RIIS PARK BEACH

RIIS PARK BEACH, 1980.

There is nothing like diving nude into the water. Nothing better than beaches here no one feels the shame of clothing or has the need for it. Every summer we undertake the harrowing trip from our apartment in a far corner of Brooklyn to the (in)famous beach at Riis Park, where there is a section informally reserved for nudists of all persuasions.

Such a bothersome trip involves taking two trains and a bus, but we do not care. The line at the stop in Flatbush where the buses are boarded is the start as well of a saturnalia. Muscled homosexuals with high-pitched voices and groups of screaming semi-naked female teenagers of all races and colors mingle with Hispanic families, the children crying at the top of their lungs, the mother battling furiously to find space for her four bags of food and beach paraphernalia, the father struggling under the weight of an umbrella, three chairs and a blaring portable radio-cassette. As we approach the coast the light changes, the sky turns even more intensely blue, the air smells sea-salty, the passengers’ excitement turns into an almost unbearable cacophonic fever pitch, exacerbated by a mix of odors, different flavors of sweat, French fries, suntan lotion, fried chicken, a suspicious whiff of rum and the occasional fragrance of roasted pork.

Once at the beach, the melting pot disassembles and each group moves towards to its designated place. We head for the farthest corner of the beach, where our own await us. We always choose a strategic place, where the seascape will include well-shaped male bodies. After the first beers and a few passes of smoke, we undress and surrender, lying face down, to the fiery weight of the midday sun. We put on the suits to run to the water and once inside hang them around our necks while we cavort in the waves.

There exists among those sharing this bucolic space the camaraderie of knowing we are breaking the law as a group in public. The only jarring note comes from males, fully dressed, alone or with friends, their eyeballs reddened by liquor and lust, walking among the crowd and stopping to stare breathlessly at topless females while caressing the conspicuous boners tenting their pants. But as soon as they notice dozens of markedly interested masculine eyes following the spectacle, they get flustered and leave, murmuring obscenities and vague threats.

One of those Sundays I have fallen asleep with my bathing suit over my head. At my side, el Rubio, in a similar state. Suddenly, a shadow over me. A voice calls: “Professor, Professor, is it really you?” Horrified, I open my eyes and find, squatting in front of me, one of my female students from la Hostia, buck naked. I go on automatic pilot, get up, smile and ask: “My girl, what are you doing here?” Unflustered she answers: “I have been coming to this beach for years with my girlfriend and my kids. Look at them, under that umbrella” I do see them, two tough brown little angels industriously opening a hole in the sand under the indulgent supervision of a robust butch Latina who mischievously winks at me. Already relieved, I respond: “And this is my boyfriend, el Rubio. We too come here every summer. Let this be our secret. I haven’t seen you, and you haven’t seen me!” We join our towels and spend the rest of the afternoon together, as any respectable middle-class family.