Totally exposed to the sun

The dermatologist raised an eye when I told him that I had been covering up from the fierce Dunedin sun, that a hat never left my head.

Kidney transplantees are more prone to skin cancer, and as I am also more prone to a fear of death, for the past four years I have been very careful.

"You can also do a lot of damage when you are very young," he said.

An icy chill snaked up my spine.

"How young?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, 9, 10, 11," he said nonchalantly.

I tend not to mention this at prestigious dinner parties, but when I was 9, 10 or 11, I was a nudist.

Every pore on my fair-skinned wafer-thin body was regularly roasted at a delightful sun and health club out on the Taieri, its exact location best left to the imagination of religious cranks and Stadium supporters, though it has to be said it was directly on the flight path to the Taieri Aerodrome.

I never flew in those days, but doubtless it was alluded to in aviatorial metaphor by the pilot ("Directly below us now you will see breasts").

But I never thought much of it then.

I didn't even know what nudism was.

Our family just worshipped the sun.

So did other families and couples at the club.

No singles were allowed. We squealed and threw quoits together and splashed in a pool.

There was a magazine. Everybody had a false name.

My father told me the real life identities of a couple of the members. They were quite famous in a local small pond sort of way.

I don't think people covered up then.