“Brews in the Buff!! "

Knowing my passion for everything relative to beer ,
someone recently sent me a link to a really novel beer
idea: a naked beer festival to be held at a nudist camp in
Pennsylvania. Obviously such a unique beer event
needed to be chronicled on Beer Nexus.com, so the
Cask Commissioners of Draught Board 15 , my beer
club, immediately began urging DB15 CiC Vince Capano
to drop everything (including his pants) to make
arrangements to attend and write an account of his

His reluctance to do so was countered with attractive
perks offered by the commissioners: reimbursement for
gasoline, free accommodations at a nearby Quality Inn,
transportation to and from the festival grounds and
even a thong embroidered with the DB15 logo in case
he was a little shy. However, despite these appealing
inducements, Vince was still averse to covering the
event. With the festival date fast approaching, if Beer
Nexus were to remain at the forefront of the beer
information world, and acknowledging that SOMEBODY
had to report on the festival, I volunteered.

I have an acquaintance, Walt, who is an enthusiastic
nudist and teetotaler and I asked if he would like to
accompany me to the fest as my designated driver,
possibly to play a little volleyball while I drank beer.
Having never been to a nudist camp, I also figured he
could give me some pointers on nudist etiquette. Willing
to shed his clothes at any opportunity, he eagerly
agreed and the two of us (his wife, also an avid nudist,
had other, clothed plans for the day) started out bright
and early for the two and a half hour trip to Sunny
Acres Nudist Resort.

We had already purchased our tickets on line, so
arriving at the gates of the facility we were instructed to
park the car and head for the undressing room where
we were to receive our wristbands and my tasting glass.
We were issued lockers and I timidly began to strip. I
hadn’t been around this many bare asses since the
recruit receiving barracks at Parris Island Marine Corps
Base, but I figured oh, what the hell and walked over to
a large woman who was issuing the wrist bands and
who was wearing what appeared to be two gunny sacks
loaded with sand around her neck. Only when I got
closer did I realize they were not gunny sacks at all! But
she cheerfully welcomed us to Sunny Acres, strapped
on our wrist bands and issued us small towels that we
could keep as souvenirs.

I tried to wrap mine around my waist but was instructed
that it was only to sit on when taking a break from my
rounds of the beer tents. Splinters in one’s posterior
can quickly ruin a memorable beer day. Just ahead of me
in line for the tasting glass was a loud and rowdy bunch
of twenty-somethings who were removing their wrist
bands and placing them on a lower part of their
anatomies, despite the warnings of Mrs. Gunny Sack
that they were to be placed only on the wrist. When
they continued to ignore her and actually started waving
their “wrist” bands at a group of female twenty-
somethings, she blew a whistle and some security
people, looking slightly ridiculous while wearing only
police hats and Sam Browne belts, showed up and
ushered them out of the park.

This little disturbance thus quelled, I received my tasting
glass and entered the grounds. It was a lovely setting,
with lush, grassy lawns, flower beds, shade trees,
wooden benches (thank God for the towels) and a large
kidney shaped pool as the center piece, filled with wet,
naked people. Surrounding the pool were the beer tents
with banners announcing which brewery was
represented at each tent and staffed by stark naked
pourers. Apparently, no brewers chose to personally
attend as the festival rules required that all persons be
unclothed, including any outside vendors. This was a
downer because I always like to discuss the beers
offered at a festival with their creators, and being a raw
(no pun intended) novice to being nude with hundreds
of people, I didn’t feel too much like discussing
anything, let alone IBUs or ABV. I preferred to just get
my beer and disappear behind a tree.

At the far end of the pool was a gazebo which on this
day was serving as a covered bandstand. On the stand,
banging out a lively rendition of “The Strip Polka” was
Sonny Bottoms and his Free Spirits, a Cleveland style
polka band widely popular in nudist camp circles because
of their willingness to perform au naturel. The ensemble
features Sonny, himself, on accordion and keyboard,
the appropriately named Dick Little and Swingin’ Peter
Johnson on drums and tenor saxophone, respectively,
Heinie Schmidt on tuba, and the Wizard of the Strings,
“Skinny” Dipper, on banjo.

The group plays a wide variety of pop music in addition
to their signature polkas and usually ties to play at least
two or three nudist themed tunes during each set. In
the several hours I spent at the festival I also heard
Sonny’s interpretations of “The Bare Necessities”, “I
Saw Her Snatch Her Satchel From the Doorway” and
“When the Moon Comes over the Mountain” in which the
band starts the tune bent over with their backs to the

Quite a few of the offered beers also had a nudist bent.
The specialty of the day was DuClaw Brewing Company’
s Bare Ass Blonde Ale, and I was also able to partake of
Bareville Pils from nearby Bube’s Brewery, Big Dick Ale
from Canada, Nipple Mountain Barleywine from Colorado
and Cameltoe Egyptian IPA from Chicago.

A minor problem at the fest was my shy reluctance to
approach the servers. I was rather exposed since my
tasting glass holder lanyard reached only to mid belly
level, covering nothing, and the servers, although also
in their birthday suits, were at least able to hide behind
the coil boxes. I felt very conspicuous. After about an
hour, though, I became accustomed to the gentle
breezes felt on parts of my body that had never before
felt a breeze, and fortified by an hour’s worth of craft
beer, I lost my inhibitions. With a slight buzz on and
knowing that I didn’t have to drive, I confidently strode
up to each tent, presented my glass and was able to
add twenty seven new beers to my beer log without
spilling any on my clothing, which was back in the
undressing room.

The beer log itself, however, was another problem. My
usual routine at festivals is to procure a sample, taste it,
and make a few notes on a small, pocket sized pad. At
this festival, though, I had no pockets, so it was a very
difficult balancing act trying to hold my glass, notebook,
pen, and sitting on towel, all at the same time with just
two hands and no pockets.

Another very serious problem was my lack of foresight
to bring along some sunscreen since some parts of my
anatomy had never been exposed to the kind of brilliant
sunshine found at Sunny Acres. But thankfully, the
organizers of the event had anticipated this need and
between the Troeg’s and Yuengling tents was a vendor
selling Hawaiian Tropic, Coppertone and other lotions. I
practically ran up to this tent and reached for my wallet,
only to again become aware of the fact that I had no
pockets. But the vendor was a compassionate man and
knowing that at this event I was not the only novice
nudist, he had a payment system which allowed for
signing an IOU which could be squared up when one’s
pants were retrieved.

Now adequately protected from the sun, I continued my
rounds of the beer tents, trying new beers, eating
sausages from the bratwurst stand (strange selection,
indeed, at a nudist gathering), and gaining an all over
tan. About two hours into the festival, Sonny Bottoms
took a breather between numbers to announce a special
tapping of a cask conditioned beer brewed especially for
the occasion, a bourbon barrel aged and dry hopped
version of Nude Beach beer and limited to pouring for
only the first fifty festival attendees. There was a mad
rush to the tent during which many body parts and
appendages were flapping, wagging and waving back
and forth, similar to what I had seen when I dropped
Walt off at the volleyball court upon our arrival.

At exactly five pm a bell rang to announce the end of
the festival. I located Walt at the volleyball court and we
made our way back to the now DRESSING room to
retrieve our pants. Contrary to Mickey Gilley’s assertion
that “The Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time”, even
through a beer induced haze Mrs. Gunny Sack didn’t
look any better. But she thanked us for coming and
welcomed us to return with our wives at any time, an
invitation for which Walt immediately began to plan and
which I mentally decided to disregard. The experience
was certainly different but not one which I’d care to
repeat. Besides, my wife’s reaction to Mrs. Gunny Sack’
s invite would probably be something like “Are you out
of your @#%$!& mind?”

But at least, in representing Draught Board 15 and Beer
Nexus.com, I can proudly say I took one for the team!

Cheers and keep your pants on,


Another two
glasses up
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Dan Hodge!
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