Trunks Have Been Sucked Off | My Swimming

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 chose Option B.

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. My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off

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. Now I was naked, ringless, and my wife was on the beach

She threw it at my face.

“Nicholas,” she said, in the calm, terrible voice she uses when I’ve done something wrong but she’s deciding whether to be amused or furious. “Where are your swimming trunks?” I chose Option B

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.