My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off Apr 2026

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.

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.

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.

“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.” My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off

“No,” I said, my voice an octave too high. “Just… a very aggressive current.”

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.

And my swimming trunks were the first thing it tasted. The current was stronger than I’d anticipated

Chloe’s eyes went wide. Mark started to laugh—that horrible, silent, shoulder-shaking laugh that precedes an explosion. Elena put down her book. She looked at my face. She looked at my clasped hands. She looked at the empty patch of sea behind me.

She threw it at my face.

“…The Aegean Sea has expensive taste.” Panic is a funny thing

“And your wedding ring?”

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

Oh. The worst word in the English language.