I no longer know where I can go to let the wind tipple at my nipples, to be uncrazy and free, unclothed and unrestrained. In 1972 I stood naked as the day I was born talking pleasantly with the State Police, who had remarkably little to say. But then there were several thousand of us and only two of them, and the young one was nervous, didn’t know where to fasten his jittery eyes. Hell, he was scared, of buttocks and bellies, upper arms and ankles thonged, hair streaming wet down cello-shaped backs above rumps, so many rumps, and flitches with dangles and flitches without, thick furry or nude themselves. Three reporters from the New York Times tried to hide in a tree, ashamed of all their clothes. Only the woman spoke to me; the men had things to do that involved much looking down. Out on the lake a crazy guy from the suburb across the way circled his speedboat time and again. Naked bodies flopping like fish slithered in and out of the boat, taking him for a ride. When I was tired I laid me down by a fire, just nodding hello. My sleep was dreamless —who needed dreams?— and the stranger tending the fire stoked it, banked it, fed it for hours, ensuring that I was kept warm. When I awakened all that I said —there was no requirement to speak— was thanks, and he knew for what: for the freeness of it all.