Dock
oil on canvas
12" x 12"
Once upon a time, when I was a leaner and meaner version of myself, I took to wowing small crowds with my outrageous skinny-dipping skills. Now, before you cancel me for being spontaneously naked in front of people when I was a teenager, understand this...these crowds were usually contained to my close guy friends, all of whom seemed to sincerely enjoy my nude prowess from a safe distance. I'm fairly certain no person was ever harmed by my fondness of water to bare skin. In fact, I'm em-bare-assed to admit that my reputation for swimming in the buff may have allowed me to navigate the social hierarchy in a way that a clothed bather couldn't. "Hey, where's Wyatt?" Splash! Naked cannonball from a roof. "It's pretty chilly out tonight, eh?" Zoom! Flesh-colored flash into the half-frozen pond. "Is that a dead body floating in the lake?" Bazinga! Wyatt took up snorkeling. It was a good run, but with one breaststroke of bad luck, my not-afraid-to-be-naked days came to an abrupt end.
It all occurred at a party of sorts. Like most teenagers of my generation and likely every other one before and after, I tried to be at a party every weekend. And at this particular shindig, we decided to "camp out" instead of stay inside a house, as it allowed for more shenanigans with less repercussions, all in the name of "love for the great outdoors," as far as our parents were concerned. It was mid-autumn and reasonably cold outside. Cold in a way that kept us all huddled around a bonfire, anyway. “Us” was a group of squirrely boys who spent the majority of our Friday's and Saturday's telling our parents we were staying the night at one another's houses before convening someplace in the woods where we wouldn't be easily bothered by anyone. Typically, on nights like this one, we'd do the usual...see how many hotdogs we could eat in an hour, sharpen sticks with pocketknives to roast our many hotdogs on, cut down large trees with rusty axes and saws so that we could...well...I don't know? But we cut down a lot of trees that we probably shouldn't have in a manner that could've resulted in Greene County's most gruesome logging accident on record. We were wild and it's a wonder I survived it all. But this party was different. Girls were coming over...
They'd been staying at a neighboring house, less than half-a-mile down the road from our wooded hideout, by our design, of course. They'd likely concocted a similar "non-coed campout" scenario for their parents before sneaking through a field and over two fences to our company by a roaring fire next to a little pond. We must've all been pretty nervous about this sans-chaperone rendezvous, as neither group said much of anything for the first ten minutes after the girls' arrival...we just stood around the fire and ate hotdogs while giggling at one another. Clearly, I had to break the tension.
How does a young fella woo a group of young lady's? By running as fast as he can toward a dock in near total darkness while violently shucking off his clothes, of course. It always seemed to entertain the guys, why wouldn't it work this time? But given my timid nature around the opposite sex at this particular juncture of my adolescence, I would need to get naked in a manner that was both hilarious and considerate of the body parts I wasn't keen on sharing in this new type of social interaction. My solution? To sprint away from the fire for a full fifty feet or so before beginning to disrobe, as the blackness of the evening would surely disguise anything I didn't want seen. I figured, at most, they'd see an orange flame flicker off of two pale cheeks as I darted to the dock and out of sight...and then...they'd hear the splash. I had a plan. I waited for the perfect moment and…ZOOM! I was off like a rocket. But wouldn't you know it, fifty feet from the fire, I got tripped up on my pants and fell face first into the dirt. Nobody came to help me up, thank God, but as I sprang back to my feet I discovered I was now totally illuminated by flashlights. Funny how nobody has a flashlight until you're naked. Anyway, I took off again, faster than ever, powered by embarrassment-fueled adrenaline. Within ten seconds the woods was filled with laughter and I was running like an "OG" Olympian towards a rickety wooden dock, contemplating what type of maneuver was most appropriate for possibly the most embarrassing moment of my life up until that moment. I decided on a front flip. Splash!
I surfaced through a thick, slimy layer. For a moment, I was relieved. I had created all sorts of fun-lovin' excitement, as was evident by the commotion I heard on the other side of the bank. I was also properly shielded from my new found fear of being naked in front of people by the chest deep water I was now wading in. "Wow, why did I do that?" I wondered. "I guess it was worth it?" I hoped. "Where are my clothes?" I asked myself. About this time, a new panic set in as I watched my best good friend run towards me. I could tell by the smile on his face he wasn't planning on taking the semi-polar plunge as I did. Instead, he was scooping up my sweatshirt and my t-shirt and my pants and my socks, in the order they came off, of course. I was familiar with this counter-prank. It wasn't the first time I'd been robbed of my clothing in front of an audience...but this was the first time the audience included girls. Some sort of animal instinct told me to start running towards him. I did the math in my head as I high-stepped through the mud and algae. I was still only a silhouette to those standing ‘round the fire but I needed to outrun my friend before I was once again within flashlight range. I charged out of the pond like an angry water buffalo. I lost my footing on the bank, slid through the mud, and fumbled through some tall grass before laying it all out there...literally. My boxer shorts were the sole item of clothing between I, the thief, and every other fully-clothed person standing ever closer to me. I lunged up the bank again and dove head first for my underpants, just as my best good friend snagged them from my grasp. He ran towards the fire and I ran back for cover, now coated in enough mud and grass to create a ghillie suit-effect, camouflaging me well enough to devise my next plan of attack. "I'll circle around," I thought, "and catch them by surprise from the other direction." It was a better plan than waiting in a frigid pond for my friends to return my pants to me. I figured I could snatch my clothes while they're eating more hot dogs and then make a bee-line to the nearest bush, where I could undo all of this naked calamity. But as I started my stealthy mission, looking like some type of primitive Navy SEAL, I heard a new cackle of laughter. The fire had grown twice its size in rapid fashion, in a way not possible with log or limb. There I was, like Bigfoot, covered in nothing but earth and hair, frozen in the hazy light produced by my own burning outfit. My first thought was, "I wonder how long it'll take for me to walk home through the woods?" Bigfoot indeed. I was doomed. My attention-seeking behavior had garnered me too much attention. Oh, if I could've taken it all back! I would've traded every giggle I'd gotten from every bare-skinned antic for a bathrobe and one of those Men in Black doodads Will Smith used to erase people’s memories. I was ready to hang up my birthday suit for good.
And then I spotted my savior...my life-preserver, in fact. The inflatable tube, an air-filled plastic donut, presented itself from my particular prone point of view on the bank. It was wedged under the dock I'd jumped from moments earlier. I spotted it by way of the distant fire reflecting off of the wet plastic...wetness likely created by my front flip flop. I understood the tube to be a pool toy converted to pond float...some sort of miraculous leftover from summertime fun, shielded from the elements by the deteriorating wooden planks above for me to use in this very situation. I gave it a squeeze. It was by no means fully inflated, but there was plenty of air inside to maintain its shape. And as luck would have it, it appeared to be just my size. Not an appropriate size for me to float on in a body of water, but just right to wear as a big and bubbly belt. I couldn't tell what color it was in the dark, for all I knew it had purple unicorns printed all over it, but I managed to squeeze into the donut hole with slight resistance. It was snug. In fact, my waistline was enough to stretch my new plastic skirt into near complete inflation. It wiggled as I walked, like a tutu on a ballerina. A big, hairy, mud-covered ballerina.
For whatever reason, they didn't burn my boots. As I prepared to reenter my first major unsupervised coed event, I slipped the clumsy things back onto my bare feet and tramped towards the loose ring of teenagers. They were within earshot now. "What is he wearing?" they smirked. "Boots and some type of bubble!" my best good friend exclaimed. I walked confidently, as any kid wearing a pool toy would, and eased myself back into the circle with a chuckle and little else. I was thankful they made room for me next to the fire, as I was pretty well frozen at this point. I leaned into the heat while taking a healthy razzing from everyone, including the girls I was so desperate to impress. "Does that pool float come in a smaller size?" they asked. I replied, "What size is your shirt? 'Cause you all owe me a new one!" I was pretty content with myself, all things considered. From my perspective, I'd won. My unmentionables were covered and I had gotten a good laugh out of everyone. "Pretty cold tonight, eh guys?" someone chimed in. "Hotdog anyone?" I heard from across the circle. Everyone was having a good time. The ice was broken. Normal interactions could now ensue...relatively normally, that is...I was wearing something made for a water slide, after all. I really didn't know how much longer I could stand there wearing my inflatable makeshift pants, but I was content milking every last bit of humor out of the predicament. And then, I looked down at my feet.
I could see my feet! My boot laces were undone. Do you understand the problem with this statement? Do you hear what I'm telling you? I was wearing a faux-life preserver that surely increased my 30 inch waist size to 130, but I could still somehow see directly underneath of me. How is this possible? I wasn't leaning forward...my knees were locked and my back was straight. "Oh no...there's no way...oh my God!"
So, my skinny-dipping streak of the late 90's ended abruptly thanks to the irreversible damage done to my reputation...the inconceivable harm to my ego...the absolute destruction of my self-confidence...all caused by that damn inner tube on that chilly autumn evening—that transparent plastic magnifier of all things thought concealed. I guess I was accustomed to the black variety of novelty inner tube with tire tread print around the outer edge? I had never before seen the clear plastic version that I had been so proudly flaunting as an improvised loin cloth. Remember how funny it was when you learned how to press your face up against a window for passersby on the other side? This was sort of like that, but gross. It wasn’t funny either…at least not to me in that moment. It was certainly funny for everyone standing around that fire, though. In fact, I don’t know that they ever stopped laughing at me. It’s hard to take a man seriously if you can remember seeing him in such a state. I can laugh with them now.
It took me several years to cope with the trauma I'd caused to myself. Not serious trauma of course, solely the type that makes you awkward around people who watched you eat s’mores while wearing something akin to vacuum-sealed plastic on deli meat. Word to the wise, all you wild and freewheelin’ friends: don't be a skinny-dipshit! The sting of embarrassment will last far longer than the sting of that full moon belly flop. Take it from me...I was once a confident skinny-dipper, but now I can't even jump into an pool without checking my drawstring eight times. Splash!
If you'd like to purchase the painting above, please contact Wyatt via his website: CLICK HERE
18 days 'til Christmas...
