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If she was conscious of just how visible it was from where I sat, she showed no sign of it.
She chatted about the weather, the road from Sydney, her garden - all normal and mundane, but I had trouble keeping eye contact with her.
And that's all I saw: no nude volleyball players, no skinny dippers, no streakers - no one in fact. A middle aged couple were walking hand-in-hand toward me. And this is my wife, Sabrina." The lady leant in to give me a peck on the cheek. I marvelled at their complete indifference to their nakedness.
I'd never even thought such places really existed, and at home that night - after a glass or two of wine - I'd googled it.
As often happens, one internet page led to another and I stayed up half the night reading about naturism, nudism, FKK and whatever the movement called itself. People were not all the bikini models that had haunted me my whole life with their seemingly unattainable and unsustainable perfect physiques.
I had worried that my little Hyundai, laden with camping gear, and an abundance of food, drinks and ice, might not make it through the rough country roads, but she had handled it all with hardly a complaint.
I wondered now if I would be as resilient as she once I reached the end of the bumpy, sandy road that led - in less than 5 minutes - to my destination.
I downloaded a few books from amazon and the subject and read them voraciously - this was a world I'd never imagined. Their nudity not only made them seem more real than the ideals that advertising pushed, they actually looked more confident, happy and accepting.