It is a law of coastal physics: you will never lose both flip-flops. You will only ever lose one.
You step off the cabin deck, ready to head to the beach, only to look down and realize you are wearing one single, solitary piece of footwear. Where is its partner? You check under the house. You dig through three overflowing beach totes. You peer into the dark abyss beneath the deck stairs. Nothing. It has vanished into the twilight zone.
Walking to the truck with one foot safely cushioned in rubber while the other bare foot roasts on 120-degree asphalt is a special kind of torture. You try to hop. You try to step on stray shadows. You attempt to balance your bare foot on top of your shod foot like a circus performer. Ultimately, you end up standing by the tailgate, nursing a second-degree burn on one sole, glaring at a single flip-flop that is now completely useless.
