Southern Legitimacy Statement: I live in Virginia, along with most of my family.
Where’d My Shorts Go?
When I was in college I dreamed about spending Spring Break at Miami Beach. The
vision of palm trees and beautiful waves was a wonderful escape from the long hours of study.
One year, my buddies and I decided to go for it. We saved our pennies, loaded up an old station
wagon and headed down to Florida to bake in the sun. When we arrived, we spent most
of our time body surfing.
The waves were huge—the biggest I can remember. Their frothy crests rose into the air
and crashed onto the white sand like a spilt bucket of mop water.
My four friends and I waded into the ocean. Sure enough, a big one came along,
yawning open like a giant mouth ready to swallow us whole. I crouched down and dove into the
wave, swimming with all my might.
The water rushed around me and I tumbled upside down, skipping along the ocean floor
like a piece of gravel on the highway. A blast of sand covered my body and I held my breath.
With my eyes closed, I reasoned I should come up for air pretty soon if I didn’t want to drown. I
swam upward and felt my head breach the surface. I gasped for air and treaded water before the
wave grabbed me and flung me onto the beach like a dirty dish rag.
I lay there like a dead starfish and wondered where I was. Stumbling to my feet, I
knocked the water out of my ears and heard a crowd cheering to my left. I turned and gave a
smile. “I’m alright!” I waved. “Great ride, everybody!” Just then something tugged at my feet.
There, down around my ankles, were my swim shorts.
