MY daughter and I visited beautiful La Perouse in Sydney recently. Stumbling around the cliffs, I was confronted by the sight of several naked men, looking like so many walruses sprawled about on the rocks.

Obviously they thought they were safe from prying eyes, but they didn’t count on one determined woman, in bathers and an oversized sombrero, looking like some sort of antique perambulating Mexican toadstool.

Once I realised I was intruding on these fellows’ privacy (well their private parts) I bid a hasty retreat.

Imagine my discombobulation when one bloke walked towards me through the undergrowth, unabashed, wearing nothing but a disarming grin. He sported an impressive all-over tan. And I mean, all-over.

Good manners kicked in. Smiling weakly, I brightly chirped “hello”, my eyes steadfastly focused on a spot somewhere just beyond his left nipple. Did I just write the word “nipple”?

Why was I suddenly so coy about the naked body?

After all, photographic evidence just come to light, illustrates my personal history of skinny dipping adventures from Stradbroke to Bali.

There I was – younger and skinnier – flying brazenly topless out over Blue Lake clinging Tarzan or perhaps more appropriately Jane-like to a rope. Photographic records show I spent a significant portion of my 20s and 30s gallivanting in the altogether. Always in the wild and with friends I hasten to add. I assure you I’ve never paraded my naked self in the CBD, nor in front of strangers. Wouldn’t want to frighten the horses would we?

The older me is both shocked and thrilled to see this young woman not giving a fig (or even a fig leaf) about convention.

I’d forgotten the exhilaration, the sheer fun of nakedness. My gorgeous girl called me not long ago to excitedly tell me she’d been skinny dipping with friends in the wee hours in one of Sydney’s magnificent harbourside rock pools. I was jealous – both of the fearlessness and beauty of youth and that familiar thrill of abandonment that comes with being starkers.

Little children understand the exhilaration of shedding their clothes, as do the elderly whose frontal lobe has disappeared taking their inhibitions with it.

Some naked is plain scary and wrong. The reality TV show, Naked Dating follows contestants as they date in the nude. They sail, share quad bikes, and go nude zip lining wearing nothing but skin. Cringe. At the end of each episode, when asked about the dating experience, someone invariably says, “We really connected.” No kidding.

The ever-observant Jerry Seinfeld eschews naked coughing and crouching. I’d add sailing, cycling, and quad bikes … and dating.

It’s strange. Ever since Adam and Eve, we go to bizarre lengths to hide our nakedness – piling on the layers, makeup and jewellery. Why? So we can attract a mate to get naked with.

I think it’s time for yours truly to re-embrace the exhilaration of nudity. I’m thinking of taking up naked line dancing. As soon as I figure out where to hook my thumbs.

Sue Wighton is a Brisbane freelance writer

suewighton@gmail.com