When I first was divorced, I took a solo Caribbean cruise. I had not traveled alone -- ever -- so it was a bit of a coming out for me. One of our stops was the lovely island of St. Maarten, a delightful tropical paradise half French and half Dutch, swathed in white sand beaches and swaying palms. Instead of booking a shore excursion through the cruise line, I got off the ship, hopped in a cab, and boldly said, "Take me to the closest beautiful beach!" Now I'd never been to a nude beach, and always told myself, in that brave place we all have in our mind that doesn't always measure up in real time, "If I ever found myself at a nude beach, and I didn't know anyone, I'd totally strip down." I know for a lot of you this is no big deal but keep in mind I'd been married for all of my adult life in a very conservative marriage where nude beaches just weren't ever in the mix. I mean, my husband was a deacon in our church and gave sermons and led the choir before he chose to 'venture out' in our marriage, so you can imagine what a safe and secure little life I'd lived up to that point. So as I wandered out onto the beach where my taxi driver left me, I quickly noticed of course I was the only one clad in clothing. Oh dear.
Oddly, it wasn't long before I felt out of place wearing clothes, and trying to stay true to my inward promise of bravery, I slipped out of my beachwear, trying to act like it was no big deal because I'm cool and do this all the time. However, my arm got stuck in my swimsuit top and I had to writhe a bit to squirm my way out of the tangle of strings, breaking out in a cold sweat of embarrassment hoping none of the naked people noticed. I immediately went horizontal and lay there very still, in what I hoped was a very discreet manner, if one can be discreet while naked in public, on my towel, trying not to notice anyone or be noticed, very aware of my whitey-white tan lines where my suit had always been. Within minutes, my heart racing in my church-girl-turned-wild moment, I heard a low, groveled voice, way too near for comfort, saying, "Would you like to go snorkeling?" In a panic I looked up and there was an extremely aged man (I won't try to name a number but let's just leave it at 'very old', from the looks of 'things'--trust me, I tried not to look, but it's not as easy as you'd think), with a kind smile, holding two sets of snorkels with one set extended toward me. Everything in my conservative, prim self wanted to roll up in my towel and start digging in the sand toward China, but if you've ever gone through a divorce, you understand the need to step out of your comfort zone and try new things, just to regain your footing again and figure out who you really are. So I accepted his gracious offer (one he most likely offers to every young girl with too much white skin in all the wrong places who shows up on that beach.) He took my hand, and led me toward the water, and after we donned our masks and snorkels, took my hand again and swam with me out to sea. Though there was nothing about his nakedness that was the least bit attractive, I was a bit worried about his dangling gear looking appetizing to the schools of colorful fish we were surrounded by, but that wasn't my problem, right?
Long story short, he was such a gentleman, and the experience was so very freeing. Swimming in those turquoise waters, barefoot and bare-skinned and bare-souled, was an exhilarating expression of daring inhibition. I wanted to send a postcard to my ex with a photo of the stunning Caribbean sea with nothing written on it but the simple statement, "Today I snorkeled with a naked man." and leave it at that. I didn't. But the afternoon left me feeling bold and brave and beautiful, and was a huge step forward in discovering my adventurous and wild-at-heart spirit that only new experiences can help one uncover.
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