This year for Labor Day weekend, I headed to Asbury Park, New Jersey, for some sun and fun on the beach. Saturday was absolutely gorgeous, and the ocean was as calm as a bathtub. On Sunday, however, the skies were overcast, and waves churned viciously against the shore. Yellow flags warned swimmers of a riptide. The lifeguards made sure everyone stayed close.
I always like when the ocean gets rolling a bit—a great time to ride some waves. So I ignored the warnings—it wasn’t a red flag, after all—and decided to dive in. I was boardless, so I bodysurfed. For a while I was having a great time. Then one wave changed everything.
I knew before it took me that I was in trouble. As the water was sucked up into the curl of the wave, I was pulled under. It felt like I’d been tossed into a washing machine. Next thing I knew, I slammed down into the sandy bottom.
Salt water shot up my nose and down my throat. I pushed off the bottom as hard as I could and scrambled to my feet, popping to the surface as the whitewater passed. The whole tumble had only lasted a few seconds. Somehow, I was unhurt, but dazed. Enough bodysurfing for one day, I thought, and headed back to my beach chair to dry off.
That’s when I realized something was missing. My wedding band.
Instantly, I thought of all those “lost ring” stories featured in Mysterious Ways columns over the years. Like “Dorothy’s Ring,” “Mom’s Ring” or my previous blog post about a lost high school graduation ring. The news is constantly filled with one story after another recounting unlikely ring recoveries.
So I ran back into the water, hoping against all odds that I could find it. But the waves were too rough, the water too murky. I dragged my feet across the bottom and grasped random handfuls of sand, but all I came up with were mussel shells and seaweed.
It was gone. A tiny platinum band, without any identifying inscription, was now buried somewhere at sea. Even if an honest person were to find it—days, weeks, years later—they’d have no idea who it belonged to.
I trudged back to my beach chair, head hung in shame. My wife could see how upset I was. We hadn’t even reached our two-month anniversary, and already I’d lost the ring she’d placed on my finger on our wedding day. I could barely look her in the eye. “I’ll go back in again,” I said. “I’ll find it. I will.”
“Look at me,” my wife said, grabbing my ringless hand. My eyes met hers. “It’s OK,” she said. “Don’t get back in that water. It’s too rough. I’d much rather lose the ring than lose you.”
It would be a perfect Mysterious Ways ending to say that later that day, a seagull opened its beak and dropped the lost ring onto my lap. Alas, that didn’t happen. Maybe some kind person with a metal detector will one day find it, return home, Google search “platinum wedding ring, Asbury Park” and find this blog post. But even if that never happpens—in that moment, holding my wife’s hand, I was reminded of two very important things. One, I have an incredible, loving, understanding wife. And two, while the force of the ocean waves slipped that ring off my finger, a greater force made sure a ring was the only thing I lost.
Anybody else lose their wedding ring? Did you find it? How? Did you experience something miraculous this Labor Day weekend? (I’m not counting fried Oreos.) Send us your story or leave a comment below.
