Nudist Story Helps Modest Writer Share His Inner Self

Visitors to McConville are told that when in Rome, do as the Romans do.

In this Rome, however, Romans wear no togas. So guests must bare all with members of Orange County’s only nudist camp.

When I spent a Sunday last month visiting nudists to write about the camp, I was worried about having to disrobe in front of others. After all, it had been years since parts of my body had seen sunlight.

The prospects of baring all on assignment made me nervous. What kind of reporter, I asked myself, would take off his clothes for a story? Flo Nilson, owner and manager of McConville--still dressed during an interview shortly after my arrival at the secluded camp--knew I was uncomfortable about having to talk to naked people later in the day.

“Nudism is completely new for you, isn’t it?” she asked in a motherly tone.

After chatting with Nilson, she led me to the camp’s pool, where several members of the McConville were relaxing in the buff--and where nude-only swimming is the rule.

So in order to talk to the Romans, I had to get naked. What I wouldn’t do for an assignment.

I clambered to the restroom near the pool to change, nervously smiling at a couple lounging naked in nearby lawn chairs.

I debated journalistic ethics as I undressed in the restroom, asking myself if I really had to be in the buff to do the story.

I took a deep breath and walked into the heat, holding a beach towel at my side like a kid clutching his security blanket. I walked toward the pool cautiously, making sure no one was taking a peek.

At the pool, I met Times photographer Mark Mirko, who was wearing nothing but a photo vest. I kept my dark shades on to avoid eye contact with anybody.

“This,” I said, “is ridiculous.”

Initially, I felt funny about being naked. Instinctively, I wanted to hide.

But then I realized no one bothered to look. As Nilson told us before we plunged into the world of nudism, people with clothes on are more conspicuous at such camps.

Within minutes, I felt at home in the nude, though I never let go of my towel. I triumphed.

McConville’s secluded setting made that easy. Located on 320 rugged acres in the arid Cleveland National Forest 22 miles east of San Juan Capistrano, the camp is a peaceful, uninhibited setting that enables members to relax with nature. The colony, which calls itself the oldest continuously run nudist camp in the West, is decorated with mementoes of a bygone era, including old cultivating machines and antique mine carts.

Like a reporter who in a 1933 documentary filmed at the site understands the camp and its people better when he’s naked, I too, felt remarkably at ease in front of others. If anything, being naked helped me to better understand nudists.

Now, I am not a Peeping Tom. I tried not stare at the dozen or so people around the pool, but I couldn’t help it. I was in awe not of their bodies but rather their ability to walk around naked in front of others.

Nudists have been labeled as weird or immoral, but after an afternoon at the camp, I found them to be some of the friendliest people I had ever met. Drivers in the buff honk and wave to passers-by on the grounds. Cabins scattered throughout the camp are usually unlocked, a sign of the trustworthy nature of nudists.

Critics say nudists, some 33,000 in the country according to the American Sunbathing Assn., flaunt their nakedness in a crude display of perversity.

These nudists say they don’t get naked for the sake of cheap thrills. “Being nude isn’t sexy,” said Helen, a camp member for 35 years. Instead, there’s a casual atmosphere about being nude in front of others that made me feel comfortable in the buff.

Because nudists literally have nothing to hide, everyone becomes equal without clothes on. That teaches campers to treat their fellow nudists with respect.

Because society often shuns nudity, some McConville members rarely talk about their hobby outside the camp.

Jeff Barker, 33, of Tustin, for instance, called his weekend visits to McConville his most closely guarded secret.

“I never did like clothes,” he said in the buff, sprawled next to the pool. “The bad thing is that you have to put the damn things back on and head back.”

When Mirko and I left McConville, I was stunned that I actually had taken my clothes off in front of others. But it was so natural that I never gave it a second thought.

And during my daylong visit, I didn’t even get a scratch.