Chapter 4

My two nieces had enjoyed the past few days at the resort. I'd feared they would get bored, but between Internet access and TV in the clubroom, a few friends they'd met including one girl whose parents owned a cabin on-site with a satellite dish, and the sports facilities, "I'm bored" was a phrase I never did hear. In fact, "I'm a dolphin!" would have been more like the truth — although that was another phrase they never uttered, at least in my presence. It was tough hauling the kids out of the pool for dinner.

Their mother was having a harder time. Unable to advise her boss intelligently — that is to say, without destroying her career — that she really WASN'T a naturist, she ended up on a multi-nation exercise in visiting naturist resorts. First, as related above, was Cap d'Agde. Then came the phone call from England. "And how are things going?"

"Great!" she gulped. "We're in London. At least we've got our clothes on. But tonight we're going to this health club..." her voice went down to a bare whisper, "a naturist health club ... I've got to get nude again."

"How's that corporate secretary doing?"

"Sally? Better. I talked her into joining me in the pool at Cap d'Agde. She and I had a nice long talk with a woman from Germany, a potential investor as it turned out. Made me feel better, anyway."

Ginny took another sip at what I could only assume to be wine, not having a video connection. "I'm getting used to this, but it's still a blasted freak show."

"And that makes you?" I teased.

"I know, one of the freaks."

"At least you're in good company — the head of your company, doctors, lawyers, professors..."

"I'm amazed at that. I never suspected there'd be so many from that part of society. I'd assumed they'd all be perverted low-life types."

"Actually, naturists tend to draw from the higher-educated echelons of society. Your daughters are hobnobbing with the offspring of some of the smartest minds in the state. In the nude."

"I'm trying to forget that, I'm still not comfortable with what I'm exposing them to."

"And vice-versa."

"Very funny."

"Well, enjoy London!"

And with that, I hauled the girls in to talk to their mother.

Another day, another city. "We're staying at a naturist resort in Warwickshire!" she reported the following evening.

"You told him yet you're not a naturist?"

"Hell, no!" she bit fiercely. "And I don't intend to!"

At this rate, I reflected, she would never have to — she'd be converted.

"And Sally," I asked.

"She's..." Ginny paused. "She's enjoying it, I think. I'm surprised."

I wasn't. Once women have a successful outing to a naturist resort, they tend to be hooked for life.

"Well, say Hello to Bill while you're there!"

"Bill?" She was instantly suspicious. "Another nudie friend of yours?"

"Shakespeare!" I responded. "You're near his hometown there — Stratford-on-Avon. Maybe you can see one of his plays while you're visiting. Say, The Taming of the Nude or Much Ado About Wearing Nothing."

Stalactites of sarcasm dangled from her voice. "Not exactly the same versions I recall from High School English."

"You had boring teachers."

As she sputtered in indignation, my nieces came over to chat with their mother. Their excited chatter managed to defuse the situation.

Finally, their trip touched down in North America. This was familiar territory to her ... or so she thought.

From Miami: "We had a big presentation in one of the big city hotels this morning, which seemed to go really well. Tonight, the boss is treating us to a trip to the beach!!" Ginny happily reported to us, as we gathered around the speaker phone. "We're going to a beach called Haulover. Oh, here's Ralph and his wife — gotta go!!" And with that, she hung up her end.

"Haulover." I sat back, snickering. Haulover is a large, public, clothing-optional beach.

"Haulover?" Sheila asked, amazed.

"Haulover?" Cindy asked, curious.

"Haulover?" Candy asked, skeptical. "Isn't that where Debbie's parents went with her last month?" Candy had met Debbie, who was about the same age as she, at the start of her nude camping vacation. Debbie had grown up in the naturist lifestyle.

"Probably, I seem to recall that they'd gone to Florida," Sheila responded. "Think your mom knows it's a nude beach?"

The girls giggled and agreed — probably not.

Six hours later, I received an e-mail with a nasty start: "Dear brother: I'm going to kill you. You should have warned me about Haulover." I guess I should tell the local coroner's office to have that revolving door installed. If Ginny kills me as often as she promises to, it would make things easier for them.

It had been about a week now since the two girls had worn anything more than flip-flops and sunscreen lotion. The tan lines were pretty well gone, which would probably excite some comment at Candy's school when they showered after gym class.

That weekend was this resort's turn to host the regional volleyball tournament. The place was suddenly flooded with naturists from every state in New England and beyond, to Atlantic and Central Canada and down as far as Virginia. The girls were in heaven, as many of the families had kids in tow the same ages as Cindy and Candy. We had surprise visitors that weekend.

It was the middle of Friday afternoon. I was sitting on a lawn chair outside of the trailer, letting the grass tickle my toes as I indulged in a nice refreshing soda from the resort's small convenience store and some light reading. A familiar voice suddenly called out: "George!" I looked up, stopping Sherlock Holmes just before he was to reveal what was so strange about the incident of the dog in the night. I'm sure Sherlock understood and forgave me.