The Nude Beach
By Gene Aronowitz
I ogled secretly, breaking the primary nude beach rule.
I was visiting a couple of friends who were sharing a beach house on Fire Island with four others. We all had meals together and, later that evening, at dinner, I announced, with considerable fanfare, “Tomorrow, I will be nude on that beach.”
That statement had hardly drifted away from the table when my stomach began feeling oppressed with regret. I envisioned all six of them sneaking out to the beach, hiding behind a sand dune, and gaping at my middle-aged body. I missed most of the rest of the dinner conversation, imagining their facial expressions and ribald remarks behind that dune. Sleep, that night, was intermittent.
As I pulled my chair out to sit down for breakfast the next morning, I said, “I’ve decided not to go to the beach,” a declaration that had no effect on the flow of the table conversation, leading to the inescapable deduction that no one had any interest in my original plan.
But, armed with the knowledge that I didn’t want people looking at my nude body, it was with colossal ambivalence, two years later – voyeuristic interest accompanied by great apprehension - that I agreed, to go to a nude beach with Linda, my future wife, whom I had met just five months earlier. She was invited to a party on Long Island and thought we might first stop at a beach she had enjoyed. She had been particularly impressed that there was an unofficial mayor, an older man who, when present, gave all the first-timers advice about safety and nude beach curtesy.
Once I parked the car, we had to walk about a half-mile on the boardwalk, past the various regular beaches. While walking, the top of Linda’s bathing suit came down a little and I felt embarrassed, apparently projecting my lack of comfort onto Linda, who obviously had become part of an us. I briefly doubted my resolve to go on with the day as planned, but I had agreed to go and continued walking toward the nude beach.
When we arrived, I insisted that we sit at the part of the beach furthest from the ocean, far away from all the potentially prying eyes. I removed my swimsuit in a swift single motion, falling back and down while lifting my legs and pulling it off, quickly covering my genitals with both hands.
We decided to go swimming. The unofficial mayor, who Linda had told me about, was not there that day but, had he been, I think he would have advised against going into the water because of the high waves and turbulent surf. I wished I could have made myself somehow invisible as we wound our way down through the crowd to the water. The concern I had felt back on Fire Island erupted like a boil. I avoided eye contact as we walked but worried that I had become the beach’s star attraction.
Once in the water, I waded out until it was deep enough to avoid penetrating gazes. Thus protected, I had a great time, riding the waves and frolicking in my nude anonymity. Linda was further in, becoming fearful of the strong surf. She was facing the beach when she heard the roar of a huge wave, twisted her torso around, but her feet remained stuck in the soft ocean floor. She was hit by the wave, and fell down, unable to get up. I ran over to help her, my legs pumping wildly, the water spraying in all directions, drawing considerable attention to my bare body.
Linda couldn’t walk, said her knee seemed like rubber. I had to drag her to the beach and then, with her arm across my shoulders and my arm around her waist, she hopped all the way back to where we had been sitting. Heads turned, following our progress, like a wave at a football game. I imagined that every eye on that beach had converged on my penis.
When we sat down, people came over to offer advice particularly about putting a cold wet towel on her knee. Focused on Linda and her needs, my concern about my nudity seemed to evaporate. I walked all the way to the water, wet one of our towels, and walked back. I had to return to the water a few more times and, as I looked around, I was surprised at how banal and almost boring the bodies on the beach had become.
When her swelling and pain had diminished somewhat, I walked to the closest of the regular beaches, of course, dressed in appropriate beach attire, where I found an off-duty lifeguard and told him about our situation. We hopped on a dune buggy, drove back to get Linda, and then returned to my car.
We went to a hospital where it was determined that Linda had torn the anterior cruciate ligament in her knee. She was fitted for a brace and given a pair of crutches. We stopped at the party briefly and then, drove to my apartment. Linda was unable to operate the clutch of her stick-shift car. I said I would drive her wherever she needed to go, so she decided to stay at my place.
That was August 2, 1986, the first day of our lifetime of living together.
