The Sandals Were Not Optional

I had one finger under my bikini strap when the man beside the beach entrance said, "I wouldn't take those off yet." I stopped with the solemn expression of someone caught unplugging hospital equipment. Behind us, the official sign clearly said CLOTHING OPTIONAL, so I pointed at it. He looked from the sign to my hand, then down at my feet, and visibly reconsidered his opening sentence.

"Your sandals," he said. "There's a strip of broken shells before the soft sand." I had been easing one foot out while preparing to undo my top, apparently trying to perform every arrival task simultaneously. It was my first visit, and I had spent so much effort acting casual that I had nearly walked barefoot onto something sharp. "Excellent," I said. "I thought you'd been appointed head of trousers."

He laughed, stepped aside, and pointed out the narrow clear route between the shells. There was nothing supervisory about the way he waited for me to choose it. Once across, I spread my towel, took off my bikini, and discovered that the most uncomfortable thing about being naked was still remembering what I'd just said. He was settling on his own towel a few paces away, close enough for conversation without making conversation compulsory.

I asked whether the shells continued into the water, partly for information and partly because I liked his smile. He said the sandy entry was better a little farther along and offered to show me. I put my sandals back on, leaving my bag zipped and my towel safely above the damp sand. We walked side by side, and when he asked how the first visit was going, I said the dress code had been explained with unnecessary suspense.

At the sandy entry, I slipped off my sandals and placed them on what looked like dry ground. Then I followed him a few steps into the shallows, where the water was clear enough to see my toes settling into the sand. A broad wash reached farther up the beach than the last one and lifted both lightweight sandals. He glanced past my shoulder. "Your transport's leaving," he said, and I turned to find one already sailing sole-up.

I splashed sideways and scooped up the first sandal, but the second spun behind him in the retreating water. He pivoted, planted one foot in its path, and sent up a fan of spray that hit both our knees. I reached past him for the trapped sandal just as he bent to collect it, and we stopped with our hands together on the same ridiculous prize. Neither of us fell; we simply remained unnecessarily close until I said, "I believe that's my escape vehicle."

He released the sandal but kept the smile. "Reliable enough on land," he said, and I noticed he waited for me to move back rather than assuming the moment entitled him to anything. I stayed where I was for another beat, then asked if he wanted to sit with me after our swim. His immediate yes was considerably better for my confidence than any speech I could have given myself at the entrance. We left the sandals well beyond the wet line and went back into the water.

Later, I carried my recovered footwear to my towel while he fetched his water bottle. When he returned, he paused at the edge of my towel with his sandals still on, politely checking where to sit. I pointed at his feet and said, "I wouldn't take those off yet." He froze, then caught my grin as I shifted my sandy pair farther from the fabric. "Actually, please do," I said, making room beside me. "Apparently I'm head of sandals now."