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.

As I wrapped the towel around my waist, I glanced back at the sea. The vent was still gurgling, still hungry. Somewhere down there, in a dark underwater cave, my pineapples and my marriage band were keeping company with Greek shipwrecks and Poseidon’s loose change.

I pulled back just in time, but my wedding ring scraped against the stone. The ring spun off my finger and plink —gone, swallowed faster than my trunks.

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.