Posted By: KenW
Day 5b -- The Textile Walk of Shame - 05/21/2017 08:39 PM
When we arrived at Papagayo's after our four-hour tour (see Day 5), we had to walk back to our car parked on the other side of Pedro's. We were carrying a lot of gear, and it was quite hot. We had to walk the full length of Club O fully clothed. Now, I know Club O is "clothing optional," but we also all know that true Club O-ers are nude. We also know what we all think about those who wear clothes where they should not. There is even a name for such interlopers: "Textiles." The image of Bermuda shorts, high socks, and binoculars is in all our minds when we use or see the term, Textile. The only thing worse than a Textile is a Cruiser Textile.
So here I am having just jumped off a sailboat fully clothed, with binoculars hanging from my neck and a camera pack on my hip. The only thing missing is my black knee-high socks. I am making what I would call the Textile Walk of Shame. Chairs to the left of me, chairs to the right, here I am stuck in the middle of naturalists, and I am wearing the uniform of a Textile. With sacks of snorkel gear, towels, empty champagne bottle, and various other heavy items, I am huffing and puffing and sweating and doing everything I can to look down at the sand or straight ahead. I wanted to tell them all that I have been nude on this very beach, as well as Happy Bay, St. Bart's, Guadeloupe, and most any weekend in and around my backyard pool. "Sure," they'd say; "show us your tan line." I wanted to show them I have none. Surely that would be proof that I am not one of those Textiles. But I could not. My hands were too full. Besides, what about those binoculars? Perfectly reasonable equipment for a boat ride. And the camera? But it is stashed in the fanny-pack. Oh dear, the fanny-pack. Another telling sign of a Textile, or at best a nerd.
"What are you doing down here anyway," they must be thinking. "Well," I'd say, "I just got off a Tiko Tiko cruise." Warming to me at little but still suspicious, they would next ask, "Oh, did you just get off a nude cruise." "Uh, no. We went alone." "Aha. Didn't want to be around nude people? Sounds like a Textile to me." It would be hopeless. So, I just need to keep on trudging in the sand through this gauntlet of glares. Gawd, it's hot. Was the Bataan Death march this long? "Abby, wait up." She ignores me.
Was the walk to Papagayo's this long earlier in the morning? I think not. All I can see is an endless corridor of yellow umbrellas as far as the eye can see. Maybe if I go behind all the chairs, I will seem less perverted. No, the sand is too deep and soft to navigate. I must go down to the water line. At least down here I can look to the bay. See, I am just passing through. Nothing to see here. But, I still feel it. The recrimination toward this trespasser. I feel it because I have have been guilty in the past of being the nude one disapproving the Textile.
I look ahead. I am now not far from the end of the yellow umbrellas. Is my suffering soon to end. Just a few more yellow Club O chair to pass, and I am out of range. But wait. What's this. More chairs? What are these blue chairs with more nude people doing here? I thought it was over. But no. Pedro's must have some of their chairs over here on the CO side. Will this never end.
Ah, at last we reach the parking lot. The Textile Walk is Shame is finally over.
So here I am having just jumped off a sailboat fully clothed, with binoculars hanging from my neck and a camera pack on my hip. The only thing missing is my black knee-high socks. I am making what I would call the Textile Walk of Shame. Chairs to the left of me, chairs to the right, here I am stuck in the middle of naturalists, and I am wearing the uniform of a Textile. With sacks of snorkel gear, towels, empty champagne bottle, and various other heavy items, I am huffing and puffing and sweating and doing everything I can to look down at the sand or straight ahead. I wanted to tell them all that I have been nude on this very beach, as well as Happy Bay, St. Bart's, Guadeloupe, and most any weekend in and around my backyard pool. "Sure," they'd say; "show us your tan line." I wanted to show them I have none. Surely that would be proof that I am not one of those Textiles. But I could not. My hands were too full. Besides, what about those binoculars? Perfectly reasonable equipment for a boat ride. And the camera? But it is stashed in the fanny-pack. Oh dear, the fanny-pack. Another telling sign of a Textile, or at best a nerd.
"What are you doing down here anyway," they must be thinking. "Well," I'd say, "I just got off a Tiko Tiko cruise." Warming to me at little but still suspicious, they would next ask, "Oh, did you just get off a nude cruise." "Uh, no. We went alone." "Aha. Didn't want to be around nude people? Sounds like a Textile to me." It would be hopeless. So, I just need to keep on trudging in the sand through this gauntlet of glares. Gawd, it's hot. Was the Bataan Death march this long? "Abby, wait up." She ignores me.
Was the walk to Papagayo's this long earlier in the morning? I think not. All I can see is an endless corridor of yellow umbrellas as far as the eye can see. Maybe if I go behind all the chairs, I will seem less perverted. No, the sand is too deep and soft to navigate. I must go down to the water line. At least down here I can look to the bay. See, I am just passing through. Nothing to see here. But, I still feel it. The recrimination toward this trespasser. I feel it because I have have been guilty in the past of being the nude one disapproving the Textile.
I look ahead. I am now not far from the end of the yellow umbrellas. Is my suffering soon to end. Just a few more yellow Club O chair to pass, and I am out of range. But wait. What's this. More chairs? What are these blue chairs with more nude people doing here? I thought it was over. But no. Pedro's must have some of their chairs over here on the CO side. Will this never end.
Ah, at last we reach the parking lot. The Textile Walk is Shame is finally over.