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.
She looked up from her book. “You’re back early. Did you see any fish?”
Mark finally noticed me. He squinted. “Nick? Why are you the color of a tomato from the neck down? And where’s your… oh.” My Swimming Trunks Have Been Sucked Off
“…The Aegean Sea has expensive taste.”
“No,” I said, my voice an octave too high. “Just… a very aggressive current.” I surfaced again, treading water
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.
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.” Option B: Execute a tactical beach landing
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.
I took a breath. “The Aegean Sea has claimed them as tribute.”