I went there planning to write a novel. After all, there was a guy named Michener who did very well writing in Hawaii. I even went to the island of Kauai, where "South Pacific" was filmed. But somewhere between the sixth chapter and the Pulitzer Prize, I wandered astray.

(Years later, I finished the novel and after James Michener gave a talk in Dallas, I presented him with a copy of my book. He got a real kick out of the gesture, since everyone else in the line had books of his to be autographed. One person brought a small box full of his books. Some nerve.)

It was one of those days in Hawaii when you are compelled to walk along the shore to watch, listen to and smell the surf, as it pounds the rocky coast. After several miles, I rounded a bend and stood on a jutting cliff, overlooking a crescent-shaped beach.

Down below there were some surfers and a few folks just lazing on the beach. Then it struck me. None of the people on the beach had any clothes on! I had stumbled upon what was to become one of the great joys of my life ... Donkey Beach. A nude beach.

The beach gets its name from the fact that several semi-wild donkeys and horses roam there. I will never forget the donkeys and horses I made friends with on the beach. I remember especially the old scarred white horse. If I walked, he would walk a couple of paces behind me. If I ran, he would run. He would nip gently at my bare behind as I ran. I would slap him on the nose and scold him.

It is something to see a huge horse roll on its back in the sand, wallow violently, its feet thrashing at the sky, and suddenly right itself and prance off. It leaves no doubt in your mind as to whom the beach really belongs.

At first I was self conscious and my eyes popped out. But after a couple of days, I began to settle into the routine of Donkey Beach. There were the regulars, most of whom worked in the restaurants and bars at night, kids in their 20s. A few retired folks, and an occasional tourist. Donkey Beach was not on any maps.

Kauai is a remarkable island. It is laid back and not troubled by over- development. Family life, drinking beer, and communing with the ocean are the mainstays of existence there. It is hard to tell the rich from the poor (if you don't go to their houses). Most everyone wears just rubber sandals and shorts. If you wear a shirt, you are branded as a tourist.

It is a kind of classless society, where the love of God's natural gifts and a fascination with the ocean seems to bind together people of all ages and ethnic backgrounds.

Even the millionaires drive old cars that are rusting off the frames. On Kauai, God eventually makes every car into a convertible.

At Donkey Beach this common bond goes even further. Everyone starts off on the same footing--naked. From there you have to make your own way into conversations and groups. Like a lot of people, I supposed that those who frequented the beach were weirdos or perverts.

But as I made my way along the beach from day to day, I met some amazing people and had some incredible experiences. One of the most memorable was the day I noticed two couples frolicking in the water. From the shrieks and looks of pure delight and abandon on their faces, I knew they had to be tourists. They finally came to rest on the sand. One of the men, in his 40s I would think, picked up a camera and was asking one of the ladies to pose for him. There was a lot of good-natured horsing around and kidding.

I stumbled out of the crashing surf and made my way to the group. "Hi. Where are you all from?" It was my standard question to those without tans.

The four of them welcomed me, and we sat naked on the beach and chatted, as though we were at a church social. I say at a church social, because it was, in a way. My new friends were theologians. One taught at a seminary. They were attending a religious convention at the Kauai Surf Hotel.

There is an openness in this setting that cannot be described. Think about how you judge people. First there is the place where you meet, the clothes and jewelry the people are wearing, and the car they are driving. All that is stripped away, if you'll pardon the pun, at Donkey Beach.

My theologians and I hung out together for a couple of days. When I mentioned that someday I intended to write an article about the people I met on Donkey Beach, one of the men reached in a knapsack and pulled out his business card. "Be sure and send us a copy," he said, beaming.

We were a family of sorts on Donkey Beach, even though many of us never spoke to one another. There was the old man with the gnarled walking stick who scoured the beach for sea shells. One of the girls said they dubbed him "The Mayor of Donkey Beach." It was obvious that he was enjoying the sights as well as the shells. Sure beat playing shuffleboard at Sun City.

There was a lovely lady in her early 30s who had come to the island as part of a tour. She took one look around, pulled her bags off the bus and opened a small business on the island. On her day off, she would always come to the far end of the beach and settle down by herself. Over a period of time, we became friends. I even gave her some backrubs, using the tanning lotion. Once I did kiss her lightly. She thanked me. Thanked me for being a friend who could sit and talk, rub her back and understand the limits of our friendship.

Another day I saw a girl lying on her back with a big hat covering her face, but otherwise unencumbered. As I drew closer I realized I knew her. She was a redhead I had taken to dinner some weeks before. Although her face was covered with a straw hat, I was positive who she was. There were not that many redheads of that size and shape on the island. I flopped down in the sand next to her. We had a much more interesting and relaxed conversation than the night we had gone to dinner. Here there was no pretense, no posturing.

How well I remember the astonished look on the face of one fellow from Minnesota. He came up to me, gestured around the beach, and said, "Is this legal?" He had a wonderful time, but I got the impression he still felt guilty. That's the way we're programmed.

Then there were my two favorite ladies. They were sitting cross-legged, sporting the usual Donkey-Beach attire, a sun shade, on their heads. One held a large spiral notebook on her lap, her one pretense at modesty. "It was just too nice a day to keep our clothes on," one of the ladies volunteered. Talk about opening lines. I sat down to do my "interview."

They were school teachers from Oregon. When I asked about the notebook, the scribbler replied. "We're team teachers... in the third grade. We're working on our curriculum for next semester." Okay. Nothing fazed me by then.

"Tell me," I asked, "are you going to write a school theme paper on 'How I Spent My Summer Vacation'?" That broke them up, and we had a very nice conversation.

I would be lying to you if I told you that this whole thing at the beach was really a "religious experience." Like the day two young girls decided that it was a good place for gymnastics. To see a full backbend from 10 feet away is not something you describe on a post card to the folks back home. But it was therapeutic in a way. It was a unique experience for those of us who did not frequent stripper bars on the Mainland - and much more wholesome.

Not that Donkey Beach was without its more sensuous moments. There was the time that only one couple and I were left on the beach. Finally, they got tired of waiting for me to leave and began to make love on a towel about 10 yards away. Well, find me somebody who has never wanted to watch two young, well-figured people make love on a beach, and I'll find you a liar ... or somebody you probably wouldn't enjoy being around.

I rose and walked slowly toward the ocean, angling closer to the couple, the man's oiled and undulating fanny glistening in the sun. The girl noticed me. The couple froze. "Oh, don't mind me," I said. "I was rather enjoying it." That took a lot of guts, but that's what Donkey Beach is all about. Honesty! They packed up immediately and left, leaving me to ponder whether honesty was truly the best policy.

And there was Adonis and the story-book little blonde who showed up one day in a rented Jeep. They put their towels out in front of the normal line of sunbathers, so that nobody would miss them. They took turns slowly and sensuously rubbing each other with Johnson's Baby Oil. (How do I know what kind of oil they were using? Mind your own business.) They repeated the performance every 15 minutes or so, not missing a single inch of their respective bodies. Tourists, obviously.

The regulars at Donkey Beach held up pretty well under this assault on their senses. But the participants, being weak mortals from the "Mainland," could stand it no more. They slipped off to a little cove hidden from the beach, where Adonis made love to the cute little blonde in every way imaginable for nearly an hour. (How do I know? Like I said. Mind your own business.)

There is a lot to be learned from the Donkey-Beach experience. In the first place, there is a bit of exhibitionism and voyeurism in everyone. Hang around a pool and look at the skimpy suits on both sexes, if you have any doubt. If all that those people want is a suntan, they could get one at home in the back yard. The nude beach is a way to express those feelings in a way that I think is healthy and constructive.

Today we are bombarded with the idea that everyone either has, or should have, a perfect body. Underclothes that shape you, exercises that mold you, diets that trim you. There is a lot of anxiety about not coming up to the "standard."

Spend a day on Donkey Beach and you will feel greatly relieved about your own self image. You will see fat people, skinny people, flat breasts, drooping breasts, men with appendages that pretty much all look alike. Flat stomachs and beer bellies. The myth of the "perfect body" is exposed. Nobody needs to feel inferior. We all are what we are ... unique in some way. Once we admit that, in front of perfect strangers, the anxiety goes away.

There is a special feeling of warmth lying there with the sun touching every pore of your body and a special tingle as the breeze gently caresses all the hairs on your body. Swimming naked in the ocean and playing in the surf provides a sense of freedom like no other. Snuggling your body into the sand gives you a kind of energy from the earth and a connection to it that cannot otherwise be experienced.

Finally, you begin to appreciate the beauty of the human body. No group of people, dressed to the hilt, standing around gaping at a nude statue in a museum, can ever know true beauty. To see a nude couple running, hand in hand, out of the surf, laughing and totally oblivious to their nudity, is a scene no photographer can do justice to, no artist can properly capture on canvas, and no sculptor can adequately fashion from clay.

I miss Donkey Beach. If you happen to see the Mayor of Donkey Beach, tell him I shall return, wading triumphantly through the surf, with only my corn-cob pipe clenched in my teeth. And a visor to shield my eyes from the sun.