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 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.” My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off
The current was stronger than I’d anticipated. One second I was floating peacefully in the Aegean, the next I was being dragged toward a submerged vent on the seafloor of this tiny, forgotten Greek cove. It wasn't a whirlpool, exactly—more like a giant, thirsty mouth of rock, sipping the entire bay down into some subterranean river. Now I was naked, ringless, and my wife was on the beach
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. I was indeed squatting, a perfect catcher’s stance,
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.
Mark finally noticed me. He squinted. “Nick? Why are you the color of a tomato from the neck down? And where’s your… oh.”
And my swimming trunks were the first thing it tasted.