NOT A STITCH ON

I didn’t know about the nude beach.

My plan was to hike north for ten miles following the coastline through the Assateague Island National Seashore and that part of it known as the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge, then camp for the night in the designated campground.

Right after I left the parking lot, I headed out along the ocean, away from the main section of beach with lifeguards that is there for public bathing.  After a few minutes of hiking I was astonished to find the beginnings of a nude beach, hundreds and hundreds of naked people, maybe even a thousand naked people, beachgoers of a different persuasion, scattered along the coast for a half mile or more. 

This sight did not deter me.  I had come to hike and hike I did. 

I was prepared to hike for two days.  I had my frame backpack on my back and sturdy shoes.  I was ready for a desert experience out on the sand, protected against the scorching sun.  In fact, I was completely covered up and shielded against the sun, fully clothed with broad-brimmed sun hat, hat tied under my chin, long-sleeved shirt with sleeves long enough to cover the tips of my fingers, etc.

I felt a bit self-conscious, with me attired the way I was, and the nudists all attired in their birthday suits.  I felt conspicuous.  I felt so different.  I felt like I was being stared at.  I tried not to look at them.  After all, that wouldn’t be fair as I was not going to reciprocate and shed my clothes.  I was relieved to see other hikers going along the beach – at least I was not the only one who was dressed!

Now I realize the nudists were probably glad to have the occasional hiker passing through.  It gave them an opportunity to be exhibitionists.  You can hardly be an exhibitionist when everyone around you is also completely bare.  You need an audience of at least one fully-clothed person; the bigger the audience the better from their point of view, no doubt.

It wasn’t at all the experience I had envisioned:  just me, the sand, the wilderness, and the wild horses of Assateague Island.  I wasn’t really offended by the nudity.  But it did seem weird to me.  This all happened long, long ago.  The nude beach was never authorized and at some point the park service got rid of it.  On my map it appears they converted that area into a “Youth Group Camp.”

Was I tempted to shed my clothes and go skinny-dipping in the ocean?  No.  Even miles from the nude beach I didn’t have the feeling the park was private.  I could see a tent peeking out behind a sand dune – someone camping illegally away from the designated camp ground.  Doubtless there were more tents.  Also there was a helicopter that went zipping overhead periodically, maybe tours for viewing the wild horses?

I learned a lot on that trip – that you don’t want to almost run out of water ten miles from your car, that you don’t want to be out in the open at night in the midst of an electrical storm, with only a pup tent for cover, a tent that was not pitched on a high enough elevation, a tent with a small river running across the floor, a river oozing into your sleeping bag, in which you are trying to sleep, while the sky is lit by gargantuan forks of lightning, with lightning flashing for miles up and down the coast and out over the Atlantic as far away as the horizon, with thunder booming hour after endless hour.  I did sort of wonder as I lay there in my puddle if the metal poles of my tent could act as lightning conductors.  It was not the haven of peace I had envisioned.

On the way back I had to pass through the gauntlet of nudists again, and this time I was damp, disheveled, and limping from a sore foot.  I felt like I was on exhibit – me, on display for an audience of nudists.  I did look about a bit this time.  I noticed the couples arm in arm; the women clinging to their mates so possessively, and looking so smug and self-satisfied as if to say, “I got me mine.”  The men didn’t look unhappy, either.

In theory, I could have avoided the nude beach by going over the sand dunes to the parking lot, but I was not about to enter some wild area where I might not be able to find the trails there and end up getting lost and going in circles, and staying there forever, just me, the wild horses, and the clouds of mosquitoes that thrive just beyond the beach and tidal zone.

Some might say nudists are “sinners” or indecent.  I don’t know.  I wouldn’t want to encounter them at the grocery store.  But it does seem illogical for the park authorities to ban nudists and yet accept the type of attire prevalent on beaches these days – it is so skimpy that people might just as well be naked.  I’m talking about the string bikinis that are essentially just a bit of string and three postage stamps, and the bathing suits for men that are little more than a fig leaf.  Is a person so attired more “decent” than a nudist?  My feeling is that a few tiny bits of fabric might enhance nakedness more than conceal it.  Basically, I think people should be more discreet on beaches – a bathing costume from the 1890’s comes to mind (ha, ha), but I doubt that will come back into fashion anytime soon; not unless people become more mindful of the possible serious health consequences of too much exposure to the sun.

My desert experience out on the sand has helped me understand why in some parts of the world women don’t want to go out away from home unless they are covered head to toe in a cloak and scarf or veil, etc.  I assume that style of clothing has its roots deep in the experience of desert living where you need to be protected against the burning sun and desert winds.  On another day, on another beach, I experienced that desert wind.  A wind storm grew into a sand storm (as a hurricane came on) and I was sandblasted; stung by thousands of grains of sand each second – a rather painful experience.  In that ordeal, it would have been very useful to have been wearing a head to toe covering and a veil I could have drawn across my face.

I should add that those of us who have been around for more than a few decades, know the value of covering up and leaving much to the imagination (heh, heh).

I didn’t have the experiences that I thought I would have at those beaches long ago, but you know, if it had happened the way I’d planned, there would be nothing worth remembering.

Slide show and music on my main page.

-2007-

ADVENTURES IN CONSUMERISM

I have a pin that’s too lovely to keep in a drawer.

I have it up as a window decoration.  It’s one of those large pins you’d pin on a blazer or small jacket.  It’s not expensive; just a piece of costume jewelry, but so well designed, so intricate, so carefully made, and such a pretty star-shaped pattern that it’s a delight to behold.

I wonder about the assembly line worker who put together the parts of this pin; likely a very young woman.    Maybe she works diligently, spending her precious youth toiling in a cavernous room with foul air, alongside hundreds of other young women.  She can’t afford to buy one of the pins she makes.  She dutifully takes the pittance that is her salary back to the one room shelter that is her home, filled with a dozen or more relatives, including those unable to work, like her decrepit grandmother and alcoholic brother, all subsisting on a diet of rice and scraps of fish.  Now I don’t know if my pin was outsourced, since I’ve thrown away the wrapper, but allow me to have my flight of fancy.

I imagine the other people somehow involved in making my pretty pin, bringing it to market or selling it:

1. The corporate executive who outsourced this work to another country.
2. The loan officer at the bank who put up the capital for the venture.
3. The environmental official who granted the permit for the factory.
4. The one who built the foundation for the factory.
5. The one who installed the work tables there.
6. The one who cleans the restrooms there.
7. The one who designed the pretty pin.
8. The miner who mined the metal for the pin.
9. The one who made the mold for the metal back of the pin.
10. The one who soldered the clasp onto the back of the pin.
11. The one who glued the little acrylic “jewels” onto the metal back.
12. The restaurant owner who feeds the workers their lunches.
13. The bus driver who drives the workers to the factory.
14. The one who designed the plastic display packet and wrote the text for it.
15. The one who manufactured the display packet.
16. The one who stuck the pin onto its display packet and closed the clasp.
17. The one who put umpteen pins into a small box for mailing and sealed it.
18. The one who poured the metal for the big shipping crate.
19. The one who packed the big shipping crate and secured it.
20. The one who ran the crane or elevator to lift the crate onto the ship.
21. The ship captain navigating the vast ocean with pins deep in the ship’s hold.
22. The customs official inspecting the shipping crate full of pins.
23. The retail store clerk inventorying the pins in her computer.
24. The one who made the computer that holds the inventory.
25. The retail clerk who tapped on the cash register and put the pin in a plastic bag.

Well, you get the idea.  I wonder if I could come up with a thousand people who contributed in some way, no matter how indirectly or tangentially.  All labored mightily in a monumental and well-orchestrated production just to bring me this little piece of beauty.

Not everything I buy works out well.  I could be a lot more enthusiastic about being a consumer if there was at least a 50-50 chance of getting something I’m satisfied with.

I have a collection of phones that don’t work well or that barely work.  I’ll bet you do, too.  I’ve heard of planned obsolescence, but in the case of these phones, that’s probably giving the manufacturers too much credit.  To be fair, I won’t mention any brand names because my experiences might not be typical.  I’ll just say, “Let the buyer beware!”

Why is it so difficult to buy a phone that works well?  Now I’m not talking about a cell phone or even a cordless phone (I wouldn’t bring that technology into my home) – just a corded phone.  That’s not new technology.

We didn’t have problems like this 30 or 40 years ago, back when phones worked, back when you’d get handed a dinner menu on a plane, newspapers were not just entertainment, food was fresh and tasted like food, and people actually went out driving just for fun because there was no traffic congestion, speed limits were safe and enforced, and gas was affordable, etc.  That was back before you had to read an instruction manual to learn how to operate your purchase, a manual that never contains the one item of information you need to know.

If you have a corded phone that works OK, I sure hope you will let me know the brand name and model.

And while I’m fretting here that I don’t have enough of the right kind of stuff to fill my house, I think I’ll take a break and go make a donation for the homeless victims of the two recent Category 5 hurricanes Dean and Felix.

Slide show and music on my main page.

-2007-