“FILM: Woodstock 7 p.m. Eureka theater. The classic movie that captured the seminal music festival’s three days of love and music. $5/come naked, pay half price.”

We read the ad in the Journal carefully, and decided our new home – Eureka, California – must be more liberal than we realized. And five bucks was five bucks. Did we really want to do this on such a cold April night? Wrapped in jackets and warm pants, we hopped on our bikes and rode the eight blocks from our Old Town apartment to the old Eureka theater, one of the grand chain of movie houses built up and down the West Coast in the 1930s.

Looking back to 2002, it’s hard to believe how naive we were – we expected the lobby to be awash with naked bodies, but the few other movie-goers we saw standing around were fully, and sensibly, clothed.

Louisa is one who, when nervous about taking a risk, just does it, without hesitation. It’s her way of dealing with fear. By the time I’d finished locking up our bikes, she’d stripped to the buff and was standing there, waiting for her still-clothed date to join here. Oh dear. Looks like we’re committed.

I took my clothes off, feeling pretty foolish, and followed her to the box office window. “Two at half price, please!” The middle-aged lady behind the glass did a double-take at the sight. “Er—that will be ten dollars,” she said, recovering. “But we’re naked, we get in for half-price, right?” Apparently no one had bothered to tell her, and no, no one else had arrived desnué.

“It’s OK!” called a theater employee from the sidewalk, who ran over and showed the ticket-lady a copy of the newspaper notice. Yes, we were the only crazies to have taken the ad seriously.

The following week, our photo was emblazoned on the notice board in the theater lobby, complete with happy faces carefully placed over those parts that, for some strange reason, are deemed indecent when exposed to public view.

For what it’s worth, the movie sucked.

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Barry Evans gave the best years of his life to civil engineering, and what thanks did he get? In his dotage, he travels, kayaks, meditates and writes for the Journal and the Humboldt Historian. He sucks at 8 Ball. Buy his Field Notes anthologies at any local bookstore. Please.