My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off Guide

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.

Mark finally noticed me. He squinted. “Nick? Why are you the color of a tomato from the neck down? And where’s your… oh.”

“I’m good,” I said, not moving a muscle. 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.

She tilted her head. “Why are you squatting?” Now I was naked, ringless, and my wife was on the beach

She looked up from her book. “You’re back early. Did you see any fish?”

“And your wedding ring?”

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.

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. Mark finally noticed me

I reached the shallows, where the water was only knee-deep and treacherously transparent. I had to crawl. On my belly. Like a marine. I dug my fingers into the sand and slithered, the waterline dropping from my chest to my waist to my… well. The moment of truth arrived when my feet touched dry land. I was behind a small rock outcropping, five meters from Elena.

“Get in the car,” she said. “We’re going to the village to buy you the ugliest, most elastic-waisted pair of shorts they sell. And you’re wearing them for the rest of the trip. I don’t care if they have flamingos.”