My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off Guide

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.

“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?” My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off

I surfaced again, treading water. I had two options. Option A: Announce my predicament to the entire cove, including the elderly French couple painting watercolors on the rocks. Option B: Execute a tactical beach landing. I surfaced with a gasp, not from lack

And my swimming trunks were the first thing it tasted. Our friends, Mark and Chloe, were arguing about