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 decided I didn’t want them back. Some stories are better left where they happened—submerged, absurd, and told only to very close friends after three glasses of wine. My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off
“No,” I said, my voice an octave too high. “Just… a very aggressive current.” Mark finally noticed me
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. Why are you the color of a tomato from the neck down
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 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.