Letters from Blackwell Island Pt. 01

Author's Note:

Hi, everyone! Well, here for your enjoyment is the first part of a brand new story about a young freelance journalist who is given the career opportunity of a lifetime by a popular women's magazine to live on a remote tropical island in the Pacific and write a monthly article about life on the island for its inhabitants. However, there is a catch -- the islanders have some rather unusual customs...

As always, all characters are over eighteen, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, and any company and/or organisation past or present is unintentional and entirely coincidental.

One last thing, this story does include some words in Irish Gaelic (don't worry, I have included translations) but there is only so much one can do with Google Translate! So if you are a native speaker of that particular language, please accept my apologies if it looks like complete and utter gibberish!

Enjoy!

Part One

An Opportunity of a Lifetime?

I sat nervously in the reception area of Estelle Magazine, a popular monthly publication for women, up on the 22nd floor of one of the many skyscrapers in London's Docklands area. I was here for an appointment with their features editor, a woman named Mags. Her name sounded rather serendipitously appropriate for an employee of a magazine publisher. As a freelance journalist I had written a couple of articles for the magazine before, the first being about young girls who aspire to enter the traditionally masculine world of motor racing.

The second article was a much more harrowing subject. It was about an artist named Wynona Walkden, who had created an art exhibition entitled 'The Women Left Behind: Widows of the Srebrenica Massacre'. The exhibition took the form of a series of portraits of some of the widows of the almost eight thousand Muslim men and boys, some as young as only twelve years old, that were slaughtered by Serbian forces in 1995 in and around the town of Srebrenica in eastern Bosnia. The Serbian military called it 'ethnic cleansing', the UN however, declared it as the worst act of genocide on European soil since World War Two.

Each portrait was a vision of both resilience and mourning, as each widow was depicted sitting proudly and stoically whilst holding photographs of their slain husbands, brothers, fathers and sons. Researching for that article had been a particularly sobering experience, especially when I visited the site of the massacre itself and the immense memorial cemetery in the nearby village of Potočari. I'll never forget the sight of the rows upon rows of white marble gravestones as long as I live -- it was such a profound experience to think that such an appalling mass slaughter had occurred so comparatively recently in our history. A whole town where almost every man and boy had been murdered, leaving the women behind - many of whom had themselves been tortured and raped by the Serbian forces - to pick up the pieces. To this day, the Serbian government denies that it was an act of genocide. The article may have been a heartbreaking experience, but it was one that I was immensely proud of, and had even won me an award.

I knew little about this new assignment I was being offered this time, except that it was being billed as an "opportunity of a lifetime" and would entail spending a minimum of a year overseas.

I looked out of the window at the neighbouring dockland skyscrapers, and my thoughts briefly wandered to thinking about what all the many hundreds of people in those adjacent buildings were up to at that moment in time.

"Hi, Allyssa, thanks for coming," I heard Mags's cheery voice as she entered the reception area, tearing my wandering mind back into the here and now. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

"That's okay," I assured her as I stood and shook her hand. "Oh, call me Allie, by the way -- everyone does. Yeah, I'm rather intrigued about this assignment you mentioned on the phone - about it being a long term thing."

"Step into my office and I'll fill you in," Mags said as she ushered me into the main office space. "Sasha, would you bring some coffee in please?" she turned and spoke to the receptionist.

"Sure, will do, Mags," the young woman behind the desk replied with a cheery smile.

A few minutes later I was sat in Mags's spacious corner office in one of three comfortable chairs arranged around a coffee table, with Mags in one of the chairs and the magazine's chief editor, Carole, sat in the other.

"Now, Allie, have you ever heard of Blackwell Island?" Mags asked me once we'd finished briefly breaking the ice with a little small talk about the weather and how my husband was recovering following a nasty chest infection he'd had last year when I wrote my previous article for the magazine.

"Blackwell Island?" I responded. "I can't say I have, no."

"It's a small island out in the middle of the Pacific about fifteen hundred miles southeast of Hawaii," Mags explained. "We're talking full-on tropical paradise here - sandy beaches, azure blue sea, palm trees groaning under the weight of coconuts, the whole exotic nine yards."

"It's nothing less than paradise," Carole enthused. "I went there with my husband last summer - it was... quite an eye-opening experience!"

"They have a rather um, unusual way of life there that we think our readers would just love to read about," Mags took over.

"And what would that be?" I asked, intrigued about exactly what this particular custom entailed.

"All the islanders over the age of eighteen, and I mean all of them, are required by law to be naked at all times," Carole replied, with a definite smirk on her face.

"Naked?!" I responded with a gasp. It was pretty much the last thing I had expected her to say.

"All men and women aged eighteen and above are required by law to be totally nude at all times," Carole confirmed. "Steve of course was mortified when we were at the airport and there was a big sign above the exit that said "all persons over eighteen must be naked beyond this point". I'd sort of, accidentally on purpose "forgotten" to tell him about that when we boarded the plane!"

"So it got us thinking about how a woman from a relatively humdrum provincial English town would adjust to living naked in a tropical paradise surrounded by hundreds of other naked people," Mags went on.

"You want me? To go to this island and... and... actually live there?" I almost shrieked. "Naked?!?"

"Only for a year," Carole replied. "Although if the articles are a success we would definitely consider extending your stay there."

"We'd like you to produce one article a month," Mags expanded. "About everyday life in this land of naked people and what makes the islanders tick."

"It could be called 'Letters From Blackwell Island,'" Carole suggested.

"But, I'm not a nudist," I pointed out.

"Well, that just gives the thing such a great angle," Mags enthused. "A committed "textile" as nudists refer to clothed people, sent to confront her own reservations about living a life free of clothing. It'd certainly be an interesting personal journey."

"It's the absolute epitome of freedom," Carole took over enthusiastically. "Where everyone is equal and where such things as body-shaming and beauty standards are almost completely unheard of."

"But why?" I asked. "Why do the adults have to be naked?"

"Well, it all goes back to 1787, when the HMS Perseus was on an expedition voyage to the Pacific," Carole began to explain. "Conditions aboard the ship were horrendous for the men apparently, whereas the officers enjoyed better food, better quarters and well, better everything really. So the men quite understandably mutinied.

"The mutiny was rather swiftly, and rather brutally, suppressed and the ringleaders, led by a man named Henry Blackwell, were flogged on deck before being loaded into a rowing boat and cast adrift. It was pretty much nothing less than a death sentence.

"Anyway, Blackwell and his fellow mutineers, fifteen men in all, drifted for several days before a combination of winds and currents caused them to drift towards a volcanic island in uncharted waters. Their boat washed ashore with the men close to death by dehydration.

"They were discovered by the island's inhabitants, a tribe of Hawaiian descent, who took them in and nursed them back to health. The men and women of the tribe wore no clothing at all - nothing, not even simple loincloths - and Blackwell and his men were told by the islanders that they would be welcome to stay on their island for as long as they liked, as long as they observed their customs and surrendered their clothes.

"One by one the men agreed, with the only alternatives being to either try and build a raft and hope to run into another ship that could take them back to England, or to starve on the island whilst the islanders enjoyed its natural bounty. Eventually they surrendered their clothes and settled and took wives from the native population. And the rest, as they say, is history.

"The men and their descendants thrived and the islands now support a population of over eight thousand people. The island has pretty much all the conveniences of modern life, with its own airport, a quayside for visiting cruise ships, modern air conditioned homes with swimming pools and high speed Internet - everything needed for a comfortable life in the tropics. But despite all the modern conveniences and changes over the years one thing has remained unchanged - the nudity custom was retained, and in 1902 was even enshrined in law. It is literally illegal for adults to wear clothes there - only sandals for visiting tourists, certain tribal items and the occasional piece of jewellery are permitted."

"I mean, how cool is that? An entire island of naked people!" Mags said gleefully. "Imagine being surrounded by all those hunky naked men!"

I had to admit, the place sounded quite intriguing - I mean, who wouldn't want to be surrounded by naked men? Obviously, it also meant being surrounded by naked women too, but clearly that didn't concern Mags. But of course it was quite a lot to take in - the opportunity to spend a year, possibly longer, writing articles for the magazine from a tropical paradise sounded heavenly, but the thought of being naked the whole time was definitely not my idea of heaven! I guess it would be quite a few people's idea of heaven, having read an article once that naturism was making a comeback, especially among those in their twenties and thirties - the magazine's key demographic - but it definitely wasn't mine.

But on the other hand it was an opportunity that plenty of aspiring young journalists would literally kill for. Not the being naked part, but the opportunity to basically become a tenured writer for a major women's magazine. Perhaps that was the point of it all - to send a "committed textile", to use Mags's phrase, to a place where she'd not only have to confront her unease at surrendering her clothes, but actually live completely nude for at least a year. Well, the journalist in me could definitely see the potential in it, but there were of course quite a few other things to take into consideration, my husband's thoughts on joining me on the island for starters.

He came from quite a conservative Irish family - good catholic people who attended mass and confession regularly, and when he was a teenager his parents had taken him and his sister on a pilgrimage to Santiago De Compostela in Spain, walking the entire length of the Camino de Santiago, from the border with France all the way to the city of Santiago, calling it at all the many monasteries and pilgrim's hostels along the way. He often spoke of it as the most amazing summer he'd ever spent, and the most spiritual experience of his life. The one thing his parents definitely wouldn't understand is how anybody could ever desire to strip off in public and wander around stark bollock naked, so if I was a "committed textile", Patrick's family were super-committed textiles!

So as I sat there in the office with Mags and Carole, I seriously considered turning them down. I can't do it, I thought to myself. They'll have to find someone else to go and cavort around naked on this tropical island paradise instead! But the words "someone else" stabbed at me - freelance journalists are a competitive lot, and someone else getting that scoop or landing that dream job as a columnist was far too much to contemplate.

"All right, consider me on board!" I said, perhaps a little too eagerly.

"Excellent!" Carole enthused.

"Er, of course, I'd have to try and talk my husband into it," I added as a caveat. "He's er, well I guess you could say he's a bit of a sceptic when it comes to things like nudism. He's a good catholic boy you see, and he might not be quite so receptive to the idea of not just choosing to go naked, but having to go naked."

"Well, we'll leave the job of convincing him to you, Allie," Mags said. "But you'll have to let us know fairly quickly - we want to include the first article in the March issue, so we'd need to make arrangements for your stay within the next few weeks to give you time to acclimatise and to write up the first article. I know this would involve quite a lot of upheaval for you both, but I hope you can understand what a golden opportunity this is."

"Depending on how well the articles are received we'd be more than happy to take you on as a regular columnist on a permanent contract," Carole added. "Either back here in the UK, or staying on Blackwell as 'our woman in paradise' for at least a few more years."

Well, to cut a long story short, I left that meeting with my head spinning and my heart in my mouth. I had to find myself a decent pub and get a very stiff drink inside me so that I could collect my thoughts.

The more I thought about it, and the more the alcohol in my system dulled my senses, the more the idea of being paid to live in a tropical paradise began to appeal to me. Sure, it meant having to be nude all the time, and no matter how I thought about it I still had serious reservations about letting someone other than my husband see my naked body, but would it really be all that bad? I mean, if I were the only person forced to go around naked that'd be a whole different kind of nightmare, but if everyone was in the same position, well, how bad could it be? Of course, the flip side was that I'd have to let other people see my dear husband Patrick naked, and I always thought that as his wife, looking upon his naked body was a privilege that ought only to be afforded to me, and not something to be shared with others -- least of all, other women.

Before I go any further, I ought to explain that my husband is quite a handsome looking man (which is a bit of an understatement), and I've often noticed many jealous looks from other women (and yes, some men too) when they see me out and about with him. He is pretty much every English woman's ideal vision of Irish male physical perfection, with the heart-melting accent that goes with it! And if you think he looks handsome with his clothes on, when he's naked his attractiveness is turned up all the way to eleven! He is quite a gym rat, with well defined musculature, a chest to die for, the most amazing bum I've ever seen on a guy, and to crown it all, the most amazing looking penis I've ever seen. He's not huge in that department before you let your imagination get carried away (I've always found massively sized penises to more of a turn-off actually) but it's just so perfectly proportioned in relation to the rest of him. Plus his foreskin is such a delightful plaything to have at my disposal when we're naked in bed together!

Okay, sorry -- too much information!

Anyway, I've been assured by Patrick that I'm not at all bad to look at myself - I may not go to the gym as often as he does, but I eat healthily and we often go out running and hiking together, so despite my normally sedentary occupation I'm definitely not out of shape.

I found myself on the train home that rainy January afternoon thinking about how I would try to convince him to join me. We weren't especially wealthy - as a freelancer my income was sporadic at best, and with Patrick working most evenings pulling pints in pub in the town centre, his job didn't pay especially well either.

I knew I had to choose my words very carefully - I didn't want to scare him off the idea immediately, but with him coming from such a conservative Catholic background I was sure that I had my work cut out in convincing him. I still wasn't entirely sure about it myself, but at least I found that I was more open to the idea of spending a whole year naked on an island populated by naked people than I thought I'd be.

Britain in January can be quite a gloomy place - the weather (every Brit's preferred subject of small talk for breaking the ice at parties) is often cloudy and overcast at this time of year, casting an air of wistful melancholy over the land. That's not to say that it's not without its charms, but the thought of escaping to a tropical island paradise is one that is never far from one's mind - especially when it's pouring with rain outside and it gets dark by half past four in the afternoon.

Patrick, bless him, greeted me with exactly what I needed after walking through the rain from Guildford train station to our little rented flat near the town centre - a kiss, a warm towel to dry my hair, and a large mug of thick vegetable soup with a chunk of crusty bread, both made by his own fair hands. Bliss! But it made my task of breaking my news to him all the more difficult. I'm not sure why, but it just sort of did. I decided though to just take a deep breath and come right out with it as soon as he asked me how I'd got on with my meeting up in London.

"They offered me a job," I began, smiling broadly. "Well, for a year at least. But if it all goes well they said they might take me on as a permanent columnist."

"Well, that's absolutely incredible!" Patrick responded gleefully in his Irish accent that never failed to make my heart skip a beat even though I'd been married to him for more than three years. "I'd say this is definitely an excuse to break out some champagne!"

"Yeah, well, it sort of comes with a catch," I said a little cagily. "It's overseas."

"Overseas? Where?" Patrick asked.

"You'll be coming with me, before you ask," I replied to immediately allay any fear he might have that we'd be forcibly parted for such a long time. "They want to send me, well us, to an island in the Pacific, to write monthly articles about what life for the islanders and the tourists who visit the place is like."

"Sounds nice," Patrick smiled. "So you'd be like, their correspondent there or something?"

"Kind of," I responded. "Except that it's more a sort of "getting under the skin of the local population" sort of thing. We'd have to literally become islanders ourselves and adopt their way of life and observe their customs."

"Well, that wouldn't be so bad, I guess," Patrick said. "As long as they aren't cannibals or practice human sacrifice or something!"

"Well, I can definitely at least say they aren't cannibals, or practitioners of human sacrifice," I answered him truthfully, and then looked him right in the eye before going on. "But they are naturists."

"What? Naturists? You mean those feckin' screwballs who strip off and run around in the nip all the time?"

"Well, whether they're screwballs or not I have no idea, but yes, they do like to go around the place in the nip."