It was obvious that I was in a certain amount of trouble.
A cool breeze had been blowing in off the coast of the little beach town I had found myself in; the sun was an hour from setting and casting its yellow and pink shadows over the horizon. The temperature was a touch above 80, and the humidity just a little sticky. All in all, I had decided, a perfect time to go for a swim. I walked from the cafe I had been having a snack at back to my hotel, smelling the salt in the air and waving at the various peddlers who offered me incense, postcards, clothing and fruit. I donned my swimming trunks and threw a towel over my shoulder; slipped into the flip-flops I had bought in Sri Lanka for 70 cents and locked the big wooden door on my way out. Well...actually, I slammed the door a few times until the warped wood fit into the warped frame and then pulled with all my might so I could latch the door closed. Then I locked it. Anyway...
As I came upon the beach, just a few minutes from the hotel, I saw that I hadn't been the only one thinking it was a good time for swimming. A good hundred people covered the small spread of mixed white and black sand, though most were just Indian people watching the surf crash in and hiss out. The waves thundered in their way, foaming the waters and destroying the balance of any unsuspecting persons that got in their way. Most were only a foot or two high, but occasionally the sandbars cooperated to create a four or five foot wave, easily knocking back anyone who thought they could get the better of Poseidon's churning children. "What's a little wave action?" I thought to myself. It could only make the experience better!
A half hour later, after much throwing myself into wave after wave, I found myself in a precarious position, a good 50 yards from the shore. It wasn't the current that had me out there, though the coastal rips during the monsoon could have easily pulled me much farther had I not cared enough to fight them. No, I was hiding. And thinking.
There's not much else I could do when the beach was covered with people and I was stark naked.
I sank below the surface and swam back to where the thieving wave had pulled my trunks right off me, hoping to see some sign of them, hoping I would find them and that the embarrassing adventure would be over. No such luck. I replayed the moment in my mind's eye, not really confused but wondering all the same "What the HECK!?"
It had been one of the larger waves, towering above me as it rolled closer across the surface of the ocean. I had done exactly what I had done to every previous wave- dive into it and through it, coming up on the other side no worse the wear. Except this time, my trunks had decided to hitch a ride with the riptide created by the wave's passing, and had peeled off me as easy as you like. I didn't much like it, truth be told.
Swimming around, doggy paddling to keep myself from being carried much farther out, looking for my swimwear in vain, I heard the whistle blow. The lifeguard's whistle. The one that declared the surf was off-limits; that the beach was closing, that everyone had to pack up and move out. The one that meant all swimmers had to come back to shore.
Ah crap.
So there I was, naked in a country where nudity was not allowed, where natives swam with all their clothes on and were sometimes aghast at the amount of skin foreigners displayed. I had to come back in, the whistle commanded me.
Desperate times...
With a zeal born of a desperation not to be publicly humiliated, I swam towards the nearest other swimmer, luckily a guy. The monsoon had churned the waters to a murky condition, but all the same I was a tad nervous as I approached him. I hope he spoke English. Or Spanish. I knew some French, but not enough to say
"So I'm in a bit of a predicament, and I was hoping you could help."
The guy turned to me, a sun-darkened westerner with pale eyes and a balding head of blond hair. There was surprise etched in his face, and no doubt some worry. Not everyday a long-haired youth comes swimming up to you in the Indian Ocean and asks for help out of the blue.
He just stared at me, so I continued. "Do you speak English?"
"Ya," he responded in a crisp German accent. "What you need?" He tilted his head a bit, squinted against the sunset going on behind me. Good, the less he could see...
"Well..."
And I swam closer and whispered as quietly as the waves and accompanying beach sounds would allow. The whistling was growing a tad impatient. The man started swimming to shore, but stopped when he had heard my plight.
I had expected it, of course, but the braying of his laughter nearly bowled me over.
"You are joking, ya. I must go. Good laugh."
"I'M NOT JOKING AND DON'T MAKE ME HAVE TO SHOW YOU!!"
He stopped, blinked, smiled, swam back.
"You, eh, not joking? Not kidding? Really?" he smiled again, larger this time.
"No." I must have looked pathetic, because he nodded and became a bit more somber, which wasn't much.
"Okay," he nodded, "I help." And with that, he swam away, quickly. There was no way I could keep up with his no-doubt well practiced and powerful form, and it's not like I could get much closer to shore without a wave dragging all the water from under me and displaying my situation for all to see, so I just...doggy paddled, there.
I watched him as he did that funny "I'm running through the waves" run up the shore and then over the beachhead and behind the lifeguards chairs, which hid him from view.
He *was* going to help me, wasn't he? He wasn't going to leave me? Stranded? Naked? At the mercy of those whistles which were now being blown, unceasingly, in my obvious direction?
I was about to give up, defeated, when I saw him come running back down the beach, flying by the lifeguards, who yelled something after him. He was carrying a large towel, and I then and there forgave all Germans who had wronged my peoples in some way. Which might have amounted to two or three instances, probably.
In no time at all, he was swimming up beside me, and a short, embarrassing explanation to the lifeguards later, I was on the beach, exchanging my dry towel for his wet one. There was no doubt in my mind that each and every person on the beach knew what had happened, and would go home to tell their family, friends, dogs, cats and customers about the long-haired foreigner that had lost his shorts. Or had gone skinny dipping. Or something.
I walked across the sands to hand the towel back to German and his family, who were smiling big as could be already.
"Is okay," he explained, waving away the towel," you keep. I tell good story to my friends back home, you keep."
I am so getting out of this town.
A cool breeze had been blowing in off the coast of the little beach town I had found myself in; the sun was an hour from setting and casting its yellow and pink shadows over the horizon. The temperature was a touch above 80, and the humidity just a little sticky. All in all, I had decided, a perfect time to go for a swim. I walked from the cafe I had been having a snack at back to my hotel, smelling the salt in the air and waving at the various peddlers who offered me incense, postcards, clothing and fruit. I donned my swimming trunks and threw a towel over my shoulder; slipped into the flip-flops I had bought in Sri Lanka for 70 cents and locked the big wooden door on my way out. Well...actually, I slammed the door a few times until the warped wood fit into the warped frame and then pulled with all my might so I could latch the door closed. Then I locked it. Anyway...
As I came upon the beach, just a few minutes from the hotel, I saw that I hadn't been the only one thinking it was a good time for swimming. A good hundred people covered the small spread of mixed white and black sand, though most were just Indian people watching the surf crash in and hiss out. The waves thundered in their way, foaming the waters and destroying the balance of any unsuspecting persons that got in their way. Most were only a foot or two high, but occasionally the sandbars cooperated to create a four or five foot wave, easily knocking back anyone who thought they could get the better of Poseidon's churning children. "What's a little wave action?" I thought to myself. It could only make the experience better!
A half hour later, after much throwing myself into wave after wave, I found myself in a precarious position, a good 50 yards from the shore. It wasn't the current that had me out there, though the coastal rips during the monsoon could have easily pulled me much farther had I not cared enough to fight them. No, I was hiding. And thinking.
There's not much else I could do when the beach was covered with people and I was stark naked.
I sank below the surface and swam back to where the thieving wave had pulled my trunks right off me, hoping to see some sign of them, hoping I would find them and that the embarrassing adventure would be over. No such luck. I replayed the moment in my mind's eye, not really confused but wondering all the same "What the HECK!?"
It had been one of the larger waves, towering above me as it rolled closer across the surface of the ocean. I had done exactly what I had done to every previous wave- dive into it and through it, coming up on the other side no worse the wear. Except this time, my trunks had decided to hitch a ride with the riptide created by the wave's passing, and had peeled off me as easy as you like. I didn't much like it, truth be told.
Swimming around, doggy paddling to keep myself from being carried much farther out, looking for my swimwear in vain, I heard the whistle blow. The lifeguard's whistle. The one that declared the surf was off-limits; that the beach was closing, that everyone had to pack up and move out. The one that meant all swimmers had to come back to shore.
Ah crap.
So there I was, naked in a country where nudity was not allowed, where natives swam with all their clothes on and were sometimes aghast at the amount of skin foreigners displayed. I had to come back in, the whistle commanded me.
Desperate times...
With a zeal born of a desperation not to be publicly humiliated, I swam towards the nearest other swimmer, luckily a guy. The monsoon had churned the waters to a murky condition, but all the same I was a tad nervous as I approached him. I hope he spoke English. Or Spanish. I knew some French, but not enough to say
"So I'm in a bit of a predicament, and I was hoping you could help."
The guy turned to me, a sun-darkened westerner with pale eyes and a balding head of blond hair. There was surprise etched in his face, and no doubt some worry. Not everyday a long-haired youth comes swimming up to you in the Indian Ocean and asks for help out of the blue.
He just stared at me, so I continued. "Do you speak English?"
"Ya," he responded in a crisp German accent. "What you need?" He tilted his head a bit, squinted against the sunset going on behind me. Good, the less he could see...
"Well..."
And I swam closer and whispered as quietly as the waves and accompanying beach sounds would allow. The whistling was growing a tad impatient. The man started swimming to shore, but stopped when he had heard my plight.
I had expected it, of course, but the braying of his laughter nearly bowled me over.
"You are joking, ya. I must go. Good laugh."
"I'M NOT JOKING AND DON'T MAKE ME HAVE TO SHOW YOU!!"
He stopped, blinked, smiled, swam back.
"You, eh, not joking? Not kidding? Really?" he smiled again, larger this time.
"No." I must have looked pathetic, because he nodded and became a bit more somber, which wasn't much.
"Okay," he nodded, "I help." And with that, he swam away, quickly. There was no way I could keep up with his no-doubt well practiced and powerful form, and it's not like I could get much closer to shore without a wave dragging all the water from under me and displaying my situation for all to see, so I just...doggy paddled, there.
I watched him as he did that funny "I'm running through the waves" run up the shore and then over the beachhead and behind the lifeguards chairs, which hid him from view.
He *was* going to help me, wasn't he? He wasn't going to leave me? Stranded? Naked? At the mercy of those whistles which were now being blown, unceasingly, in my obvious direction?
I was about to give up, defeated, when I saw him come running back down the beach, flying by the lifeguards, who yelled something after him. He was carrying a large towel, and I then and there forgave all Germans who had wronged my peoples in some way. Which might have amounted to two or three instances, probably.
In no time at all, he was swimming up beside me, and a short, embarrassing explanation to the lifeguards later, I was on the beach, exchanging my dry towel for his wet one. There was no doubt in my mind that each and every person on the beach knew what had happened, and would go home to tell their family, friends, dogs, cats and customers about the long-haired foreigner that had lost his shorts. Or had gone skinny dipping. Or something.
I walked across the sands to hand the towel back to German and his family, who were smiling big as could be already.
"Is okay," he explained, waving away the towel," you keep. I tell good story to my friends back home, you keep."
I am so getting out of this town.
And, nice ass.
CAT