The Duck Needed Shore Leave

“Unless you've also brought emergency biscuits, that's mine,” the man said as I lifted an orange waterproof pouch from the sand. My towel was right beside his, and I had apparently decided that everything orange belonged to me. I checked the outside pocket, found a wrapped biscuit instead of my locker token, and handed it back. Unfortunately, my own identical pouch was already dangling from his wrist.

He followed my glance and stopped smiling quite so confidently. “In my defense, yours was beside my bag.” We were at the officially permitted clothing-optional section, where I was perfectly comfortable being naked but apparently couldn't identify my own luggage. He passed me my pouch, I returned his, and that should have been the entire encounter. Then I said I could prove mine had the better emergency equipment.

I opened it to reveal a locker token and a little rubber duck attached to my key ring with a removable clip. He peered inside from a polite distance, then looked straight at me with a smile I enjoyed more than the situation deserved. “Does it summon help?” he asked. I unclipped the duck and balanced it on the pouch, explaining that it supervised my belongings while contributing absolutely nothing.

He offered his open palm for an inspection, and I tipped the pouch toward him instead of simply handing over the duck. The duck slid, I reached, and my wrist knocked the whole pouch sideways. My token landed safely on my towel; the duck bounced down the firm slope toward the water. We both turned and ran, leaving our supposedly waterproof belongings somewhere extremely dry and sensible.

I reached the shallows first and planted my feet on either side of the duck, which immediately floated between them. He came around my left as I pivoted, and we bumped shoulder to shoulder, throwing up a ridiculous fan of water. Neither of us fell, but my attempted scoop sent the duck straight toward him. He caught it between both hands and held it up while I stood dripping beside him, applauding once with nobody but him to appreciate it.

“Successful evacuation,” he said, placing it in my palm. I told him the duck had requested shore leave, not a full emergency response. He laughed, then glanced at my shoulder and asked whether our collision had hurt. It hadn't, and I liked that he'd checked rather than treating the whole thing as permission to get closer. When I suggested we walk back together, he matched my pace instead of charging ahead.

Back at the towels, I clipped the duck onto my keys and gave the attachment an unnecessarily serious tug. We sat on our separate towels and talked about the practical failures of beach bags, which turned out to be a surprisingly effective way to flirt. When he offered me his spare biscuit, I accepted and moved my towel a little nearer, leaving a comfortable strip of sand between us. The orange pouches stayed on opposite sides, under strict supervision.

Later, as I packed up, he lifted something from the shallow dent beneath his towel: the little plastic cap from my duck's clip. I must have dropped it while demonstrating my excellent security system. He set it in my hand and said, “Your supervisor left his hat.” I fitted it back over the clip, asked if he'd be at the same stretch of beach tomorrow, and got a very definite yes. Then I held up the duck and told him shore leave was approved, but only if he brought the biscuits.