Good afternoon, says Oliver, a lifeguard morally drowned by the damage of an illogical dismissal. But the truth is, there is no good afternoon when the sun beats down on the skin of the unemployed and the salt of the Atlantic mixes with the bile of injustice. Oliver was a lifeguard. He watched over pools as blue as the eyes of a dead man. He worked at Lopesan hotels, that cement and well-dressed marketing giant that boasts of excellence on the islands. But on June 20th, the sea changed color.
Change of company, they said. Lookout, Activa Canarias in. A signature swap brewing in air-conditioned offices, but leaving people like Oliver—lifeguard, personnel representative, worker—in the hot seat of covert dismissal. They don't call it that. They disguise it. They mask it. They hide it in technicalities. But it all smells the same: out of the door without severance pay and without unemployment.
Because this isn't about losing your job. It's about having it stolen.
Subrogation, according to the Workers' Statute, Article 44. Subrogation, according to the collective agreement. But Activa Canarias, the company that entered through a temporary employment agency in March, just like someone who enters through the kitchen and ends up as head waiter, refuses to honor what was signed, sealed, and agreed upon.
They don't want to replace you. They don't want to continue with the same people. They prefer dirty tricks: tiring, pressuring, ignoring. Pretending not to see you while you're drowning.
And there you are, Oliver, and your family, with the buoy in your hand and the contract in your mouth. Your time has stopped at the SEPE (Spanish Social Security Administration), because you appear as subrogated workers, but the new company refuses you. You can't collect unemployment benefits. You can't work. They offer you new contracts, far from the hotels where you've been sweating in your uniforms for years. And that, in plain Spanish, is illegal.
But they know it. And that's why they do it.
Because lifeguards, in the end, are invisible when there are no screams. When there isn't a child swallowing water or a grandmother floating face down. Invisible like the waiters who serve cocktails to tourists in flip-flops and bathrobes. Invisible like those who clean rooms or carry towels.
But not this time.
This time, the invisible ones have sued. This time, they haven't left. This time, even though they tried to bore them for three months, they've endured. Because what they've done is unspeakable. Or maybe it is: precariousness. Impunity. Contempt.
Oliver isn't asking for charity. He's asking for justice. And the bill is on the bar. Who's going to pay? Text dedicated to all the first responders who burn in silence while others sunbathe in their shadow.
