Excerpts from
Strange Days Indeed
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From Introduction:
Earth Haven, Mount Shasta Isle
2061 A.D.
"Why are those people wearing so much clothes, Grampa?"
I could guess which picture he was gazing at without looking up from my potting.
"Well, that's a long story, Zak."
"Couldn't you tell me a short story?"
I laughed. "Not easily, no."
"Was it a costume party?"
"No, I'm sure it wasn't."
My four-year-old great-great-grandnephew was pouring thru the tattered photo album that'd survived the global shift intact. Our extended family was out puttering in the solarium, enjoying an unseasonably warm November day on our island village.
It was too nice a day to wear clothes, so we weren't.
The album brimmed with family photos, some going back to the 1870s. The black-and-white picture I was sure piqued his interest showed a family reunion of my great aunts and uncles on my father's side, circa 1900. Standing woodenly by a lake shore on a nice - if not downright hot - day, they were mysteriously draped in reams of heavy dark cloth. Every younger person seeing that photo invariably asks the same question.
"They sure look like they'd be happier without all those clothes on, don't they?" Zak said more than asked.
I agreed absently as I transplanted a batch of velvety tricolor violets to a waiting flower bed.
I heard him turning more pages. "Now, they look happy," he said. Curiosity peaked, I shuffled over. Again, I was almost certain I knew which picture he was looking at; I was right. He was gazing at a 1930s-vintage photo of Zep, my great-uncle on my mother's side, along with friends: They were wearing no clothes, peacefully sitting on rocks beside a creek, faces wreathed in smiles, as if safeguarding some wondrous secret. He flipped back to the first picture (I was right about that, too), returned to the second, flipped back to the first again. "How come they're wearing so much clothes?"
I stopped work awhile and tried explaining how things were in the old world, how Uncle Zep and friends were the rare exception; that, apart from bathing and playing a favorite grown-up game in the bedroom, most everyone kept their bodies covered, hidden from each other and themselves, regardless of weather or place.
"Huh? Hide our bodies? That sounds silly. Why do that?"
I'd thought about that question plenty over the years. "There were lots of reasons. Like I say, it's a long story. That's just how things were."
He had a sudden thought, as if hoping to explain their odd behavior. "Were they playing hide-and-seek?"
I chuckled. Maybe Zak was on to something. "You might say that - but they weren't having much fun at it. It was a serious game. So serious, people who didn't play by the rules could go to jail."
Second excerpt:
Thru a website I connected with a naturist travel agency that booked Nuela and me on a week-long nude cruise thru the sun-drenched Mediterranean.
My first cruise ever, we boarded the older ship with 300 other passengers, mostly Spanish, at Barcelona. We sailed out in balmy June weather, over the week visiting Ibiza, Corsica, Rome and Nice. Way under-booked, the ship bristled with as many crew and workers as there were passengers; you couldn't take two sips of coffee without an attentive waiter, geared up for serving twice the people and feeling idle, asking if you wanted a re-fill.
Not having to dress for dinner was fun. Altho ho-hum now, then it was a waking dream. We left our stateroom fully nude - no footwear even, thank you - walked the carpeted length of the ship, went up three stair flights and cross the open deck to reach the busy buffet room. We selected our food from the serving line's bountiful choices. (We were both still lacto-ovo then, or we might have been skeletons at the feast.) We sat around ocean-view tables, after first spreading obligatory towels on our chairs, and enjoyed our meal among others- naked and clothed alike, no one blinking an eye.
Getting to play the lounge's ebony grand piano naked between scheduled room use was another treat. One day a Spanish woman with her little one, both naked, came over; she sang along as a ventured thru "Morning Has Broken." It began to feel that maybe it really had.
Nuela was amused - and a bit concerned - how enthusiastic I got over the opportunity to be as naked as I wanted. I tried keeping clothesfree around the clock on board, even when we sailed away from our last port-of-call, Nice, towards sunset. Cold gusts buffeted everyone who came out to the stern deck to bid the French coast adieu - mostly nude.
"Put some clothes on, sweetie; that wind must be cutting you to the bone," Nuela said, hugging herself to keep warm.
"Nah, it feels good," I lied, gritting my teeth and clinching my muscles like crazy to stave off the icy blasts of the legendary mistral winds. I was among a dozen diehards who knew it was our last chance for outdoor nudity and sun rays on the voyage. As the French Riviera with its impossibly-rich blue waters receded in the distance we weathered the buffeting gladly, perhaps feeling galvanized for being near a land of historically greater body freedom.
Next year, on a decadent whim, we went on a "Happy Cruise" with the Carousel line. I know, I should've known better, and Nuela had her doubts, but I was curious about them. Of course I'd gotten spoiled silly my first cruise, where one could be naked, anytime, anywhere except the formal dining room; now I'd have to stay wrapped up everywhere, all the time, except in our cabin and the sauna.
Maybe, like Hesse's Steppenwolf character, I felt a wayward fascination revisiting the bourgeoisie lifestyle of my past - sort of a weird sentimental journey - maybe only to remind myself why I'd forsaken such a somnambulistic lifestyle in the first place.
We sailed out of New Orleans a half year before that fabled musical gem of a town was devastated by Hurricane Katrina. Our destination was Jamaica. "Golden Unicorn" was a brand new, 3,200 passenger capacity, half-billion-dollar floating resort, averaging seventy-five feet to the gallon of diesel. The ship bristled with dazzling decor and offered luxurious, if sometimes tacky, features at every turn.
We especially loved the generous-sized wet and dry saunas in the separate gyms, even if they weren't co-ed. Most users, hewing to the textile mindset, kept wrapped in thick white towels in the sweltering chambers; we didn't. As I sweated away, I'd gaze out over the blue Caribbean Sea thru the dramatic all-glass end wall of the men's sauna, catching for the first time a setting sun's last light flashing green a second before dipping below the horizon. Nuela caught it too, next door. We could've tapped out Morse-code on the common wall but neither of us knew any - dash it all.
Naturally it struck us as absurd couples couldn't experience a sauna together and share such natural wonders their adventure of a lifetime vacation. In other ways, the ship experience was not as carefree as advertised. Flocks of people got pretend naked on the Lido deck in their skimpy swim suits to soak up the subtropical sun; to go further and remove the tiny, strategically placed pieces of cloth would've made many passengers happy indeed - were it not for the certain knowledge ship's officers would swoop down on them for their effrontery.
Of course, the only people on board who could bare their bottoms were the revue dancers in the nitely Las Vegas-style floor shows. Seated passengers got pleasantly toasted while watching them cavort thru schmaltzy if spirited singing, flashing their flesh, turning systemic body suppression into risque spectacle.
We were effectually being told, "We hope you enjoy our tastefully naughty productions, but please don't try this on board or you will be left at the next port-of-call. Thank you for your cooperation, and enjoy the cruise. Blackout bingo at ten in the Purple Pony Lounge."
