BY Alan Gorsuch

Sixty three of us attended a wedding in Cancun, a few years back. The whole ordeal was the better part of a week. We staryed at a spread-out tangle of all matching two-story-type rambling haciendas. Our room occupied a bottom floor.

On our first day there, after settling in, most of us are in the dining area for dinner. Bill, the granddad of the groom, turns to me and says, “Hey Alan. That place right next to us is a nude resort. You might wanna … you know…”

“Yeah, thanks, Bill; I’ll look into things over there.” I was to eventually learn that, in Mexico, all beaches are public property. Anybody and everybody is allowed access to pass. But I didn’t know that when I slowly moseyed slowly past the beach scenery on my initial reconnoiter, I just kinda breezed through, feeling sorta… no - completely, out of place, because I was wearing shorts.

Just before crossing through, on their beachhead there was a sign warning the faint of heart: “If you are offended by nudity, please go back!” and “If you enter - no cameras, please.” And there was also, always a gruff-looking security guard. Otherwise, the general pubic - I’m sorry I meant public, could just wander through. Any riffraff could; that included me.

In reality, though, this was not a busy beach; very little traffic. And on either side of this resort were large vacant tracts of undeveloped property. An overturned rotting hull of a boat lay up shore on the first tract I passed. So this place could’ve been almost called secluded, of sorts.

The second time I strolled through and then back that first day, I took a little more time to keep an eye on things, but I still felt awkward, because I was nothing more (less) than a voyeur. That sure as hell didn’t stop me though.

Day two of our stay, my wife says, after lunch, “Hey, honey, let’s walk down this way,” motioning towards my newly-discovered Mexi-Eden with no annoying fig leaves. So, hand in hand, off we go, for our sunny seaside stroll.

Before long, we near the warning sign, but she’s not looking, because some guy got up off his beach chair headed for the cool wavelets nibbling at the silent, peaceful surfside. There appears to be something dangling. She sees the sign (the one on the entrance post.) After reading that she concludes: “Alan! This is a nude beach!”

To which I quite surprisedly, exclaim “It is?”

She wheels around, “Let’s go back.”

“We should prob’ly check it out; whatta we got to lose?”

“Our clothes.”

“Okay with me.”

So that part didn’t happen, but we did do a casual beach walk past all the nature folk, freely unencumbered from fabric of any kind; only sunshine, shadow and sand. I noticed how very calm they were and peaceful. She seemed very nonplussed by the whole scene. She never went back - I don’t think - but I did.

The next day, I stuffed my shoes and socks under the old boat hull next door and walked down that way in the gentle surf. I stopped to watch a volleyball game; knowing O’m an interloper. And an unpaid, uninvited “guest.”

Soon the security guard approaches.

“Uh, senor.” As he makes sort of a “no-no” motion with his hand. Then he points at my shorts and follows with a whisking motion, making it clear that I was welcome to stay and watch the game, or anything else I wanted to, as long as I contributed to the nudity.

I’d always thought I would enjoy nudity, and here’s a rent-a-cop telling me to get with it. Being one who always tries to follow the rules, [Rriiight. Ed] I got out of the water, went up shore to the derelict shipwreck, and deposited my societal shackles next to my shoes, along with my inhibitions. I walked back down to the water’s edge waded in to my knees, and exhaled. I had never felt more free. Up till this moment I’d never had the balls to try it.

Back to the volleyball game. Some of the people are quite athletic, quite graceful as well. Paradoxically, though, it’s hard to not notice how some body parts seem to be disconnected from the game; some things look like they could come disconnected and fly off, completely. In fact, here comes a loose ball now.

The very beautiful late twenties brunette who’d missed a near out-of-bounds “save” had knocked the volleyball right at me. It hit the water hard and drifted right to me. I pick it up.

Here she comes, laughing, splashing through the shallows, in slow motion. White teeth, braces, tan, with each stride an alternating breast rises up near her lovely chin. Ravel’s “Bolero” plays in my head. Bo Derek had the misfortune to wear a swimsuit.

Apparently, I look too weak to toss it to her. I am, indeed, in thrall. I am at this moment her prisoner. I couldn’t help thinking… the last time I was naked young goddess of her caliber running at me in hot pursuit of anything I held in my hand was… let’s see…Oh! That’s right! NEVER!

Here she is, right in front of me, I extend my arms with the ball - she thanks me and splashes away. I need to find some deeper water - fast.

And I have enjoyed being a nudist ever since.

Do you know that there have been studies undertaken, and they’ve learned a person’s blood pressure at a nude resort can be 2 to 7% lower than when clothed?

This essay is an excerpt from Alan Gorsuch’s fourth book which has not yet been released, “Sure, it’s Funny Now Vol. II” He is also author of “All the Ways I Found To Hurt Myself” Vol. I and II available at Sanford & Son Antiques.