Struggling to doggy-paddle in the twilight of another beautiful summer day, I moved the ocean water around me as casually as I could as to not let onto my slightly less than average swimming ability. My toes stretched downwards, naively looking for any available surface, while I looked to the beach; where without my glasses I couldn’t tell if the unknown blurry people in the distance were going through our blurry backpacks or their own. I didn’t want to mention it in fear of sounding paranoid and I didn’t want to swim back to shore after we’d spent such a brief time in the water.
It was then that I made the decision to trust in humanity. To trust that they weren’t stealing my cellphone or underpants, kicking sand onto the rim of my cider or causing the bookmark to fall out of the collection of David Foster Wallace essays that I’d been not reading for weeks with all of their potential rummaging. It felt good to trust. Then I noticed our bags a few metres to the right and let out a sigh of relief–in turn taking in a mouthful of salt water.