The Beach and The Bellyache 🏖️

Alright, so I’ve got a story for you. It’s about one of those moments that, in hindsight, is absolutely hilarious, but at the time, I’m not gonna lie—it felt like an absolute emergency. You know, one of those “my life is flashing before my eyes” types of situations, only it wasn’t an ex or a bad job interview—it was… a sudden, desperate, and very urgent need to poop.

So picture this: I’m on vacation at the beach. It’s one of those perfect summer days—sun shining, waves crashing, seagulls cawing in the distance, and my skin is slowly turning into that glorious beach bronze, right? You know the vibe. Everything’s great.

I’m walking along the shore, just soaking in the vibes, when my stomach starts to rumble. Not the cute little “I could eat a snack” rumble either. No, this was a full-on “warning sign” situation. I ignored it at first, because, come on, you don’t let a little stomach discomfort ruin your beach day, right? Big mistake.

Fast forward about ten minutes and suddenly, the rumbling turns into that unmistakable sensation—the kind where your body just knows. And my body was telling me: “You’re gonna need a bathroom. And not just any bathroom. You need it, like, yesterday.”

I immediately start scanning the area, looking for anything that resembles a public restroom. But it’s the beach, man—no public restrooms in sight. The closest thing to a bathroom is probably a lifeguard station, and the thought of running there with my legs doing that weird awkward half-walk/half-sprint just felt… wrong.

So, I did what any desperate beach-goer would do. I looked around, hoping to spot some kind of secluded area where I could discreetly handle my growing emergency.

That’s when I saw it: a patch of tall grass near a cluster of trees, tucked away just far enough from the main path to provide some semblance of privacy. I swear, the heavens opened up just a little bit, and I could practically hear a choir of angels singing in the distance. This was my chance.

I tried to play it cool, of course, casually walking toward this little patch of relief like I had all the time in the world. But my body? My body had different plans. It was like my gut just decided, “Alright, enough with the games. It’s go-time.” The urge intensified, and I’m pretty sure I started to break into a full-on sprint.

Now, picture this: a guy, running like he’s being chased by a bear, dodging beachgoers, seagulls, and sandcastles like a man on a mission. And what’s my mission? To find a patch of grass and a hole to dig—because at this point, the “I’ll just hold it” strategy was out the window.

I get to the spot, and let me tell you, it’s not as idyllic as I initially thought. The grass is high, but it’s not exactly a privacy fortress. It’s more like a public restroom’s cousin who doesn’t really know the meaning of personal space. But at that point, I didn’t care. I drop down to the ground and start digging. Oh, yeah, you read that right. I dug a hole.

I had no tools, no shovel, nothing. Just my bare hands, my ever-growing desperation, and, apparently, a primal instinct to survive in the wild.

The hole itself, well… let’s just say it wasn’t the most impressive excavation job I’ve ever done. It was deep enough, but definitely not “Eiffel Tower” level precision. More like “I was just trying to get something done before my bowels exploded.” The whole process probably took me about a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

Now, here’s where things took a turn. I’m crouched down, my hands shaking from both the urgency of the moment and the fact that, well, I’m digging in the dirt like a madman in broad daylight. My heart’s racing, my palms are sweating, and as I finally lower myself into position, the relief starts to set in.

And let me tell you, as soon as I let go, there was no going back. There was a moment—just a fleeting moment—of total euphoria, like the most divine release imaginable. It was a mix of physical relief and a mental “thank you, thank you, thank you” to whatever forces had conspired to put me in this relatively secluded spot.

As the moment stretched on, the most involuntary moan of relief slipped out of me. It wasn’t a loud moan, more like a “thank god” sigh, but it was definitely an audible expression of how happy I was to be doing what I was doing. In that moment, I wasn’t just a person in a beach panic. I was a hero. A conqueror. A man who had faced the worst and triumphed.

But the situation wasn’t over yet. Oh, no, not by a long shot.

So there I am, standing—well, crouching—there with a hole in the sand, sweat dripping down my face, and a sense of victory starting to settle in. And I start to think, “Okay, I did it. The worst is over.”

Then reality hit me like a freight train: How do I clean up?

Now, I don’t know about you, but when you’re on a beach, you don’t exactly carry around a well-stocked bag of supplies. I didn’t have any tissues, baby wipes, or even an old receipt from a gas station. All I had was my ever-diminishing pride and a handful of sand.

But I had no choice. It was that or go walking back to my towel with remnants of my beach-day disaster still lingering. So, like a seasoned pro, I used the only thing I had available—sand. I know. It sounds crazy, but when you’re desperate, you get creative. So I did the best I could with what I had, packing down the hole, brushing off the excess sand, and using the dry part to clean up the mess.

Just as I’m about to finish, I see the long, thick blades of grass growing around me. I think, “Hey, I’m in nature. I can use that, right?” So I reach over and grab a clump of grass, thinking it might just work like one of those leaves you see in cartoons. You know, something soft, bendy, maybe even a little… cleaning-friendly.

And the moment my hand closes around it, I realize—this is not your average grass. This is saw grass. Saw freaking grass. It’s like nature’s version of a cheese grater. The sharp edges immediately start poking and scraping at my fingers, and the thought of using it on my sensitive areas felt like a bad, bad idea.

I quickly toss it aside and, in that instant, I knew I was in trouble. There was no way I was going to risk it. At that moment, I was basically on my own.

I had no choice but to continue my sand routine, hoping it would get the job done without any more accidents. Let’s just say my new motto was “Never trust the grass.”

After what felt like an eternity of awkward wriggling and shuffling in the sand, I stood up, dusted myself off, and tried to look as casual as humanly possible. Because, let’s face it, there’s no graceful way to explain this kind of situation.

I glanced around. The coast was clear. No one had witnessed the disaster. No one would ever know. I was a free man again.

And just as I was about to make my escape, I heard something behind me. I froze. A couple of beachgoers had walked past the tall grass—clearly not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but I could feel their eyes on me.

They probably didn’t know what had just happened, but if they could read my body language, they definitely could have guessed. I threw a casual wave and tried to walk away like I was just another person enjoying a perfectly normal beach day. The fact that I had just performed a small-scale excavation in the sand? Not on the agenda.

But before I could completely leave the scene, I glanced back at my little patch of temporary relief. That hole? It was a reminder of what I’d survived. The beach had won, but I had prevailed.

So I casually strolled back toward my towel, feeling like a beach legend. And you know what? I’ll never look at that spot of tall grass the same way again. The next time I’m at the beach and need a quick bathroom break, let’s just say I know exactly where to go.

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And that’s the story of how I became the unsung hero of the beach, the guy who faced down nature’s call, dug a hole, survived a saw grass encounter, and, against all odds, came out victorious.