Personally, I have nothing against nudists. Only they don’t like to be called nudists anymore. They think it sounds exhibitionist. 

The unclothed now prefer to be referred to as Naturists. I get what they’re going for there, but it also strikes me that someone could show up at a Naturist Colony with a butterfly net and be in for a big surprise.

 Oh, and that’s the other thing—the word Colony is also out of favor—it dredges up too many negative historical references. Instead of Nudist Colonies, Naturists now gather in Communities—Naturist Communities. 

“I love the warm sun and breeze on my bare skin…”

“It enhances my connection to the natural world…”

“It allows me to express myself, without the judgement that comes from the Clothing-Obsessed…”

I don’t mean to pile onto a culture war I never even knew existed, but the label “Clothing-Obsessed” not only feels judgmental, it also ignores some practical reasons the rest of us cover up—things like ticks, poison ivy, sunburn, mosquitoes, and hypothermia. And how is it fair for one group to adopt a cool new nickname, while labeling everyone else “Clothing-Obsessed?”

My crashing of a Naturist Community was hardly inspired by culture wars or voyeurism. It was purely accidental—at least on my part. 

It started with a boat trip from the Croatian town of Bol on the island of Brac, to Vrboska on the island of Hvar. It was a small boat by ferryboat standards—no more than 100 feet in length—but big enough to transport the twenty of us Americans, plus our guides and our bicycles. We parked our bikes on the lower fantail deck at the stern. 

Our pre-trip materials had instructed us to NEVER, EVER bring up the topic of the Yugoslav War, warning it could trigger violent responses. Yet when we first set sail on our island-hopping ferry, I found myself with others in the mahogany midship salon, listening to our guide Ivan talk about being drafted into the Croatian army, then, two years later, being forced to fight for the Serbs. Though he nailed the “Catch-22” irony of the situation, I could not dislodge the NEVER, EVER warning, and slipped away from the group to explore the boat.

I climbed a near-vertical ladder to the pilot house and stood in the doorway waving a friendly, care-to-show-me-around greeting to the heavy-set, grey-bearded man at the helm. Other than a Greek-style black cap with a stubby brim, nothing else in his khakis and t-shirt attire was remotely captain-esque. He enthusiastically beckoned me into the cabin as if he had been waiting for my arrival, and gestured toward the spoked wooden wheel, making steering motions with his hands as an invitation. 

I modestly shook my head no. “Does he think I’m twelve years old?” I wondered. 

“Da, Da, Da,” the man stuttered. Then he lowered his hand like a karate chop, sighting down his thumb and fingers, in the direction we were headed. “Da, Da, Da,” he insisted.

I squinted into the golden reflection coming off the Adriatic. There were several islands far ahead, too distant to know which channel he was indicating. But I figured no immediate route-finding would be required, so I took the wheel just to make the old guy happy. He beamed at my bravery, executed a small thank you bow, and exited the pilot house. 

To be honest, I would have hated if he had stayed, observing, and correcting my every move. But if he expected his little prank would make me nervous, he was going to be very disappointed. Both my grandfather and great grandfather had piloted Hudson River Day Liners, and I have big boats in my blood.

Scanning the horizon for ships or buoys, my thoughts drifted to my grandfather’s tales, in my mind plying the waters of the mighty Hudson…

Over 5,000 passengers throng the six decks of the Hendrick Hudson—over 400 feet of her on the waterline. Whole, eight-foot smoked sturgeon are stacked on the foredeck like cordwood, for delivery to New York. Tides affect the river all the way up to Troy, constantly reshaping sandbars which can be exposed at low tide. The navigational buoys only suggest the route; the color of the water is our true guide. As we approach Hyde Park, a small sloop sits at anchor to starboard. Several men are working an outrigger, hauling up jugs of water from artesian springs. It is said the Roosevelts take this water with them to Europe every summer.

I survey the meager instruments and controls at my command. We’re running at three-quarters throttle. There is no tachometer, GPS, radar, or depth finder. A brass gimbal compass indicates our heading is ten degrees east of due south. I’m guessing our speed is 15 knots, perhaps a little more.

A dozen of my fellow travelers lounge in the sun below me on the foredeck, several with beer bottles in hand. One of the women spots me and soon everyone in the group is waving, laughing, and applauding. By now the captain’s absence feels too long to be a joke…or a trip to the head. Perhaps he really did think I had arrived to relieve his shift. Or perhaps he wasn’t even the real captain and had been tricked into taking the wheel just as I had.  

I head the ferryboat toward the channel between a small island off our port bow and a large land mass—undoubtedly the island of Hvar—to starboard. The channel is about a quarter-mile wide, and I go straight up the gut, seeking deep water. The land passing by on both sides of the ship provides a truer sense of our speed. I up my earlier estimate to 20 knots and consider throttling back but discard the notion. We are flying, I am at the helm, and loving it. 

A squat, rocky bluff thrusts into the right side of the channel ahead, narrowing our passage. It is a sheer cliff of limestone. I shy away, adjusting our course several degrees to port, keeping the bluff well off our starboard side.

I’m busy waving and posing for my compatriots below, who are shooting selfies with me in the background, when I’m startled by a sudden resistance on the wheel. A meaty hand corrects our course back toward the cliff. I step back to surrender my post, only to watch our captain gesture toward the tip of the promontory and leave the pilothouse once again. 

Our new course strikes me as odd and perhaps a bit suicidal. If followed, we will just skim by the point. I adjust our course slightly to port to play it safe.  

The captain reappears and impatiently turns the wheel back toward shore. He points very emphatically, directing me to follow along the bluff. By now I am totally unsurprised when he again exits the pilothouse.

We are cruising at 20 knots, no more than 25 meters away from a sheer rock cliff. Logic and instinct are screaming for me to bear away, but who am I to argue with a man who pilots these waters every day? Plus, I do not wish to invite yet another, even angrier visit.

A sudden blur of motion and shouting diverts my attention back to the group on the foredeck below. Some people are waving and bouncing up and down as if possessed. Several women are pointing and shrieking, some are covering their eyes. Many of the men are staring as if spellbound. Everything about their behavior tells me we are about to crash. 

I start to wonder who in this situation is liable—the Croatian captain, who turns the wheel of his ship over to an unlicensed, untrained passenger? Or the misguided American, who agrees to operate a boat way outside his wheelhouse (to quote a tired and overused American metaphor)?  

Amidst the chaos below, one motionless figure grabs my attention. It is our captain, his forearms firmly planted on the starboard rail, as he calmly scans the shore. Then I see it—in a white-hot flash of cognizance—and the confusion of the entire morning suddenly makes sense. It is not an imminent crash that has captured the attention of my group.  Directly to starboard, on the bluff, just a stone’s throw away and at eye-level, are dozens of men and women of all shapes, sizes, and ages, lined up as if in a chorus line. They are waving back, laughing, and swaying to a beat I cannot hear. They all appear so incredibly happy to greet us and to let us know exactly who they are. They are Naturists, of course—an entire Community of them.