Nudists are all around us, except that much of the time they dress like everybody else. However, there are certain places, namely beaches, where it’s easier to differentiate between dyed-in-the-wool nudists – or should I say card-carrying nudists? – and the more puritan of the population.
I belong to the latter demographic, and my swimwear conforms to prevailing community standards; these standards are presently marked by knee-length hemlines, if you can use that term for menswear.
Recently on one of the Vineyard’s up-Island beaches, I found myself wandering among people whose swimwear showed no hemlines at all. In fact, there was no swimwear to be seen.
I suddenly became conscious of where I was looking. You certainly don’t want to peer at unattired humans with the eyes of a drill sergeant searching for dress-code infractions. For one thing, a nudist dress code is an oxymoron. So I forced myself to soft-focus on the entire beach scene, to take in these people in their altogether all together, favoring neither female nor male, tanned nor untanned, shipshape nor out of shape. If anyone came too close, I redirected my gaze to some patch of skin closer to the horizon. Gawking at squawking seagulls overhead was a default option.
Soon I was distracted by some nudists attempting to create sculptures out of precariously balanced rocks. I stopped by one individual and admired the patience and delicacy of touch this activity required, and we became engaged in a conversation.
When not contemplating the sculpture, I was careful to look that person straight in the eye. But you cannot stare a stark-naked interlocutor in the eye forever. So I let my gaze stray discreetly in another direction and managed to ascertain that the artist erecting the stone sculpture was of the male variety. This discovery confirmed earlier evidence I had gathered from another feature of his body, namely his beard.
My contact with the sculptor prompted me to wonder how I would recognize nudist friends sunning themselves facedown on their beach towels. Though the occasional tattoo might offer a telltale clue, to recognize friends with any assurance would require the kind of scrutiny that could brand me as a voyeur. Better to stroll along anonymously, I decided, and simply enjoy the view.
