60 YEARS IN THE BUFF!
Shedding my clothes helped me shed my inhibitions
June Campbell-Tong, 80, Wellington, NZ.
My husband, Bruce, and I pulled up at the gate. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I said, feeling physically sick.
“You’ll be ne,” Bruce replied.
It was October 1963, and we’d been married for a month.
We drove through the pine trees to a camping area where we parked the car.
When we got out, Bruce took o all his clothes.
“Come on, let’s go,” he said.
It felt surreal to walk fully clothed behind him – completely starkers!
When Bruce and I had got engaged, he told me he was a member of the Canterbury Sun Club, a naturist club.
It wasn’t something I was interested in myself.
e trouble was, once we got married, Bruce was no longer allowed to continue his membership as a married man without his wife being a member.
So, tentatively, I agreed to accompany him to the club to check it out.
What am I doing? I thought as we walked along.
e rst thing that struck me was the diversity of members.
ere were people of di erent ages from babies to the elderly, all in the bu , playing sports or sitting by the pool.
Everyone was so welcoming even though I stood out like a sore thumb in all my clothes.
“You take your time,” a woman commented kindly.
People had sagging breasts, birthmarks and imperfect gures yet everyone appeared completely comfortable in their own skin.
It was refreshing.
“ey all look so free,” I said to Bruce.
After a few more weeks of being a passive observer, I felt I was ready to strip o
On my fourth visit, I quickly removed my clothes in the car and covered myself up with a towel.
But seeing everyone . else walking up ahead stark naked, I decided to follow suit and left my towel behind.
At rst, I felt selfconscious but after a few hours, I began to relax.
No-one even looked at me twice!
I enjoyed reading by the pool and even played table tennis in the bu .
e nudist world seemed more relaxed and free than the outside world, but for the next ve years, I still felt a little awkward, like I was an outsider.
en, in August 1968,
I fell pregnant. at’s when I nally shed the last of my inhibitions.
On hot days, I rushed to the club to have the freedom of being without any clothes.
Walking around, with my naked belly on display,
I felt connected to nature in the loveliest way.
And when
I gave birth to my son, Oscar, in May 1969, I brought him to the club often to breastfeed him in public without fear of recrimination.
As he got bigger, he loved the freedom of being able to run around and swim without clothes.
Bruce sadly passed away in 1979 from a heart attack when he was only 50, but I continued my association with the club, even when I moved cities.
In 1982, my picture was even put on the cover of the now defunct NZ Naturist magazine, covered with pretty purple blooms.
It was a national publication, and for the
rst time people outside the naturism circle found out about my hobby, but I didn’t care.
By now, I was working in admin for the city council and if any of my colleagues saw it they didn’t say anything.
Being a naturist helped me accept who I was, as I was, with all my aws and curves.
Even when I put on weight at various times in my life, it didn’t stop me going starkers.
In 1987, I was elected the rst woman president of the New Zealand Naturist Federation, and I headed up bi-annual meetings.
Whenever I told friends about being a naturist, they were always curious.
“What do you do at the club?” a neighbour asked.
“We do gardening, swimming, relaxing; a lot of sports, too,” I replied.
People were shocked if I ever suggested they should give it a try.
“Oh no, it’s not for us,” they said, but I managed to convince a few friends to join me over the years.
Once Oscar left home, I often went nude around the house, too.
As years went by, people accepted naturism more although it was still wrongly associated with sex.
Naturism is not sexual; it’s about freedom, the choice to be ourselves and to embrace nature. In May 2015, I met a fellow single naturist at the Wellington Naturist Club.
“I’ve always felt more comfortable without clothes than with them,” Pieter, 70, said.
“I couldn’t live without this lifestyle,” I replied.
We became good friends and have since visited naturist clubs in Australia,
Spain, Croatia, France, Italy, America and South Africa.
Last October I realised something.
I’ve been a naturist for 60 years! I thought. at’s a long time taking your clothes o !
COVID caused an increase in numbers of naturists around the world as people could relax without their clothes at home during the lockdowns.
We see more younger people trying it these days, too, especially those in their 30s and 40s.
As far as I know, I am the longest standing female member of any naturist club in New Zealand.
When I shed my clothes all those years ago, I shed my inhibitions along with them. And I’ve never looked back.
I’ve never looked back
I took a test – it was negative
Natalie Austin, 40.
Islumped onto the sofa feeling drained. “I can’t do it,” I told my husband, Robert, 37. “If we don’t do it one last time, we’ll never know,” he replied.
We’d been trying for a family for almost 10 years and had gone through three rounds of IVF with no success.
Our health system entitled us to four rounds, and although I felt like a human pin cushion with all the injections and fertility drugs, I agreed to go ahead with the nal round.
Weeks later, Robert was downstairs making us a cuppa when I decided to do a test.
On seeing the results,
I ran down to him.
“Lines appeared straightaway!”
I shouted.
Robert nearly spurted out his tea.
A six-week scan con rmed we were expecting. It meant everything to us.
e pregnancy ran smoothly, until a torturous 110-hour labour which ended with an emergency C-section.
It was worth it to hold our baby girl, Eloise.
Our little family was complete.
Six months later, I ew to Turkey and was put under general anaesthetic to have a temporary gastric balloon tted into my stomach, which would give me a feeling of fullness to help me lose weight. I was 85kg and wanted to get
t and healthy for Eloise and myself.
It was planned for removal a year later.
Back home, I lived on water, purees, high-protein foods and vegetables.
en I began su ering with nausea.
“Are you okay?” Robert asked me.
“My body’s probably just adjusting to the balloon,” I replied.
Soon, my baby weight began to melt away and I’d lost about 13kg.
Only thing was, my period was all over the place. It had arrived ve months after having Eloise, a month before the gastric surgery – but that was it. I’d always had irregular periods anyway but took a pregnancy test just in case. It was negative. No surprise, given Robert and I had never had any luck conceiving naturally.
My sudden weight loss has probably messed with my cycle, I gured.
When Eloise was 10 months old, Robert and I sold our house and moved into a rental. After helping to shift our heavy furniture, I was exhausted.
We didn’t have a very good kitchen, so we often ordered takeaways. It wasn’t ideal with my gastric balloon, but I ate smaller portions than Robert.
One night, we ordered a pizza. Afterwards, I noticed my stomach moving up and down.
“Check this out,” I said to Robert. “ere’s a baby in there!”
“What?!” he replied. “I’m kidding, the balloon
clearly just doesn’t like pizza,” I said, certain it was gas.
A week later, I woke with abdominal cramps.
“Here comes my period,” I sighed to Robert.
I popped some painkillers.
But 90 minutes later, I was throwing up in the toilet.
Is this appendicitis?
I worried.
e pain got worse so Robert rushed me and Eloise to hospital.
I did a urine sample and as my back went into spasm, I heard my name called.
“Take Eloise home,”
I told Robert.
He planned to have his parents watch her and then he’d come back.
Minutes later, I was bending over a bed in utter agony.
“Does she know?” a doctor asked a nurse, who looked at me with a smile.
“You’re pregnant,” she told me.
“What? No!” I said. It seemed impossible. “When was your last period?” she asked.
“I have irregular periods,” I said. “And I had a negative test so I can’t be.”
I was rushed to another hospital and given painrelieving gas.
“Her contractions are two minutes apart,” a doctor said.
Contractions?
A scan revealed there was de nitely a baby – and I was around 24 to 28 weeks gestation.
“Don’t push, you’re nine centimetres,” the doctor said.
Is this a dream?
I thought.
e baby was transverse and its arm was in my birth canal so I was rushed into theatre and given a spinal anaesthetic.
Moments later, the baby was delivered and put on CPAP breathing support.
Soon, a nurse passed me a tiny bundle, the size of a small bottle of water.
It was so surreal. “It’s a girl and she’s 30 weeks,” the nurse said. I’d unknowingly been carrying this baby for more than seven months.
Within minutes she was whisked o to the NICU and I was taken to recovery.
A nurse phoned Robert to tell him the news. He’d missed the birth of a baby we didn’t even know we were having.
During the past seven months, I’d had a tattoo,
llers, Botox, and had been lifting heavy furniture. I’d also lost 13kg – all while growing a baby inside me.
I worked out we’d conceived when Eloise was just four months old. It meant I’d had the gastric balloon tted while I was four weeks pregnant.
A nurse had taken a photo of our baby and me, which I sent to Robert and to my mum, Sue, captioned: Just had a baby.
Is this a joke? How did you not know you were pregnant? Mum wrote.
It was going to be a popular question.
It dawned on me that my lack of periods and nausea were due to the baby, not the balloon, and the ‘bubbly pizza gas’ was actually her moving.
Robert rushed back to hospital and met our baby in the NICU.
at evening, I was taken down to gaze at her in the incubator.
I instantly fell in love. We named her Darcy. en we were handed another bombshell.
“Darcy has Down syndrome,” a doctor explained.
We didn’t know the severity of it but our immense love for her was unwavering. Her big sister adored her, too.
Darcy spent 130 days in hospital before we could take her home. She was on oxygen and had her heart rate and blood pressure monitored constantly.
Now, at 68kg, I’ve since had my gastric balloon removed and Darcy is eight months old.
We couldn’t imagine life without her.
People still ask how I didn’t know I was expecting, but I’m proof cryptic pregnancies are real.
ere was a time I wasn’t sure I’d ever become a mother. Now I’m a mum of two and feel very blessed.
When Darcy’s older,
I’ll be sure to tell her how she gave us the biggest
– and best – surprise of our lives.
‘It’s a girl and she’s 30 weeks’