Anyone for breast stroke? A writer loses her body hang-ups to compete in the naturist Olympics.
By Jessica Hatcher
As I take my place on the starting block, a hush sweeps around the spectators at the side of the swimming pool. A race is about to begin.
The Union Jack is emblazoned on my swimming cap and to my left – poised and at the ready – are two lithe and toned Germans. I am competing for Great Britain at an international swimming competition and it should be a great honour.
But I can’t shake the feeling that there is something very, very wrong. For, apart from a silly stretchy hat, I am completely and utterly stark naked. And about to take part in the world’s largest nude swimming gala in front of hundreds of total strangers.
So how on earth have I ended up in such a predicament? Isn’t this the kind of situation that comes to people in their worst nightmares?
It all started innocently enough a few months ago, when I discovered the gala while browsing on the internet. In the name of journalistic research, I emailed the organisers to see if I could go along to witness it.
It sounded unique to say the least and fun at best, and they agreed. Then, a few weeks later, they called me back. Apparently there was a lack of competitors in my age group. Could I take part
I immediately got cold feet (and cold almost everything else). I am a competent swimmer, but I dislike competitive swimming almost as much as I do being naked in front of strangers (I’ve only ever stripped in public once – in a female communal shower after a yoga class – and it was fairly terrifying).
Yet while the thought of parading my naked body in front of hundreds of people filled me with abject horror, I couldn’t help but feel intrigued. Was I just getting worked up over nothing?
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