A promise or Warning

Arno Bohlmeijer

As crooked as beautiful, the naturist area is cleverly sheltered, but never deserted. Forest Lake has full green banks and coves among miles of woods and fields. Motorboats are not allowed, and the parking lots are out of sight.

On divinely quiet days the odd cyclist or hiker will roam and retreat. On public holidays fun-makers are clumsy in hired rowing boats, on surfboards and plastic waterbeds, tumbling and shrieking ‘from far’, with peeks at the nude people, who may venture through the fences of plants and reeds. Careful, don’t lead ‘visitors’ into weird temptation! A glimpse of a tanned bum or “something even better” can drive them hysteric.

Inexperienced windsurfers are amusing, when a breeze brings them to this haven by accident, and their shyness is visible, trying to steer away, swaying on their wet bare legs, especially when swim pants are sagging from all the antics, and no hands are available to pull them up. Headstrong eyes can stray, unless they get stuck in a makeshift little path through the reeds.

Today it’s an oasis of warmth and peace with half a dozen others: two couples and a man who does forceful backstrokes, his body glistening and splattering on the line of water and sunshine.

All is perfect, until voices come pealing over the lake, from swimmers who have no idea how loud and far sounds are carried and amplified over water. They must have swum a mighty distance without island or lifeguard, now puffing and crying out – after losing the way or aiming for this patch?

Four bobbing heads follow the fragments of male voices. “Naked... A break... Take them off... Go back... Sorry... A desert island... Allowed... Sticking together...”

Guilty giggles are smothered by their panting and masculine gasping.

“I can touch the bottom here.”

“Thank God.”

“Just sit and pause.”

“Or have a proper break.”

They tiptoe onto a strip of sand and roughness at the foot of my bushy bank. They clamber up among the shrubs into this mini community, who read, draw, doze, and take spins into the woods or the water.

It’s gratifying how they sit down timorously with their backs toward the six of us. We continue our fine times, and those four young men lie low on the grass or a log and tree trunk, in their soaking swim pants, whispering and looking away. Their gleaming backs will only be turned for boldly wondering glances over the tired shoulders.

They prove to be bright and polite athletes, their shining bodies full of strength and promise. What are they: A-level or College students? They appear to appreciate our friendly or let-be manner, and two handsome ones advance into the revealing sunshine — because they need to get warm?

The taller one gazes my way, shies aside, looks a bit more. He gets up and saunters along the shallow part of the water, first with a dropped head, then watching me again over the lower shrubs, not sneakily, but short instances. He moves a log and throws a pebble, side-stepping some plants.

As he paddles in my direction, I give him a smile of solidarity, or consent, or general content. He wades back — half reassured? — and moves loosely, even when he walks on a sharp twig, which he picks up and flicks into a bush, ‘baseball style’.

As he squats down, turned away, I might stroll over by the bank, not to stir their nerves or mine, but to have a congenial chat, for example about the distance they’ve swum —

Have you trained for this? Was it longer than you thought? Are you afraid to return? Do you know how deep the lake is? Let me get you something to drink or eat. Come and have a rest on the dry grass – my patch. Keep the muscles warm; watch out for cramps! I’ve got spare towels. Are you fit enough to swim back so soon? If this wasn’t the plan, you might prefer to go on foot and skirt the lake. There’s a pretty path, I can show you the way to a picturesque bridge...

 Perhaps the one of them would gladly accept that, and I’d love to accompany him along some secluded bush tracks. What shall I wear or not wear?

But respectfully I stay put, keeping my eyes on them, and regretfully they leave a few minutes later. Getting to their lithe feet, they stretch the rested limbs, shake them awake and take deep breaths, for the return crossing.

My special anonymous friend is tarrying — it’s barely noticeable — and I wave a hand with a nod, which could mean anything. See you next time! He takes a while and puts a hand up with a smile — faint or gut-warming. Is he waiting for me to persuade him?

He may find the way back here someday, on foot or all wet again. I’m bitterly mad at myself, brooding over missed opportunities. Why didn’t I stall or delay, to slip a note into his thick hair and smile: keep it dry! Or memorize my number — a nice challenge.

In hindsight I’m sure there was a rare and enticing depth of mind and emotion! Ah, why did I have to be so careful or considerate and slow? Alright, let’s enjoy some prospect rather than staying cross.

Apparently this angry madness of mine is bad energy attracting worse: new tumult on the lake is horribly different, stupidly crude. From losers or bullies? Three weak he-men in their childish twenties are pedalling a dingy, heading for ‘the juicy nudies’ and not masking their mood. They roar and fall from raucous fun. ‘Better watch our flesh, guys, or they’ll have it raw.’

I don’t think they can see us yet, but they’re clearly taking care that every word is heard, as if rehearsing a farce performance for the stage of mystery desert islanders —

“Come on then, beauties of nature, give us some skin! That’s what you’re here for, right?”

They double up and topple into the water with shrieks of ‘fear’, to scramble their ways back into the wobbly dingy, producing extra ugly noise.

Previous peace has turned in its grave. Feeling safe as a group at a shrewd distance, they drama-dare one another and slip their trunks off, hiccupping with jittery snickering. They hold their crotches, make monkey sounds and give Tarzan yells. Next they pull up their tawdry pants again and ‘sigh from relief’, crying out —

“Can we take your picture, please?”

“Very artistic! And not for TikTok, trust us!”

“Or we’ll get you on The Net as large as life! I’ll be your very personal agent.”

Are they drunk or something? They stumble overboard again, but now their feet find the bottom and take a few steps toward the “savage” shore. One of them comes quite close, another clings to the boat, pulling it ineptly.

My vexation on the rebound could reach boiling point, caged for brief ice-coldness. I walk to my mates in fate and say in a muffled voice: “We can go and teach them. The six of us against three, all feeble from their phoney fun…”

We could be helped by the element of surprise, but it’ll need to be quick and drastic, overwhelming. We’ll improvize and trust our team spirit.

I pretend to have a tentative swim, playing timid and fearful, testing the ‘cold water’, going past the first ‘mark’, to skirt the second and steal behind the boat.

They’re caught off guard alright. My dare-devil act gives them opportunities too good to be true! Maybe they’re pitying me as an easy prey. But no longer one front, they begin to realize their disadvantage for each to act separately.

Seeing my moves, the athlete on the grass gets up. He doesn’t follow me, he heads for the other side of the intruders inconspicuously, to slip into the lake and swim a bypass to the young man in the middle. The nearest one is growing uneasy, throwing bewildered looks here and there.

As my target has been red-herringed, I walk up to him and say, “Keep still, or I’ll slit the boat.”

He might laugh in my face or raise hell, so I add, “I’ve brought a pen knife, and it’s pretty sharp.” I click it open. “Even if it won’t survive the boat-stabbing, it would have served a good purpose, fully worth it.”

After a small if telling swallow, he could protest fiercely, so I beat him to it and sneer, “Shut up or call my bluff.”

What’s there to lose? I would actually be capable of slashing the rubber thing to shreds, and he seems to know it. Of course it might ruin my future place in this idyllic refuge. But I’m not exactly being rational. I was too much of that before, and look where it got me!

“Alright,” I growl with more and more confidence, “you’ve made it to the naturist patch – congrats! You can act accordingly now, so feel free to take your clothes off and put them in the boat.”

As he’s gasping and goggling, I proceed. “What’s up, you did aim for this beach and stopped here, correct? So what’s the fuss? It’s no big deal anyhow, since you’re up to your waist in water, and there’s nothing much to see in the first place, is there. Save the boat and be a hero!”

The knife underlines the possibility and makes it all feasible.

After freezing, then brushing his sweaty forehead, he takes the shorts off and throws them insecurely. Then he doesn’t know where to leave his hands or himself.

My partner in crime can see what’s going on. He makes for the second guy and gets both his arms, while the two couples have reached the front man, who struggles courageously before being restrained.

All three are invited to step ashore, helped by the mere sight of my scissors. Here they sit now, crouching to cover some parts that are not used to broad daylight at all.

“So,” I smile, “you were eager to join us and you’ve achieved that; well done! How does it feel?”

They don’t know what to do first: shrug and look down, fume and smile, hide what they can... Our group resolve tells them it’s no use to put up a fight.

“OK, folks, you wanted to be the center of attention, and here you are! Why try to make yourselves small? And what about us: are we as expected and hoped for? Come on, have a proper look!”

Some of us prance around like rookie models, swaying our hips theatrically.

In a casual voice I go on. “At least you won’t be needing these here.”

We throw the clothes into the boat. “Shall we set it adrift? Hm, not quite sure yet. Would you make it back swimming all the way?”

My colleague actors pick up their lines —

“How long are you staying for? You haven’t brought any food or towels, but you know what, we eat the grass here. We’re completely primitive, as you presumed, back to rough basics. Be our guests!”

“Yes, do make yourselves at home. You can stretch on the lush field and let every inch of your big-boy bodies absorb the warmth to the full. It will help!”

“We have all the time in the world. Some of your flesh has never felt the sunshine before, as far as I can see. So make the best of it, really invigorating. The all-permeating air contains piles of vitamins, for your physical and mental strength. Keep it up, gentlemen! What are your names?”

They’re too rattled or angry to answer.

“Or are you dying for some exercise?” the athlete suggests.

He continues under my admiring eyes. “Would you care to go for a run or do some tough men’s yoga? Sure, knock yourselves out. Here’s an example, this pose is called ‘the warrior’, really suitable for you, see: strong and proud. Just follow and focus, feel the muscles glowing — for the first time in your life, is it? Where’s your stamina? Not collapsing already, are we? Come on, get the satisfaction, let’s hear the body squeak or creak. If you keep it up, you might swim back after all, maybe later today, after a reviving stay here, rather than a ride by ambulance.”

“You’re not going anywhere soon, are you? We’ll fetch some food.”

They’ve grown meek from stress or pleasure. We can gather plenty of rolls and sandwiches, with snacks and drinks.

My sarcasm of vengeance is nearly spent. “Did you know: picnics are extra good in the nude. What are your names?”

“Darren.”

Who blinks.

“Wesley.”

Who sniffs and wipes his brow.

“Dave.”

He seems close to tears, perhaps from sheer relief or excitement.

Obedient or really hungry, Darren reaches for a sandwich and bends over quite close to me, needing a moment to choose from the abundant food. Then he leans back to enjoy it.

His mates watch him with mixed feelings, but when they’re offered goodies by one of the couples, they can’t refuse. Nor can they turn away now, and we all dig in like a dysfunctional family having a try-out of normality, with furtive glances here and frankness there.

After a gulp from a cooled can, I hand it to Dave, next to me, and he drinks it almost eagerly, as if the weirdness or desire can be washed away.

Outdoors, food can be so good that heavy things are lightened, and the majority of us are eating almost happily — dumbfounded by a reflective perspective?

In the end I’m not over-ambiguous, “About your clothes, they’re still soaked. We should’ve hung them on branches. But maybe it’s been worth it?”

The three musketeers gaze down the lake, where the dingy is floating away, taking the clothes. They jump to their feet and start running for it, but then they clearly remember their state of Adamness and know it’s a lost case anyway.

Unable to act, they wait here with a half-hearted laugh, between madness and mockery and surrender — to what? The strong but powerless bodies are trying to sink into the earth or keep up their firmness and dignity.

I bite my tongue on a thought: Hey Darren, let’s film this, only for personal use, not for Facebook or YouTube, as you said — trust me. I can’t stand the massive ego-bragging there.

If need be, in their no-shoes, would I dare go the miles around the lake naked, hopping from a sheltering tree to a covering bush, across open fields? Would I run into the police, unsuspecting hikers or sunbathers, or my true and new friend from earlier, returning for me?