As the Doobie Brothers belt out from the AM radio, I watched the water lapping against the dock, playfully teasing and calling me into its cooler depths. That summer had been unusually hot and humid, the kind where the air clung to your skin, choking and not letting you out of its grasp. It was thick to move through, with no sign of relief. Beads of sweat collected on the surface of the suntan lotion greasing my skin. I scanned the horizon, hopefully, for any sign of a storm cloud of relief. When satisfied that none were to be found for miles, I dove into the water, giving in to its temptations.

As I pushed further down into the depths, I became increasingly aware that something was missing. The bottom of my bikini must have snagged on the dock as I dove in because I realized I was no longer wearing it. Shocked, I gasped and panicked for the surface. Swallowing gulps of lake water and choking I reached the surface coughing. Bewildered, I was pulled up by a strong arm and greeted by a thick southern accent that asked in concern, “Are you alright miss?”

In more bewilderment, I stammered, “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” and I nearly fainted when he handed my bathing suit bottoms back to me and I remembered what caused the situation in the first place.