September 1996, Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts

By Pete Cummin

Gazing across the Atlantic Ocean, its waters swirling at my feet, I felt both connected and free.

It was late September on Martha’s Vineyard, and for the first time in my life, I was standing on a beach completely nude. I was Primitive Man, and it felt great … right up until I heard “Peter? Peter Cummin?”

My first instinct was to let out a girlish scream and cover myself, but since this was a “clothing optional” beach, I knew that would be a faux pas. If you step out of the shower to find someone in your bathroom, by all means scream. You are “naked.” But here, you are “nude,” and there is a difference.

Naked implies vulnerability, while nude says you are comfortable in your own body. I, of course, would have to fake it. So as my mind rifled through its rolodex of paranoia – Who could it be? The Police! The A&P checkout girl! A giant talking crab! – I casually turned around to see Janice Davis: 50 years old, tanned, toned, and also nude/naked.

“Hi!” she said, giving me a friendly wave.

“Hello Mrs. Davis,” I said, staring directly into her eyes. “Ready for tomorrow?”

“Well, I’ll be able to answer that better, once I talk to the caterers this afternoon,” she said.

Unbelievable. If I had simply run into someone I knew, I could have chalked it up to bad luck, but Janice Davis had the added distinction of being the mother of the bride of the wedding I was attending the next day – a wedding that was the sole reason why I had come to Martha’s Vineyard. I don’t know who’s in charge of meetings like this – God, Saint Happenstance, Mr. Lucky – but I hoped that at least he or she was having some fun.

Then, turning to a naked and much younger man standing next to her, Mrs. Davis said, “Peter, this is Bradley.”

“Hi Bradley.”

“Hi Peter.” Then both Bradley and I hesitated, unsure of what to do next. With all the books and magazines devoted to the dos and don’ts of weddings, none talk about the proper etiquette when meeting naked wedding guests. Allow me: DON’T SHAKE HANDS.

Unfortunately, Bradley and I didn’t know this. So we each turned sideways and extended our right arms as far as they could possibly go, before leaning in just enough to allow our hands a quick greeting. It felt completely awkward, like something you might see painted on an ancient Greek vase (”Achilles meets Hector at Troy”). Naked men are like wind chimes; we shouldn’t be put next to each other. Period.

Even worse, immediately after the handshake, I became aware of the fact that I had hands and now had nowhere to put them. They were like two giant meat hooks, swinging at my side. If I put them on my hips or behind my back in the military “at ease” pose, I’d look like I was trying to display my wares (and after emerging from the Atlantic in early autumn, I can promise you that I wasn’t). Crossing my arms would look defensive, and clasping my hands in front would look like I was trying to either (A) hide myself, or (B) block a free kick in a nude soccer game.

Fortunately, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my girlfriend, Michelle, in waist-deep water, trying to sneak out to sea. At last, my arms had a task! Waving them above my head, I shouted, “Michelle! Come here! I have someone for you to meet!”

I felt bad outing her, especially since she hadn’t wanted to get naked in the first place. She was fine with topless, but the Full Monty had required a little extra badgering on my part – “If you keep your bottoms on, you might as well just say ‘I’m a transsexual with something to hide.’” Nonetheless, I had to do it. If not for my hands, then for the fact that I couldn’t let Mrs. Davis and Bradley think I had actually come to a nude beach alone.

“And this is my ‘Plus One,’” I announced as Michelle approached, completely stupefied that I had done this to her.

“Hi Michelle. Janice Davis.”

“Davis? Are you with the wedd…?”

“Well, funnily enough,” I interjected, “It’s Mrs. Davis’ daughter who happens to be getting married tomorrow.”

As Michelle and I walked back to our towels, one thing was abundantly clear: we’d be skipping the receiving line the next day.

Despite the surly tone and questionable morals expressed in his writing, Pete Cummin is a graduate of Harvard University. All his stories are 100 percent true and, when studied as a whole, offer the astute reader a practical theorem as to how a Harvard diploma can one day metamorphose into a beautiful piece of scrap paper. This story first appeared in Martha’s Vineyard Island Weddings & Celebrations in 2007.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, July 5th, 2007 | Email This Post

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