2015.08.03 Independent
When Mark Haskell Smith joined a naturist cruise, he was alarmed by the brazen display of saggy, baggy and dangly bits. So, how did a 'cottontail' cope amid those bronzed bottoms? And why were his fellow 'nakationers' gawping at his manhood?
"We are safely away and you can now enjoy a..." There was a pause, as if the cruise director was having trouble choosing what, exactly, he should call what was about to happen. Finally he said, "...a carefree environment."
The announcement was still reverberating through the ship when the scrotum airing began in earnest; shorts and shirts dropped to the ground and penises dangled in the south Florida sun. Permission had been granted. Now buttocks could swing from side to side with no restrictions, and breasts – finally released from the prison of blouse and brassiere – burst into the open, to be caressed by soft tropical breezes. We were on a boat. One thousand, eight hundred and sixty-six nudists living the "anti-textile" dream.
Not that some of them weren't almost nude before the cruise director gave the all clear. Many were in various states of undress, itching to toss their clothes aside. A skeletal man in his eighties wandered around the ship wearing only a fluorescent thong, his loose skin draped around his bones in cascades that looked like freckled frosting, and a gigantic, barrel-chested man – he looked like he'd eaten an actual barrel – lumbered around the lido deck on an industrial-strength cane, wearing only a loincloth. A few people soaked in Jacuzzis, surreptitiously slipping out of their swimsuits, while the less rebellious sat by the pool, looking somewhat forlorn, waiting for the green light. These were nudists, after all. And they had paid big bucks to frolic in the buff. When the all clear was sounded, they didn't hesitate.
There are rules for being a nudist. It's not enough to drop your trousers and waggle your genitals in the sunshine. That might be fun – or, depending where you are, get you arrested – but it's not nudism. You can take off your clothes and run across a football field, but that's not nudism, that's streaking. Jump in a lake and frolic naked with several of your friends? That's skinny-dipping. Fun, but not nudism. Even bathing in a Japanese onsen isn't nudism. Yes, you're naked and with other naked people in a hot spring, but after you've cleaned and refreshed in the cold plunge, you get dressed and go out for ramen. A nudist would eat noodles naked, with other naked people.
Various groups have different agendas and interpretations, but they all pretty much agree that nudism is a social activity. If you're alone, you're just naked, but if you are in a mixed group of men and women engaged in the conscious practice of standing around in the buff, then you are a nudist practising nudism.
I had never been on a cruise ship before – I'd never even been interested in being on a cruise ship – but this wasn't just any cruise, this was the Big Nude Boat, a special charter offered by Bare Necessities, the premier "nakation" (a portmanteau of "naked" and "vacation," but you probably figured that out) travel agency. Not only that, the cruise was on board the Nieuw Amsterdam, one of the Holland America Line's more luxurious ships, which meant this was the deluxe version of non-sexual social nude recreation. Meaning nudism. Or naturism. Depending on who you ask. There are several theories floating around about which word means what – historically speaking there are some actual distinctions – but the reality was that I was on a boat with almost 2,000 people who weren't wearing clothes.
I am fascinated by subcultures: the Deadheads and Juggalos who have built unique cultures out of following their favourite bands as they tour the country, the amateur mechanical engineers who build robots in their garages, the home brewers who experiment with beer in their kitchens and the foodies who eat at illegal restaurants in people's homes. People do strange things. They collect stamps and watch trains, they dress their pets to look like famous characters from movies, they dress themselves to look like anime characters, they go to conventions in woodland animal costumes and have group sex in "plushie piles".
All of these activities have their own culture, a network of people who speak a specific kind of lingo that outsiders don't understand. I'm especially fascinated by subcultures that are deemed morally suspect or quasi-legal: the people who pursue their passion even if it means possible imprisonment or stigmatisation by society. I can't help it. I like the true believers. The fanatics.
My first nonfiction book was about cannabis connoisseurs and the underground botanists who source heirloom varietals of marijuana from all over the world. Cannabis culture has a rich history, filled with colourful characters. These are men and women who defy oppressive anti-drug laws and good-naturedly don't give a fuck about societal norms. It wasn't much of a leap for me to become intrigued by the world of nudism. Or as my wife said: "First you're stoned all the time and now you're going to be naked? Why can't you write a book about cheese? You like cheese."
The loudspeaker on the ship crackled to life and the cruise director added a caveat: "I would like to remind you that you must wear a cover-up in the dining areas." Which didn't really keep anyone from being naked in the dining areas. Or in the bars. Or anywhere for that matter. They were naked on deck and in the screening room, the library, the casino and the buffet line. Nudists crowded around the piano bar and requested songs by Elton John and Billy Joel. The large theatre where stage shows were presented was filled with naked men and women. They were in the elevators, walking down the corridors, playing ping pong, lifting weights in the gym, and guzzling cocktails by the pool.
In the fitness centre someone asked the ship's in-house yoga teacher if people had to wear clothes in the yoga classes. The teacher gave her a curious look and then, as the true reality of the question sunk in – what I can only imagine was the image of a roomful of naked people doing downward-facing-dog flashing through her head – her face bloomed in panic and she said: "Oh yeah. In the class. Clothes. You have to wear clothes."
