As a small-town Mormon gal, I didn’t get much chance to see a lot the world has to offer in my youth. So as I got older and enjoyed more diversity through travel, I was curious about a few cultural practices.
This would include nude beaches. I have been to exactly two.
My most recent nude beach experience was when husband and I traveled to Greece after I graduated from college about five years ago. Europe is pretty much swimming suit optional, so I didn’t exactly seek out the beaches.
We were there in early June, a little early for the season. This may have been the reason for the people variety there, or lack of it, but let me just say from my limited experience: the nude people on beaches are generally NOT the people you want to see nude.
What I’m saying is, there was not a Jessica Alba or Ryan Reynolds to be found.
To wit: There we were walking along the gorgeous black beaches of Santorini, when I looked away from the water gently pulsing up onto the beach and saw something that will forever scar my innocent mind…
There was above me a woman likely in her 60s, lying on her back. I saw boobs drooping to her sides and under her arms, a large rising belly, and…wait for it…
A pose that can only be described as gynecological. If there were stirrups, her feet would have been in them.
It was all I could do to keep from running fast and far with my fists pushed into my eyes while screaming, “MY EYES!! MY EYES!!”
Scarred. For. Life.
Experience two: For our tenth anniversary, husband and I saved and scrimped for a trip to Kauai, Hawaii. In preparation for the trip, I purchased a book called “Hidden Kauai.”
You know. To see what the dumb tourists don’t see.
This adventurous spirit almost resulted in our deaths, by the way. A snorkeling trip gone bad in which we got caught in a rip tide where no one was there to write it down. Another story, another day.
SO. I saw in this book that there was a nude beach off the beaten path.
Come on. You would have done it, too.
So we drove and drove, until we found the mile marker next to the sugar cane field that eventually led us to “the beach.”
This was no easy place to find. We finally arrived there, found a spot away from everyone way up on the side, and laid out our towels to worship some sun.
There weren’t many people there, and to be honest, I was still a little nervous to look around. We, of course, were fully suited.
Don’t be ridiculous.
So I’m lying on my back with my eyes closed, and after just a few minutes my husband says, “We need to leave.”
“This is a gay beach.”
“You’re just jealous because they’re aren’t any women here.”
“Open your eyes and look.”
I leaned up onto my elbows and beheld… Men.
Lots of men.
And these men weren’t charging into the water full of testosterone and with a purpose. They were…
Frolicking. Skipping. Playfully splashing each other.
Quickly we gathered our few things and skulked off like the stupid tourists we were.
I can honestly say, without equivocation, that my thirst for all things nude is QUENCHED. Drowned. Choked. Strangled.