When I was a child my family and I spent weekends at a nudist community in Cape Cod. We’d drive up there every weekend and holiday from our home about an hour away, from spring until it got too cold.
The colony was in this huge wooded area that bordered a big pond. There were dirt roads and the facilities were very rustic – we had a tennis court, but it wasn’t fancy. Most people lived in trailers; ours was so tiny that it folded down. We cooked our food by the campfire and we had communal showers. It was like going camping, but naked.
Back then, in the 1980s, there were perhaps 50 naturists living there. Many of them were old hippies like our neighbours, who were in their seventies. I loved them because they had a TV and they let me and my sister run in to watch it. There were younger nudists too, like the neighbour who weaved straw baskets and used to cut our hair.