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The Naked Truth
On streaking, skinny-dipping, and the unexpected freedom of being seen
Out walking in Auckland one day, I looked up at some high-rise buildings within the University of Auckland. I spotted a naked woman sitting on a window ledge inside her apartment. She was a beautiful sight; very Venus de Milo.
I thought about waving because I could see she was looking down at me. She stayed put resolutely, seemingly unconcerned about who might see her pale nakedness.
And it got me thinking about all the times I was naked in public.
I reckon I was New Zealand’s first female streaker — or at least my accomplice, whose name I’ve forgotten, and I were among the pioneers.
It was the middle of winter and some mates in a band had a gig in Fairlie, South Canterbury, some time around 1972. We went along because we had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. There was definitely alcohol involved.
We were standing in the wings watching our friends play to a fairly typical South Canterbury crowd: a bit rowdy, a bit drunk, arms waving, beer bottles aloft, everyone having fun.
I said to my friend words to the effect of, ‘Let’s take off all our clothes and run across the stage.’
