My Swimming Trunks — Have Been Sucked Off
I felt the elastic waistband yank backward, then a strange, cool kiss around my thighs. I looked down just in time to see the bright blue fabric—featuring a cheerful pattern of cartoon pineapples—spiral away from my body like a startled squid. It vanished into the dark maw of the rock, sucked into the underworld.
The vent was a smooth, lipped hole in the limestone, about the size of a dinner plate. I pressed my face close. Darkness. A low, gurgling hum. And there, just visible in the faint turquoise light, was a flash of blue pineapple. My trunks were caught on a ledge about ten feet down the throat of the hole. I reached in. My fingertips brushed the fabric. The current grabbed my wrist.
“…The Aegean Sea has expensive taste.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Mark let out a wheeze so loud it scared a seagull. Chloe fell over in the sand. And Elena—my wonderful, patient, slightly terrifying wife—simply closed her book, stood up, and walked to the rental car. She returned a moment later with a beach towel. My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off
I was indeed squatting, a perfect catcher’s stance, hands clasped in front of me like a fig leaf woven by a desperate man. “Stretching. Important to stretch. Post-swim.”
The beach was small, curved like a comma, with a single scrubby olive tree at its far end. I began a slow, horizontal sidestroke, keeping my entire body below the surface except for my nose and eyes. I looked like a very anxious crocodile. Mark’s voice drifted across the water: “Dude, have you seen my flipper? I swear I left it right here.”
I surfaced with a gasp, not from lack of air, but from the sheer, wet vulnerability of it all. The water was crystal clear. My wife, Elena, was still on the beach, her face buried in a book. Our friends, Mark and Chloe, were arguing about the best angle for a snorkeling selfie twenty yards away. No one had seen. I felt the elastic waistband yank backward, then
Now I was naked, ringless, and my wife was on the beach. This was no longer a comedy. This was a tragedy with a one-man cast.
I pulled back just in time, but my wedding ring scraped against the stone. The ring spun off my finger and plink —gone, swallowed faster than my trunks.
She tilted her head. “Why are you squatting?” The vent was a smooth, lipped hole in
Panic is a funny thing. It doesn't make you rational; it makes you inventive . My first thought wasn't "swim to shore." It was "how do I retrieve my trunks from the plumbing of the planet?" I took a deep breath and dove.
Chloe swam in, shaking water from her ears. “Anyone want to go back out? The light is amazing.”
“I’m good,” I said, not moving a muscle.
She threw it at my face.
As I wrapped the towel around my waist, I glanced back at the sea. The vent was still gurgling, still hungry. Somewhere down there, in a dark underwater cave, my pineapples and my marriage band were keeping company with Greek shipwrecks and Poseidon’s loose change.