I am assuming the court order against me ever wearing my swimsuit in public in the city of Wrightsville Beach has now expired, as Homeland Security did not seem to bat an eye when I booked tickets last week for our family to return to the sun, sand, and surf this summer…
Two summers ago, Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, home of Trolley Stop hot dogs and Boombalatti’s ice cream (I assume God serves this in heaven), I was boogie boarding with the family. On a family vacation. With family values. At a family beach.
Our kids, typically landlocked here in Midwest College Town, were having a blast playing in the ocean for the first time, and their parents were having a blast playing like kids. In fact, Dave and I had taken to watching each other ride waves in on the boogie boards, offering a 1-10 rating based on style, distance, and duration.
It was my turn. With an agreed upon three waves per turn, we quickly learned to choose wisely. Too much crest and the ride would be over before reaching sand; too little crest and the crash could end up waterboarding the wave rider.
After a few hops in the water, I spotted my final wave for my turn. I checked the beach to make sure Dave was watching. He gave me a thumbs-up. I waited, watching it roll and grow to the perfect size, with the perfect speed, and made a perfect launch into the oncoming wave.
It carried me with increasing velocity, faster and faster toward dry land. I could feel the broken up seashells grazing my knees and the water beginning to swell all around me, but I stayed steady on the board, riding that wave onto dry sand with one final push from a second wave behind.
Water splashed all around my face as I came to a stop. Stumbling up and staggering to a stand, I could see Dave down shore about 20 yards, thumb up and smiling as I wiped the salt water from my eyes.
I waved back, wiping more water out of my face, trying to keep my contacts from falling out.
Dave motioned to me, pointing to his chest with pride, as I pulled my wet hair back from my face with both hands.
I had never seen that signal before.
I was pretty sure he had just given me the highest score ever for boogie boarding.
Finally my contacts cleared up enough to see what he was doing. He was still vigorously pointing to his chest with one hand, and with the other hand, he was pointing at me.
I looked down.
My right breast was hanging completely out of my push-up tankini. I was Janet Jackson, and the ocean was my Timberlake.
(Gentlemen, do not get too excited and/or disappointed that you missed it. I am a 34 A. That’s “A,” as in, “Awww… isn’t it so cute that she can fit back into her Jr. High bra after breastfeeding four kids?”)
I immediately tucked the little runaway into place and ran to Dave, who was laughing so hard he had started to cry.
“No one saw,” he tried to say with a straight face. “No one except that guy,” he pointed to a man a few yards behind him who turned his head as soon as I glanced his way.
“I want to go home,” I cringed.
“You can’t go home,” Dave said, “you just made his day.”
I looked again, and the man raised his plastic tumbler to me.Awesome. I just hope he isn’t expecting a repeat performance this summer.