instant. The tourist dropped like he'd been assassinated by Poseidon, clutching his foot, mouth open in a scream so high-pitched a dog on the pier started barking. People stopped. Phones came out. A baby started crying. Even the lifeguard from Station 3 turned to stare.

Blake exhaled through his nose, climbed down from the tower, and trudged over. The tourist was writhing dramatically in the sand like he was auditioning for a beachside opera. Blake did the basics—rinsed, applied cream, offered no emotional support.

“Don’t step on sea creatures,” he muttered, walking off before the guy could flash that blinding smile or say something that made Blake's brain leak out his ears.

He thought that was the end of it.

He was wrong.

By 1 PM, Blake had nearly forgotten the tourist existed. Until the seagulls began screaming.

It started with a tuna sandwich.

The troublemaker, for reasons only known to him and maybe Satan, had wandered near the dunes to have lunch. Alone. No umbrella. Just him, a towel, and a tuna sandwich held like a peace offering to a hostile sky.

The first seagull dive-bombed without warning.

Blake could hear the tourist's shrieks.

The second one stole a piece of bread. The third came for the whole sandwich. In seconds, the tourist was seen flailing, arms swinging like he was casting spells, backing up into his own towel, tripping, then faceplanting into the sand with the theatrical grace of someone who demanded attention even from gravity.

It should’ve ended there.

But it didn’t.

A crab emerged from under the dunes like it had been summoned. It latched onto the tourist’s ankle with the calm malice of a tiny assassin.

The resulting scream was loud enough to send a nearby flock of pigeons into the sky and a small child into therapy.

Blake didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even grab the med kit.

He just walked over, threw the tourist over his shoulder like a flailing sack of potatoes, and fireman-carried him across the sand. He could hear the irritating whines and protests but chose to ignore it.

Blake kept walking.

By the time they reached the shaded bench near the first aid tent, Blake’s patience was hanging on by a single piece of sun-dried twine. He dropped the tourist onto the bench, slapped an ice pack on his ankle, and turned to leave.

The tourist looked ridiculous. Hair full of sand. Trunk half-slipping down his hip. Skin glowing with SPF delusion. And somehow still smug enough to look like he’d won.

Blake narrowed his eyes, adjusted his whistle, and deadpanned.

"You are one jellyfish away from getting beach-banned."