it's a wrap; To save her skin from the sun, Joan Juliet Buck has shunned the decks of boats, hidden on the beach under lengths of cloth, and been privy to the secrets of strangers.

Byline: Joan Juliet Buck

I look young, considering how much I remember, but you wouldn't know what I look like if you met me on the beach, because you wouldn't see me. You would see fabric. I wrap myself from head to toes before I venture near any beach. In summer I paint the toes an agreeable color because they have to stand in for everything that other women display, the curve of this, the swell of that, the skin. You would see printed pareos, tie-dyed sarongs, lengths of softened denim. You would see a hat, and under the hat, yet more fabric, to hide my face and my neck. I can see you, you can't see me. The sun can't see me. I am safe, and I am free.

Until puberty, I shrieked by the seashore in half a bikini, front teeth missing and chest flat, eyes squinting, my shoulders dark brown. Adults roasted; children played while roasting. There were homemade concoctions of olive oil and essence of bergamot, to burn faster. Cannes was a playpen, the sand silver soft and fine, the water warm and shallow. You could hear the groans as women turned to present another haunch to the sun, the little cries as they picked the burned white skin off their children's shoulders and promised that you had to peel before you tanned. The sun exfoliated you first, flaming red to flaking white to pale beige to brown. Teenage girls in listless groups listened to the radio as they peeled petals of sunburn off each other's skin. I knew why they were listless. It was exhausting being in the sun, like sitting under a gigantic steamroller. By the last week of August, everyone was the color of wood: cherry, mahogany, walnut. In the early fall, faces and hands took on the look of the dried flowers in very old bouquets: a dying blush on a papery surface. Winter driftwood was not far behind.

At fourteen I became allergic to the sun. "Look at the funny red spots inside your arms!" said my friends. "Pellagra," said the French doctor. The word was looked up. Pellagra, said the dictionary, was a side effect of malnutrition. My mother protested that I ate my vegetables; I swore that I ate my vegetables; the doctor said, "More meat." I went on nicotinamide pills and a nicotinamide cream called Nicobion and never had to lie in the sun again.

It was a relief. For years, the only cream that protected against the sun was zinc oxide. Small sporting children wore blue stripes down their noses. Australians and surfers did, too. I preferred to stay indoors, or in Ireland.

I played cards with old men in the saloons of yachts while other young women took the tops off tiny bikinis on an upper deck. While the sun was preparing the virgins for sacrifice, I would put "Strangers in the Night" on the pickup and dance around inside, to the delight of the old men. I'd sneak off to the basket on the back deck and open the bottles and tubes of Hawaiian Tropic, Coppertone, and Ambre Solaire, inhale the forbidden odors of vanilla and coconut, dream of having a different skin. The seductive rotting-apricot odor of Bain de Soleil suggested a heady Lawrencian sensuality. I put Aznavour on the pickup. I swam in a T-shirt.

In Rome during the warm months it was customary to lunch at the beach at Ostia and digest supine in the sun. The beach was called the Gambrinus. I tried to do like the Romans, but after 20 minutes under the crushing glare, I had a headache and a rash, and deeply regretted the squid salad I had just eaten.