We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat.

It started out as another fine beach day in Ocean City, Maryland.  We lucked into free on-street parking two spots from the sand, unexpectedly ran into friends on the same block of beach and had awesome weather and water temps.  We were basking in the sun, reveling in the restorative powers of the sea.  Then It showed up.  I was knee deep in the surf when I first caught a glimpse of It out the corner of my eye, a flicker across my fear radar.  Ba-Dum.  I wasn't sure at first exactly what It was.  Ba-Dum.  As It drew ever closer, It was recognizable, unmistakable even.  Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum.  I stood paralyzed, not by fear, but by sheer gross-outedness.  For floating just a few feet away was a rubber.  Not a rubber raft, not a rubber inner tube, but a giant used rubber.  Condom.  Prophylactic.  Love Glove.  Jimmie Hat.

Now, I'm no rube; I understand that people and sea creatures pee, crap and decay in the ocean every day.  I mean, who hasn't stood up after finishing a 32 oz soda (Ha!  Take that Michael Bloomberg.) and realized that the ocean is a whole lot closer than the nearest restroom.  I know that beaches as near as New Jersey get closed because medical waste washes up.  As a card-carrying germophobe, I know that I shouldn't go near the water thanks to all the invisible disease poisoning the high seas.  But this was tangible, concrete, ribbed-for-her-pleasure evidence that I was standing in a giant toilet.

So, what to do next?  I didn't want to be done swimming.  I'd have a hard time explaining to my three-year-old why we were leaving suddenly.  I know I'm not fishing the condom out of the surf.  I look towards the life guard but guess he doesn't get paid enough as it is.  Nor do I know how to say, "Hey buddy, I know this used Trojan is not likely yours, but  can you clean up the beach?  And, by the way, if you need a condom that big, well, good for you." with two orange flags.  I settle on grabbing the girl, moving further down the beach and hoping for the best.

Grace is getting brave enough that she wants to do more than just jump waves so we head for deeper water.  We are having a blast riding the waves, letting them lift us up and over as they roll through because she doesn't yet do well with going under. (She won't close her mouth to keep water out.)  Only one wave all afternoon started breaking too far out for us float over the crest.  As I clutched Grace tight to me preparing to dive through the wave, what do I see?  Of course, it was the used rubber riding the wave like Kelly Slater winging his way to another Hawaiian Tropic title.  (Hang One, Brah!)  I had no choice but to duck under and hope for the best.  In that split second I was convinced I would break the surface with the condom wrapped around my ear or, worse yet, Grace would have it clutched between her teeth like a bear catching a salmon.  Alas, the condom was not seen again.  Unfortunate, perhaps, because a few minutes later I saw a sanitary napkin float by.  They would have made a helluva synchronized swim team.