Genuine Naturism: ​The Side We Don’t Talk About Enough

Sometimes you just need to laugh at the total absurdity of it all.

​Every so often, we find ourselves in a moment that reminds us we may not be doing this whole naturism thing the way people expect. We spend a lot of time, both in our writing and in our heads, justifying this lifestyle to the outside world. It is so easy to get caught up in defending our choices that we completely forget to mention that genuine naturism is actually supposed to be fun.

We talk about body image, social barriers, and the grand philosophy of the movement, while entirely glossing over the sheer absurdity of trying to look ethereal and artistic while your husband is hovering nearby with a tripod, trying to ignore the fact that a family of four is currently hiking straight toward your very revealing, supposedly private photo shoot.

The Polite Smile

Saint Martin was one of those moments where the philosophy took a backseat to the pure comedy of the situation. We were on a quiet stretch of beach, the kind that feels just far enough from the resort path that you assume you are entirely alone, or at least alone enough to try something creative with a camera. I had this idea for a photo involving a long white dress and ocean water. It was meant to be one of those shots that looks effortless, soft, and deeply spiritual in a gallery display.

In reality, it involved me sitting in the surf while the fabric did exactly what wet fabric does, which is cling to every single curve and become entirely transparent. We have moved past being shy around each other or on a naturist beach, but I was realizing there is a very fine line between an artistic silhouette and a full-blown anatomy lesson, and I was hovering right on the edge of it.

That was exactly when a mom, a dad, and two kids appeared around the rocky bend for a casual afternoon stroll. There is always that split second where your brain completely short-circuits. You wonder if you should scramble for a towel that is twenty feet away, dive headfirst into the waves, or just become intensely interested in a particular cloud formation on the horizon.

Before we could even start overthinking a strategy, the dad slowed his pace and stopped right beside Kevin, while his family kept walking past with polite, forward-facing smiles like this wasn’t their problem to solve. He looked out at me sitting there in my soaked-through dress, looked back at Kevin, and just gave a knowing, slightly impressed smile. He exchanged a few casual words with Kevin about the afternoon humidity and the lack of shade, the kind of polite small talk that completely ignores the giant elephant in the room, and then he wandered off to catch up with his kids.

The second they were out of earshot, we absolutely lost it. That kind of deep, chest-aching laughter that comes from realizing how perfectly ridiculous you look to the rest of the world. Two middle-aged people being goofy on a beach.

Making It All Sound Too Serious

We get so used to explaining our choices to people who don’t understand them that defense becomes a reflex. We are constantly clearing up misconceptions, drawing clear boundaries in the sand, and reassuring anxious people that it is about respect, comfort, and body acceptance. All of that is true and it matters, but constant explaining makes the lifestyle sound a bit like a university lecture. If someone only read the serious think-pieces on the internet, they would think we spend our weekends walking through the woods in deep, silent contemplation about the human condition.

If someone followed us around with a behind-the-scenes camera, they would mostly see Kevin navigating terrain that looked friendly and inviting from a distance but turned out to be something else entirely once we were out there.

It was his birthday, end of September 2024. We were on a trail we probably should have researched a bit better before stripping down. He was navigating some wet, mossy rocks lakeside, feeling a lot more confident and agile than a guy his age has any right to feel. The next thing I heard was a dull thud, and he was flat on his back, having landed squarely on his heavy camera backpack.

He did the typical stubborn guy thing where he stood up immediately, brushed off the dirt, and insisted he was totally fine. About an hour into the rest of the hike I could see him struggling. I asked. He said he was fine. He also decided we should start heading back because he wanted to hit another spot before we finished for the day.

During the drive to the next location I could see he was uncomfortable. At the beach we hiked another mile up the shoreline, where he eventually lay down in the sand just so he could breathe. God forbid he give up an opportunity for another photo shoot over a little pain. So we did that shoot. It was shorter than planned. Then we hiked back to the car, and I drove home because by then the pain was too much for him to manage the wheel.

He thought he had just bruised his ribs. After a few weeks of constant pain he finally went for an x-ray. Ta Da. One rib completely offset, another cracked. Six months to recover. No more shoots until Hawaii in February.

Dumbass.

The Unfiltered Joy of the Ridiculous

Sometimes the fun isn’t about an outdoor adventure or a mishap on a trail. It is just the silly stuff that happens when you are finally comfortable enough in your surroundings to be completely yourself.

We were hanging out on the deck by our pool one afternoon, enjoying one of those slow, hot days where the only real goal is to avoid doing anything productive. We had some 80s hair bands playing on a portable speaker, classic Poison and Def Leppard, the kind of music that makes you feel thirteen again regardless of what the mirror or your joints are telling you. Without any warning or preamble, I jumped out of my lounge chair and decided I was going to recreate a choreographed jazz hands dance routine I used to do back in the late eighties.

Performing a synchronized, high-energy dance routine to “Talk Dirty to Me” is one thing when you are a teenager in your bedroom. Doing it completely nude, thirty-some years later, on a wooden patio in Manitoba, is an entirely different spectacle. It was a chaotic mix of genuine muscle memory and desperate mid-air improvisation. I couldn’t even finish the routine, eventually collapsing back onto a chair because I was out of breath from giggling while Kevin tried his absolute best not to choke on his whisky and Coke Zero.

When the Moment Changes… We Are Human

We were doing a shoot on a private stretch of shoreline in Roatán. Late afternoon golden hour, where the light turns everything into a soft, warm amber glow that feels almost too perfect to be real. The ocean was calm, the sky was shifting through shades of pink and orange faster than Kevin could adjust the exposure settings, and for once the camera gear was actually behaving.

That was one of those days where my confidence didn’t just show up… it completely settled in. Kevin always says there is a specific way I move when I feel that level of comfort, a certain tilt of my head or a specific look I give the lens. I would absolutely roll my eyes, stick my tongue out at him, and change the subject if he said that directly to my face during a shoot.

After we finished the actual landscapes we were standing side by side in that fading light, scrolling through shots on the small camera screen. Still naked, still caught up in that quiet post-shoot energy, when there was a small absent-minded touch between us. Not a deliberate pose, not a calculated romantic move. Just the natural instinct of being physically close to each other without any barriers. Now, before you clutch your pearls, we’ve written that we are sex positive before in Naturism, Sex, and All the Messy Bits We’re Not Supposed to Say Out Loud

But I won’t turn this into a Tiffany Reisz novel. Let’s just say we didn’t plan what happened next. The sun was down, we were alone, and it just did.

It was a great shoot. 😇

Beyond the Photography and Philosophy

When I started writing this, it was to show the non-serious part of who we are. We really do live naturism for the fun and also the boring moments. And we may come across as too serious about it sometimes because that’s what advocacy seems to do to people.

We have written a lot of words about the big themes of this lifestyle. If we only ever publish those, we are lying by omission. The everyday version of this life is quieter and considerably less philosophical than our writing sometimes makes it sound.

Most of our life is not Saint Martin or Roatán. It is easy for accounts like ours to start looking like a perpetual vacation, as if the only time it counts is when you are on a pristine beach or under a tropical sunset. But that’s a curated illusion. If the philosophy only existed when we buy a plane ticket, it’s a hobby… not a life. ​

For us, the real substance happens in the completely mundane spaces between trips. It’s me, nude on the couch in the evenings, planning my markets for the next weekend. Kevin beside me going through social media or working on something. Boo trying to find a spot between us. Hot tub evenings. Pool nights. Local adventures into the wild or to our local naturist park when the weather cooperates. We are not nude world travelers and I am not a naturism historian.

I just get dressed when I have to and don’t when I don’t have to.

Corin

---

If you enjoy our stories and ramblings about naturism, subscribe! You will be notified every time we release a new article.

And if you decide you want to support what we do… you can “Buy us a Coffee” or a subscription through “Ko-fi” or on “Substack”. We really appreciate it.