Hell, we use a baitwell net like you use for catching bait in a holding tank whenever a dumdum torpedo slips out of the submarine happen in our hotel pool here in Corpus Christi (the Naples of the Texas Gulf). A landing net is too rough and the deep cup can get things lost if they're sticky.
But being gentle is the most important thing, so you need a microfilament netting. Those big ones are fussy, and they break up, turn to mush and slurry fast. With some experience you can fish them out and then do a deep filter clean, which takes a while. The guests are both sickened but fat-assedly demanding to get their money's worth. The roly-poly shit balls usually are extra hard, so they're okay. People really need to drink more water.
There's also the forensic aspect. The suspects are usually obvious, with stag-straight travelers, certain ethnic or apparent low-SES types (meaning everyone except elderly East Asians, including white suburban snoots who have scat-exhibitionist performance interests) and monied wedding-party re-enactors of "Bridesmaids."
We do get locals sneaking in, but if that's the case we've got their appearances (they think we don't have cameras when the lights are low both in the indoor and outside pools), the next time I've big guys waiting for them. They take their lumps and that's that, because they don't want us to press charges for the vandalism the inevitably occurs. We leave bruises only on the trespassing crappers - including culprits sullying the cabanas and showers and restroom floors and stair corners, balconies and even rooftop restaurant palm-plant containers, though. A bag of oranges works as well as ever for the no-trace whoopings, but we reserve that for the university boys. We have plenty of them both - students and locally grown oranges.
So the worst aren't the butt sculptors or reasonably containable effects of eating our buffet. The worst are the explosions of more crapwater than you'd think a 240-pound tequila-shot gringa marrana could hold. Megatons. The shockwaves look like the tsunami from an underwater nuke when we play the video slo-mo. That's when we go full Brown Alert. Sirens and flashing lights and a sweet, understanding recorded voice on the speakers saying, "Please leave the pool and pool area and enjoy our quality shower facilities. Come back to the Pineapple Pirate Bar and Pool at 7 am for a complimentary orange-mash brown-sugar chocolate rum." The thing is, everyone in or by the pool pukes. We have stool splatters and piss added from the trauma. People slip and fall. We settled a suit seven years ago for a toddler who nearly drowned but then went septic with amputations and then expired. A nice word for when gangrene slowly takes a baby head. We'd be out of business without our "legal team." NDAs are nothing without strong enforcement.
Two more topics for another time: menstruation in the hot tubs (along with all the sauna, steam, gym, massage nightmares) and sex souvenirs. We don't invade space inside private facilities, but we have hallway cams that show who goes in and out).
And we've also had a lot of experiences with toddlers who grunt out 16 oz Coke bottles like they're on an assembly line. All I can say is it's better than the crap rolling in a wave down the grand staircase like a fetish "The Shining" when norovirus and rough seas converge for a perfect shitstorm.
Adios Amigos!
