On my first solo holiday abroad, with my mother's parting cry of "Don't be corrupted!" echoing in my ears, as well as in those of my fellow passengers, I was heading for Hamburg, at the invitation of Rich Uncle Hermann. Wunderbar.
36 hours later, my uncle, my current aunt and I stepped over the crest of a sand dune on the North Sea island of Sylt and I froze. Actually it was quite a warm day, but I had been turned to a pillar of basalt by the contents of the beach - and endless vista of stark naked Germans. I turned purple and for the first day, I sat with my spindly legs crossed paying close attention to the grains of sand.
I joined the ranks of the great unclothed staking a claim to a section of the beach by digging the equivalent of a heavy-artillery shell crater in the sand which serves as a windbreak. As a group activity it had the effect of bringing you into sudden proximity with parts of your relatives best left unimagined, though this was as nothing compared to the confrontations that occurred during the subsequent game of leapfrog.
The North Sea in August is not the Med, and the later afternoon on-shore breeze can be cruel. So now and then some clothing is called for, but the etiquette of the nudist beach must prevail. Hence the de riguer garment of choice was a v-necked cashmere sweater, worn to just below the navel.
The summer was drawing to a close and all I was interested in was this tall blonde artist's model from Stuttgart. I invited her for a swim. Smiling, she consented. Smiling we entered the flat calm waters - the waters rose, hip height. I waded, still smiling, into this jellyfish, and am told I left a wake as I screamed my way back to the beach.
Looking back there's a lot to be said for swimming costumes.
