Nudes And A Wet Suit

Several years ago I visited my married brother Don who lived in a very small community on the Northern California coast. He announced he was going skin diving. His wife Karen asked in passing where he’d planned to go and as she heard the name of the beach she said something about it having a problem. But Don didn’t care and he left. She and I hung clothes in the sun then she asked if I would take a ride with her.
“Of course, where are we going?” I asked but she was elusive. She drove us south on several forested roads up and down hills for maybe ten minutes and eventually parked behind Don’s truck and along with several others on the narrow road. In fact cars parked just off the black top on both sides and there were about fifteen vehicles all together.
Karen and I waited and when I asked why we were there she just barely held back a snicker and said “Just wait.” A few minutes later some people who’d hiked themselves up a very steep hill from the beach got in their cars slammed their doors and drove off almost burning rubber.                                                                                                                          I asked, “Are those people angry?” Then after a few more cars were loaded and doors slammed shut I knew for sure they were upset and asked, “Why is everyone so angry?”
Finally there were only two cars left; we were in one and Don was still diving so his was the other.                                                                                                                            Karen said, “It’s a nude beach. The nudist can’t stand for anyone in clothing to be with them on their beach. When a diver comes down and puts on his wet suit the nudists get huffy, dress and come up.  Its the best diving beach in the area so many divers use it and always ignore the nudists but they get angry every time.” Karen started the car and drove us home. What a great story teller. She tells it the way I like to write. She didn’t tell, she showed me.

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