Musings on Social Nudity
A Young Family Figures out the Naturist Thing
Part Two of our naturist story
We were never a nudist household, but nudity at home was never frowned upon either. It was simply a non-event of everyday life. But we had most certainly identified nude recreation as an essential leisure activity, adamantly reticent to forego such pleasure for the next twenty years until the kids were grown and gone.
We rolled up to the guard shack that officially marked the end of the road, just a few miles up a one-lane track behind the middle-of-no-place municipality of Middletown, California. Just as we were advised on the phone, an attendant was there to ask us a few questions while we filled out an application for the Heart Consciousness Church, the parent organization of Harbin Hot Springs.
We paid the annual membership fee — maybe five bucks back then — along with an additional tariff for day use, and the guy with pseudo dreadlocks waved us on through, advising us that we were only allowed to park, or smoke, in designated areas.
On this Saturday afternoon, the parking lot was nearly full. We had already read about the guiding principles of this New Age commune hidden in the hills above the Napa Valley, likely in a leaflet that had been sent to us by U.S. post since I’m certain a place like Harbin didn’t have an internet presence before the advent of Windows 95.
Back then, you used things like guidebooks and folding maps to chart out the course for adventure. About all I can remember from our research is that nudity was all but mandatory in these natural, spring-fed pools, but allowed and encouraged on the nearby deck where nude sunbathing was apparently the norm. We gathered our picnic provisions from the back of the car and made our way up the hill with a shared sense of apprehension. What are we getting ourselves into?
By this point, I suspect we were four or five years married, which meant we were undoubtedly paying a princely sum to a high-school kid to watch our one-year-old daughter at home. This was a decidedly new approach to our desire to enjoy naked togetherness. We had made several long treks — many of which were less than successful — to the nude beaches of Santa Cruz where our car would, most times, drift into an impenetrable fog bank just at that moment we should have caught sight of the ocean.
Sunbathing on a nude beach loses its luster if the sun is nowhere to be seen. But at least by this time, I had caught up with my wife on navigating the nuances of social nudity, whether that be mastering the art of conversing with naked people or ameliorating those pangs of arousal that are all but inevitable for a young man forging his way through a sea of shimmering flesh.
Back at Harbin, the climb up the hill from the parking lot was steep enough to quicken our breathing. Maybe that accounted for my heart racing as well. Several little domiciles were positioned on the embankment to the left, while an impressively large yurt situated on the right apparently served as a social hall and main teaching space. A small marquee advertised workshops that included words like Tantra, Tai-Chi, and self-realization. We passed a few folks, colorfully dressed in loose-fitting drapes that were exactly what you would expect of those who were likely the offspring of people who made the Haight-Asbury famous, back in the day.
At the top of the hill stood a historic old lodge pressed into the steep mountainside, with a wooden staircase that wrapped up the hill toward the pools. A sign at the top of the stairs denoted the expected decorum — Silence Please — as not to disturb those floating, meditating in a Watsu position in the quiet pool, or simply taking the world in, one deep breath at a time. “Silence” was a loose definition, I guess, as several nude bathers gathered in the corners of the pool, deeply immersed in whispered conversations. Seems the intended ambiance was more important than enforced rules of obedience.
Trying my best not to stare at the naked contortionists in the pool, Charlotte (my wife) noted a dressing room to the left — just one — with an adjoining toilet concealed only by a pair of shuttered swinging doors like those you might find on the passageway to the kitchen of an old tavern.
More aptly, the undressing room, had a couple of benches down the middle, several large wooden cubicles for rucksacks, beach bags, and the like, and a plethora of small lockers, few of which were locked; most lacking any sort of security device at all. Others had simply been left ajar. Mutual trust was apparently one of the main tenets of the Heart Consciousness Church.
I was about to ask Charlotte if this is when and where we get naked when a nude woman in her 30s walked in, towel in hand, proceeding to dry her hair less than a meter down the bench from where I had positioned my belongings. So much new information to absorb as the paralysis of a new experience had taken its grip. I had learned the rules for visiting a nude beach, but a communal, unisex changing room was a new threshold.
To me, this is one of the most enticing elements of travel, especially when you’ve established the itinerary yourself, intended to be executed without a guide. Who writes the Idiot’s Guide to wander into an Asian street market for the first time? Or, finding your way across a small Greek island when you can’t read the language because you don’t even recognize the characters of the alphabet.
Or my personal favorite — pausing your tour of Istanbul to visit a Hammam, where all the directions are delivered in a series of grunts and hand gestures from a burly old guy who looks like he might sever your spine if you inadvertently turn the wrong direction in response to one of his guttural commands. (Did I miss the book release of Hammams for Dummies?)
It’s that simultaneous sense that something extraordinary is about the happen. But only if you don’t fold under the pressure, snatching up your belongings as you dash through the looking glass back into the world of the familiar and predictable.
Charlotte broke my trance. “Shall we take this one?”
She had already begun stuffing our belongings into the storage space near her feet, had removed her jeans, and was beginning to unbutton her blouse. No fear of arousal here, but instead, a tinge of nausea as I started to disrobe in what was evidently a co-ed changing room. Shortly thereafter, another hippie-ish couple came in behind us, well accustomed to the routine. By the time I had my shirt off, they were naked and out the door.
Leaving the dressing room adorned in strategically placed towels, it was only a short walk to the quiet pool, requiring a brief ascent up several steps before lowering ourselves back into the water that had been tempered to remain just above body temperature, giving you the sensation of wrapping yourself in a perfectly warmed, form-fitting blanket.
There were several pools at Harbin, each one attenuated to the natural temperature of spring water as it flowed out of the mountain. A little cabin next to the quiet pool housed two large tubs, roughly the size of a typical jacuzzi, but each about five feet deep. One was filled with cold water you might experience if you’re brave enough to jump into snow-fed Lake Tahoe, while the other was just one degree short of scalding… Maybe!
The idea was to fully invigorate the body by alternating momentary experiences with each of the extremes before returning to the calculated mix of just right in the quiet pool. Apparently, this scientific method had been developed some hundred years before when early entrepreneurs from the Bay Area had found a way to draw the wealthy and eccentric up to the mountains to bathe in these healing waters burbling from the depths of the earth.
The resort had burned to the ground at least twice over the past century before it was purchased by a guy known in the community as Ishvara, who brought with him a cohort of friends who would turn this land into the spiritual oasis that it remains today.*
*In 2015, Harbin Hot Springs fell victim to the California wildfires, burning completely to the ground. They have since rebuilt, and have reopened to the public. Until the devastating fire, we would return every two or three years on a pilgrimage of sorts. I’ve been back once since the reopening. The new facilities are gorgeous, but I suspect the surrounding hillsides will remain scarred for years to come.
I remember that first soak in the quiet pool as if it were yesterday. The water was crystal clear, and when you looked down at your body, you’d see hundreds of little bubbles clinging to your skin, presumably a byproduct of the minerals and fresh spring water freshly released from the earth. There were probably a dozen people in the pool, standing neck deep along the perimeter, some with eyes closed as if in a deep state of mediation, some gazing aimlessly to take in the sensuality of it all.
In the middle, a Watsu instructor was helping a middle-aged woman levitate at the surface of the water. We had just joined the Heart Consciousness Church with very little idea of what that implied, but no question, we were feeling very conscious, with our hearts and bodies feeling very much alive.
I tried out the circuit of subsequent dips in the cold and hot pools, letting out a shuddering growl from the depth of my being with each plunge. The audible gasps of other bathers following suit became a predictable cadence amidst this silence that, otherwise, was only punctuated by the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds.
As we climbed out of the pool, we spotted the clothing-optional sun deck we had read about in the literature, found a corner, and marked our space in the universe with a blanket, books, and a few picnic provisions. If you read my previous story, I suspect you might have imagined us — my wife and me — within a rather average demographic construct. Not hippies. Not athletes.
Not stunningly beautiful or ruggedly handsome. Be neither of us as nerdy and awkward as we had been in our adolescence. But here, among the enlightened of heart and free of spirit, we felt as though we had been transported into another world where the species had evolved into a different state of being.
A small circle of friends was having a good time with body paints made from organic ingredients like the indigenous fruits and berries of the California coastal mountains. Another couple was taking turns practicing the techniques of massage on each other, which in this context seemed particularly sensual and personal, though they had no apparent qualms with their public display of affection, nor the inherently intimate qualities of deep touching.
Behind us, a single young woman lay on her back, deeply entranced in her book. Most everyone was naked. It appeared nobody was even remotely self-conscious, except for us, as we were trying to wrap our heads around the norms and expectations of this alternate reality.
In accordance with the small wooden sign hanging in the undressing room, none of it was overtly sexual. Both drugs and alcohol were expressly prohibited on the property, and regardless of the resplendently casual regard to human nakedness and sensuality on full display, this wasn’t the land of free and communal sex.
That said, we rarely spent a day there not feeling a sense of total renewal, including that of a reignited appreciation for our physicality together. Traditional literature about naturism and nudism goes to great lengths to drive the point home that social nudity has no inherent sexual undercurrent.
At Harbin, we found such ideals a bit less believable — not that the people were having public sex, or even purposely seeking to stimulate one another in a sexual way, but instead, appearing to accept that all things natural should be totally embraced and celebrated.
As our family of three was rapidly augmented with the arrival of twins, escaping the demands of our suburban, professional lives became ever more difficult, but even more necessary. When fortunate enough to indulge, the perfect Harbin day would involve a mid-afternoon arrival in time for a preliminary soak in the sacred waters, then a long walk in the woods — more often than not wearing shoes or sandals and nothing else — a picnic on the grass, then a return to the pool as the sky turned dark.
Dim lighting and a dazzling assortment of candle-lit lanterns created an ambiance of pure magic, and we found the tradition of the locals of quietly locking in a silent embrace to be one of immense emotional intoxication. Those visits to Harbin set a very high bar in our quest to feel fully alive.
I don’t think Charlotte could have ever imagined that telling me about her nude beach experiment during college would have set me on such an intense course of obsessive aspirations to experience the world altogether. Maybe it’s just a guy thing, though there most certainly is a correlation between my general disposition in life that “if you’re going to do something, you may as well shoot for the stars!”
The wild card at this juncture in our lives was the three small children at home, and deciding if we were going to subscribe to the regimented societal norms that insist that parents must protect their children from the perils of seeing the unclad human body, or if we were prepared to inculcate them in our altruistic belief that a nose is a nose, an elbow is an elbow and a penis is a penis.
Body parts have real names and they all serve specific purposes, albeit different purposes at different times. To us, the nuance of child-rearing was teaching our children how to read the dynamics of any particular situation to determine the corresponding appropriate behavior within that environment.
We were never a nudist household, but nudity at home never frowned upon either. It was simply a non-event of everyday life. But we had most certainly identified nude recreation as an essential leisure activity, adamantly reticent to forego such pleasure for the next twenty years until the kids were grown and gone.
We could have taken our kids with us to Harbin, as some parents did. And for that matter, I don’t remember why we did not. We probably knew that having children in tow may have been less than compatible with our quest for a day of total relaxation. We were yearning for a few hours to snooze in the sun and soak in the mineral pools. If we were going to embrace the family naturism thing, we’d have to find another outlet — one that catered to, well, family naturism!
I think Americans like to think we’ve come a long way since the repressive ideals and social constructs of the 1950s, but ironically enough, if there was ever a time when family-oriented social nudity might have taken root in American society, that was it.
When people crack jokes about “that nudist colony down the road,” the accompanying mental image is quite likely derived from concepts emigrants brought with them from Europe. This was intended to be the progressive era to set the standard for all progressive eras, and the social nudity part was intended to represent healthy living and body acceptance, all the while encouraging people to nurture genuine relationships based on vulnerability and truth.
Pioneer nudists envisioned a Utopia where clothing would be optional and becoming one with nature would be key. Here and again… that worked out, but never as well as it did for our European counterparts.
By the time we were traveling with children, the glory days of the nudist colony — if such ever truly existed — had largely dissipated, made ever the more complicated by the prevalence of blended families resulting in new paradigms mandating that raising a child now requires consensual agreements between all parental/guardian units, and typically mediated in the court of law. (How does one convince your ex that clothes-free recreation is a good idea?) Thankfully, that was one barrier we didn’t have to contend with.
If our kids ever resented our desire to pursue social nudity, they never let on. It was so much the norm from the time they were born that I don’t think they ever noticed. Psychologists say that children will find a way to tell you when and if they feel uncomfortable with family nudity, and even into adulthood, ours knew they had the license to do so.
But those same experts say that kids establish their own comfort level mainly from the prevailing attitudes of the adults in the home, each child establishing their own personal threshold for modesty. Such values related to honesty and communication were an important staple in your home, whether pertaining to nudity or other aspects of the human experience.
But finding a place for a naturist outing or a clothing-optional vacation destination? That was another matter altogether.
By the time our kids were old enough to be aware of their surroundings, we had moved to the east coast, where we explored several “nudist resorts” that had enjoyed reputations as bustling centers of family recreation back in their heyday. But by the late 90s, the children of the nudist colonies, and their children too, were grown and gone.
For our children, besides splashing in the pool and trying not to hurt themselves on rusty, dilapidated playground equipment, visiting the nudist camp was sort of like visiting the grandparents. Somebody else’s grandparents — which meant, hanging out with the old folks, but devoid of the incentives of treats and hugs, lots of cool toys, and the coveted indulgent behavior typical of a doting grandma.
The outcome? If there was truly a vibrant place for a family naturist vacation to be found on American soil in the 1990s, we never found it.
Thankfully, a friendly dude on the archaic Compuserve message boards (rec.nude) told us to check out family naturism in France where we’ll find everything we’ve imagined and so much more. Of course, my reaction as a young teacher with a family of five was, “France? How the hell are we gonna take the family to France? And even if we do, do you really think we’re going to spend our precious time in Europe in a naked place?
I would like to think this sets the underlying narrative of my future essays here on Medium, reiterating that I didn’t choose to contribute to this forum simply in my zeal of advocating for social nudity. Some readers are into that. Some readers may be curious about that. Some readers would never even consider that. That’s all good.
In the subsequent years, we learned how to save all our spare change and frequent flyer miles for two years at a time with the express purpose of experiencing family-oriented naturism in France, which changed the course of our lives in ways we could have never anticipated. Suffice it to say, our children took to naturism that was never quite rooted in the United States.
And as a family, our collective curiosity about the rest of the world became an obsession for each and every one of us. (I write this as one of our daughters, now in her 30s, is about to move to France for two years to pursue graduate school. We’ll meet her at a — clothing-optional — spa in Amsterdam later this fall.)
As this goes to cyber-print, I’ve just begun work on an extended series of essays that may one day find themselves stitched together in a book of some sort.
Will it be a book about naturism? That will certainly be the recurring theme, but only as that is part and parcel of how we have set forth to discover the planet that lies beyond the madding crowds outside the Lourve or those clamoring through the streets of Venice. The marriage of naturism and world travel has led to several epiphanies in the course of our lives. Here are a few of the most profound.
· Our naturist travels have pulled us far, far away from the roads frequented by deluxe motor coaches packed with noisy tour groups. We’ve never thought that a way to experience the world, but rather, those are devices designed to summon the world to experience you.
· They say that naturists (or nudists) are invariably friendly. We’ve found that largely to be true, leading to innumerable happy hour conversations where we heard some of the same stories playing concurrently on CNN, but from a completely different perspective. A long conversation in the pool of a boutique naturist hotel with an Israeli street artist comes to mind about the impact of her art in the ever-complicated political dynamics at play in Tel Aviv. Nothing is more illuminating that seeing the world through another person’s eyes.
· But if there’s big one take-away from all our naturist doings, it most certainly finds its essence in those early Harbin experiences, where all things natural (and genuine) should be totally embraced and celebrated. To see the world through those eyes is a unique perspective that we scarcely recognized ourselves at the time, but is conspicuously absent in these days when travel in these days when international travel has grown increasingly difficult.
I’m eager to share the stories of that unfortunate taxi ride in Saigon where I got stiffed for sixty bucks, or meeting that naked psychology professor in Croatia, or struggling with the language barrier at a barbecue in Uruguay. How about that day I sat wondering if I’d been abandoned in a small village in Thailand, or learning about American politics from a naked guy wearing a MAGA hat in Arizona during a heated election?
None of these stories are expressly about naturism, but I doubt I would have any of them to tell had I not developed an insatiable desire to embrace and celebrate the world with all the vulnerability one can muster, either physically naked or at least, metaphorically… eager for total exposure.
I hope you will follow us inthese pages that document the ever-evolving journey of our naturist meanderings.
I write about naturism, travel, and other parts of the human experience simply for the joy of writing. Totally worth it. But every time somebody spends time reading one of my stories, I earn a few cents to help pay the overhead costs of being a blogger. It’s only a few dollars a month to subscribe to Medium, which gives you access to thousands of authors and their work. And if you subscribe by clicking through the link below, I receive an incentive for that as well. Support naturism and thoughtful writing. Subscribe to MEDIUM… below. :)
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