When Should I Discourage My Kid From Swimming Naked In Remote Rivers And Lakes (Autistic Or Not)
Last July, I was perched on a sun-warmed granite boulder at the end of a 2-mile hike, picking crust off my cheese sandwich, watching my 10-year-old J. J’s autistic, and he’s hated the cling of wet fabric against his skin since he was a toddler. Before I could even pull the sunscreen out of my pack, he’d yanked off his t-shirt, his socks, his swim trunks, everything, and went sprinting whooping into the cold, shallow water. We’d been coming to this hidden bend of the Green River for four years, and we’ve never once run into another group here. Until that day, I’d never thought twice about letting him skinny dip. But that week, I’d noticed the first changes: his shoulders had broadened over the spring, a fine fuzz had started growing under his arms, his voice cracked when he got excited. I wiped crumbs off my jeans and thought, this is the question, isn’t it? When do I stop this?
A couple months before that trip, I sat in my monthly autistic parent support group, and another mom asked this exact question out loud. Her 9-year-old, also autistic, swam naked in their private lake behind the house when no one was around, and her in-laws kept telling her she was being irresponsible, that it was inappropriate, that she needed to put a stop to it immediately. No one in the group had a straight answer. One mom said it didn’t matter at all as long as no one else was there, another said she’d drawn the line at 8 for her neurotypical kid, so why would it be different for an autistic kid. The question stuck with me, because I’d been avoiding thinking about it.
It’s not that swimming naked is inherently bad, when you’re the only people around. I grew up doing it at my grandma’s cottage, no one cared when I was little. Body comfort is a big deal for me, especially for J, who’s spent so much of his life being told his body and his needs are wrong. I don’t want to shame him for being comfortable in his skin. But the line isn’t about shame, and it isn’t about whether anyone is around right this second. It’s about two things: unexpected company, and preparing for social norms as he gets older. That bend of the river is remote, but twice this year, trail runners came through the old overgrown access path, right when we were there. Once, J was already clothed, but next time he might not be. It’s not just J’s comfort we have to think about, it’s other people’s, whether we asked for them to show up or not.
I also thought about what happens as J gets older. If he gets used to never wearing a swim suit when we’re in remote spots, what happens when we go camping with extended family, or to a friend’s cabin that’s shared by a few other groups? It’s much harder to introduce a new rule when he’s 13 and set in his habits than it is to adjust slowly now, when he’s still open to small changes. This applies to neurotypical kids just as much as it does to autistic kids, too. I have a friend with a 11-year-old neurotypical son who still liked to skinny dip in their remote farm pond, and she had the same question: why does it matter if no one’s around? It matters less for right now, and more for the habits kids build as they grow into bodies that other people perceive as adult.
I didn’t drop a big rule on him that day at the river. I waited until that night, when we were back at camp, roasting marshmallows for s’mores, and he was in a good mood after a full day of skipping rocks. I started with what he knows to be true: “I get why you don’t want to wear swim trunks. Wet scratchy fabric is the worst, that makes total sense.” Then I explained the change simply, no big shame talk: “But your body is growing up now, and when people get to be your size, most people expect them to wear clothes when they’re swimming, even if it’s just one other person there. Hikers do come through our spot sometimes, and we don’t want to surprise anyone who isn’t expecting to see someone naked. We also need to get used to wearing a suit when we go other places, like the community pool or when we camp with the cousins, right?”
Then I pulled out the thing I’d ordered a week after that support group meeting: a sensory-friendly swim suit, no tag, super lightweight, flat seams, no tight elastic around the waist. I got it a size bigger than he needed, so it wouldn’t cling tight when it got wet. It cost $25 more than a regular suit off the rack, but it was worth it to meet him halfway, instead of just demanding he adapt to a rule that didn’t account for his needs.
I don’t do a hard no even now, when we’re truly alone. The next time we went back to the river, a month ago, he wore the suit in, complained a little that it still wasn’t as good as nothing. I checked the trailhead’s live camera app (the park service put them in last year to track foot traffic) and saw no one had checked in for four hours. I told him he could take it off once we’d been there for a while, as long as he kept his clothes folded close by to pull on if we heard someone coming. That compromise works for us.
For me, the line ended up being around 9 or 10, right when the first signs of puberty hit, no matter if your kid is autistic or neurotypical. For neurotypical kids who don’t mind swim suits, it’s easy enough to just ask them to wear it even when you’re alone, to build the habit. For autistic kids or any kid with sensory needs, you don’t have to just drop a rule and force it. Find a suit that works for their body first. Make small compromises for when you’re 100% sure no one is around. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.
I still have days I second-guess. Sometimes I think, if we’re truly alone, what’s the harm in letting him be comfortable? It’s not like anyone’s getting hurt. Other times I think, it’s better to build these habits slowly, when he’s young and still open to adjustment, than to have to scramble to change expectations when he’s a teenager and someone unexpected shows up. Last trip, he took the suit off after an hour, floated on his back in the sun, and pointed out a hawk circling overhead. We left an hour later, no one else showed up. It was fine. I’m still figuring it out, one trip at a time.
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