Who Told You I Was Naked?
“And God said, “Who told you that you were naked?’” Genesis, Chapter 3, verse 11
We’re all pretty sure God’s voice sounds like, and this is a little dependent on our age relative to Creation, John Huston (“Adam, where are you?”- acting as if he didn’t know), or James Earl Jones (“Luke, I am your fa-thuh.”), or maybe like an amplified voice of a deep-voiced policeman.
I kind of believe God’s voice, this being pre-English, and, really, pre-language, probably sounded more like the language of dolphins, or whales. It’s not like I’ve heard God, but I have heard the recorded voices of John Huston, James Earl Jones, and an amplified deep-voiced policeman or two. “Do not get out of the vehicle.”
That is not really relevant to this story. Really.
And so it was, on a sunny-but-cold day, in an otherwise deserted parking area many yards from where I had been surfing, I was sort of half-leaning on the driver’s side of my mini-van, the vehicle pulled forward and tight against the shrubbery-covered rise.
I was at that most vulnerable part of the wetsuit-stripping process, getting the legs over and off the feet, the rest of the suit inside-out on the pavement. Because I was alone I was not wrapped in the iffy-at-best towel. It has been my experience that towels, held by body pressure against a fragile tuck, are prone to falling, fully, to the ground, at pretty much this exact moment, and, because underwear is (are?) just one more thing to try to get dry in the northwest cold/damp, I was naked.
Spiritually, technically, legally; my condition of undress was the very definition of ‘naked’ at the exact moment that the yellow school bus appeared. It had taken the two mile trip from the main road, obviously on a mission, had come down the last hill, and was just rounding the last curve onto the entrance/exit end of the flat, barely-wider-than-one-lane-dead-end-road/parking area.
I did say I was on the farther side of the van, right? Still, I was scrambling- pull, step, pull, my clothes on the driver’s seat. By this time the bus, still 75 yards away, was parking, parallel to the bank, and was unloading. “Towel, towel, where’s my towel?”
Now, I do believe I had a wool cap on.
What to do? Do I jump inside, most of my black non-superhero surf suit caught in the door, pulling my clothes over me, wait until the group passes?
No, in desperation I moved faster; bent down, yanked the now-knotted legs, one at a time, off. Now, it would be amusing if, at that moment, someone walking several dogs appeared from the beach side. Nope, not this time. Pullllll, pull, kick, get those now-bunched, now-clinging undies onnnnn!
Yeah, I was fine as the group approached; shirtless, maybe; embarrassing enough; rude, but not, technically, illegal. Did I mention I had a cap on? And, thankfully, the school bus had been filled with adults.
“Surfing, huh?” “Uh huh.” “You must wear a wetsuit.” I pointed to the dirtied, black pile. No more than one passing adult appeared shocked. Maybe two. The others, well, they were going on a field trip to observe beach wildlife.
An improvement in wetsuit removal I just learned, and not a second too soon, involves pulling the bottom of the legs tight, then slightly over the heels. The step-pull-step-pull method becomes so much easier, even with the tucked towel barely holding.
I did once have a terry cloth robe I could wear during beachside/roadside wetsuit removal. But, hanging it in a dampish garage to dry, it, instead, got sort of mildew-y. Besides, it kind of made me look like a pervert.
Thanks for reading.