Is “Closet Ecdysiast” an oxymoron?
Stripping naked in front of strangers and walking about in “the buff” is a rebellion against polite society and against the essence of what our mothers and kindergarten teachers tried to instill in us. But it is also an affirmation of what we are: furless apes. I wear clothes in nearly every situation where other humans are likely to see me but i rebel against “rules” when their abrogation won’t land me in jail or in the psych ward.
I have “changed clothes” cycling through nakedness on public beaches and lakesides and campgrounds while trying to avoid a scenario that could be construed as obscene or sexually suggestive. I have removed my clothes on warm sunny grassy fields among friends where access to the general public was restricted. I have taken my clothes off in the company of a proselytizing ecdysiast while hiking in the trackless Sierra Nevada backcountry.
I went shopping one day at a weekly farmers’ market in Berkeley and encountered two young women wearing nothing but sunscreen and straw hats. The most extraordinary aspect of their appearance was that, to me, their appearance seemed somehow “ordinary.”
While a Peace Corps Volunteer in Lesotho, Africa, the wife of the village chief joked that i should give her my shirt since she was so poor that she had no blouse to cover her bare breasts. She and her female companions laughed when i told her that if i gave her my shirt, no one could see how beautiful she was.
And i have, at times, gravitated toward places where nudity was expected: hot springs, hot tubs, and clothing optional beaches. I have never flaunted my genitals like some wackos in these places but neither have i tried to hide my penis from view. This does not mean i was totally comfortable, however. Rather, being naked in these settings is a statement that i consider important: our bodies are not disgusting and we can be civilized beings without the exterior trappings and wrappings dictated by our current culture.
One such day in 1985 found me and Sherry, my fiancée, hiking down the steep trail to Devil’s Slide Beach south of San Francisco. The cliffs surrounding this beach, hundreds of feet below Highway 1, form a naturally occurring solar oven that concentrates the heat of the afternoon sun onto the sandy beach. It can be bracingly windy and chilly along the highway but calm and warm next to the crashing surf.
We walked past naked individuals, couples, and groups while trying not to oggle. We found a bit of ideal beach real estate, laid out our beach blanket, and removed our clothes, pretending that stripping naked in public was somehow normal. Importantly, we applied copious amounts of sunscreen, especially to flesh that is rarely exposed. It tested my ability to appear nonchalant while smearing suntan lotion on penis and scrotum.
After a bit of amorous snuggling, we took to reading the books we brought along. My gaze sometimes wandered to my lover, sometimes to the shorebirds, sometimes to the naked bodies around us. I did not find naked people eating sandwiches, throwing frisbees, and herding toddlers as sexually provocative. Instead i found myself categorizing male and female body types, breast shapes, and suntans.
The sexiest scene of the afternoon occurred when a late-teens woman wearing a bikini walked the length of the beach between dozens of naked people. Nearly every man, woman, and child turned to watch her passing. That was sexy. Go figure.
In time, nature called. It was time for me to pee into the surf as everybody else eventually had to do. The protocol required that urine was not to be seen so people walked out a short distance into the surf to relieve themselves. Most of the women shrieked as the bitterly cold water hit bare skin. The guys pretended that they were not aware that the water was icy as their genitals retreated into their lower abdomen.
Some ridiculous vanity or absurd desire to avoid embarrassment led me to pretend that i merely wanted to go swimming and bodysurfing. So i fought through the surf until i was swimming just beyond the surfline before attempting micturition. For me, peeing in cold cold water is not comfortable. It kinda hurts a little and it takes longer than i want it to. The choppy water kept splashing over my head until there came a point when i decided that i’d peed enough while treading water even though my bladder wasn’t entirely empty.
I turned back toward the shore and was surprised to see how far out i was. I launched into an energetic Australian crawl but a wavelet sloshed into my mouth and left me coughing. I even swallowed a small amount of salt water. I tried the side stroke with slightly better success. After a minute i stopped to assess my progress. Not only was i no closer to dry sand, i could tell that i was moving northward through the cove and, if i did not get clear of this current, would be swept out of the cove and past the rocky point into open ocean.
I doubled my efforts at the side stroke while aiming across the current and straight for the beach. I quickly tired, took another fix on my position, and saw that i was still further from shore and further north. My arms ached. I tried the breast stroke. I aspirated more water. The shore continued to recede. This was seawater, damn it. It is denser than swimming pool water where i can comfortably back float and yet i was struggling to keep my head above the surface.
My reality became clear. I needed saving by others.
I shouted, “Help,” over and over again while waving my arms. It was quickly obvious from the lack of people’s reactions on the beach that my shouts could not be heard over the crashing surf. Also, much of the time i could not even see the beach and the people there because of ocean swells mounting and crashing shoreward of my position.
I was hit from behind by a wave, momentarily driven under the surface, and choked on more seawater. I recovered and returned to waving and shouting. A muscular fellow on the beach looked my way! He noticed me and my waving! He then turned and walked slowly away up the beach. No one else noticed. And then i could no longer see the beach as another swell raced past. My situation became dire in the extreme.
||**
When the beach again became visible, i kicked myself high and waved vigorously. No response. Nobody is coming for me. It’s up to me. I can do this.
All i need to do is remain floating as the current carries me out of this cove and into the next. Damn, again aspirated a bit of saltwater but coughed most back out.
The current must curve back into the next cove to the north where maybe it will let me get to the shore there. Must not exhaust myself; save strength for the next cove.
Rough swell and my head is below surface. Stay calm; use measured strokes and kicks. OK, head clear. Damn, sucked in some water again! Gasp. Cough. Gasp. Cough.
Water surges over my head again. Stomach cramping and my muscles suddenly go weak. I’m sinking. Can’t get my arms and legs to work right. However, it’s calmer down here. I can wait.
Seconds pass and my body is shrieking for air. I can ignore that feeling and wait. The column of water rises and falls and sunlight down here breaks into bright lines and sparkling points. I can wait.
Thankfully the cramping subsides and my arms and legs are again under my control. I shoot for the surface, take a gasping breath of pure air, and immediately a wave shoves me back under.
Again my stomach cramps and again my arms and legs refuse to cede to my will. My body is out of my control. Unexpectedly i’m retching and exhaling precious air. After a few seconds the retching stops and my body gasps in a lung-full of seawater.
My ears are ringing. My whole head is ringing and i have no control of my body. The grey-green sparkling water turns grey and dim. Mom holds my head as i puke into the toilet. She assures me that i will be OK. And then i can no longer hear her.
Sherry was all too aware of her full bladder but she could not go into the water to relieve herself while carrying her purse and David was God knows where. Looking around, she sized up the people lounging nearby. She decided on a couple in their thirties, got up, walked over to them and said, “Would you mind watching our stuff while i go pee?”
“No problem. I’ll join you. Mick can watch your things. I’m Susan.”
As they covered the short distance to the water, Susan said, “There was a guy with you earlier. What happened to him?”
“Probably chatting up some girl somewhere. I don’t think this is the best place to bring a boyfriend.”
Susan laughed.
**||
When the beach again became visible, the same fellow was looking my way again from higher on the beach. I kicked myself high and waved as vigorously as i could. He hesitated a few seconds and then sprinted toward the water. Maybe i wasn’t going to die today!
I side stroked toward him knowing that in reality i was merely slowing the speed that i was receding. I choked on water that sloshed past my lips and my swimming briefly became random thrashing. I gasped for air and returned to my sad attempts at a side stroke.
He reached me surprisingly quickly and asked, “Do you need help getting to shore.”
“Yes, please.” My voice was shrill and conveyed my desperation.
“OK. Hold onto my shoulder with one hand. We’ll swim together.” He turned toward the shore.
I grabbed his left shoulder with my right hand and we started for the shore. As we fought through the choppy water, our naked bodies buffeted against one another. I felt as though i should apologize; explain that i wasn’t trying to come on to him. I realized – given the circumstances – that my concern was ludicrous in the extreme.
My left arm soon ached horribly as i stroked with it. My scissor kicks kept hitting his legs. He stopped and said, “Don’t keep kicking me. Just use your free arm.”
“Let me trade sides. My arm is cramping.”
He helped me switch over to his right side and we resumed. I got more mouthfuls of cold seawater but continued doing my best to help this guy. For a while it seemed as though we were making little progress. Abruptly we were upended by a crashing wave that pushed us tumbling toward the shore. My rescuer lifted me to my feet. We now walked on the loose cobblestones near the shore as the angry surf swirled around me and tugged hard as though it was reluctant to give up its prize.
Even with his assistance, i could barely walk clear of the ocean foam. I expected to see people cheering the rescue but apparently nobody had noticed. No one paid us any attention.
Finally there was warm soft dry sand beneath my feet. We were on the last bit of beach at the north end of Devil’s Slide. Beyond were jagged rocks jutting into the Pacific. I dropped to all fours and retched. He knelt beside me and asked whether i was going to be OK. I assured him that i needed a minute and i would be fine.
When breathing became less spastic, i turned to him. “I thought you weren’t going to help. I saw you turn and walk up the beach.”
“Yeah. At first i didn’t think you were in trouble, but then i realized that if you needed help and i didn’t at least go out, well . . .”, his voice trailed off.
We exchanged names. His was Jonathan. I offered to reward him for the rescue. He refused. I thanked him profusely.
He waited until i was able to stand by myself and we parted. Emotionally drained and with barely enough strength to walk, i passed unsteadily the length of the cove between naked sunbathers and back to Sherry and our blanket.
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