Sand Between My Toes

Andrew didn’t believe it was an actual nude beach. He didn’t think it was legal, so he wanted to see for himself. When we arrived at the entrance to Wreck Beach, we read the sign announcing it was “clothing-optional.” But he still didn’t believe it as we descended down the steep and shaded stairs carved into a cliff of moss-covered trees. The stairs went on and on, eventually spewing us out onto the sandy expanse of the beach below.

To Andrew’s horror, there were naked people everywhere, uninhibited by the bright sunlight. Hippies and pot-smokers peddled an array of hash brownies, freshly rolled joints, and alcoholic beverages. I don’t know if he was more offended by the illegal sales of drugs and alcohol or the betrayal of his country by allowing public nudity.

Bare breasts of all shapes and sizes stared at us with their brazen nipples. Sagging, pierced genitals bobbed up and down as their owners strolled along the sand. Perfect and imperfect bodies were strewn across the beach, the sea of flesh occasionally interrupted by a snug thong or a brightly coloured sarong tied loosely at the waist. They wandered aimlessly, weaving in and out of tents selling tie-dyed Wreck-wear, massages, beaded jewelry, and organic fare.

Circles of people were chanting, playing flutes, and hammering drums. It was enough to make Andrew want to dive-bomb out of there, but the vertical ascent back to the land of mandatory clothing conspired with his lack of physical fitness to trap him. He wanted to sit, or rather hide, in the furthest corner of the beach where there were the fewest rogues. On our way there, a pair of bronzed, pierced breasts approached us.

“Hi. My name is Robyn, and I’m from the Marijuana Political Party,” she said. “Would you like to sign our petition to decriminalize marijuana?” I looked up at Andrew as he winced and groaned quietly. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at the sky. I took that to be a no.

“No, thank-you,” I replied. She sauntered off, her grass skirt swishing, her back revealing no tan lines.

“I can’t believe this,” Andrew muttered, shaking his head.

“What did you expect?” I asked, savouring every minute of his challenged conservatism.

“I dunno, I just didn’t think this sort of thing was allowed in Canada!” he said, still in shock. His little, sheltered world-view had been shattered.

He lay down on his stomach and buried his face in the sand. I laughed and told him he looked like an ostrich. As soon as he mustered up his strength, we made the difficult climb back up the cliff. I pointed out that “nudity was neither rude nor lewd,” as a sign read, but he didn’t want to hear it.

Needless to say, that relationship did not last.

A few years later, my voyage to nudie land with Serge, my new Parisian boyfriend, and our Filipino friend, J.R., guaranteed a more enjoyable, longer visit without any indignation. We eagerly jaunted down the steep, sandy steps, inhaling the freshness of the forest that welcomed us to the coastline. The first thing I saw against the gleaming, white sand was the tall, muscular frame of an unclad black man selling mixed drinks to the sun worshippers.

“Oh my!” I gushed, breathless. “There’s a beautiful black god!”

“Look at you!” Serge mused. “You’ll want to order more than a drink from him!”

He did not feel threatened; he wasn’t the jealous type. Various tanned and toned voluptuous goddesses also surrounded us for his viewing pleasure. However, we were not here to stare at nakedness. We were here to be free of the cloth, the way nature intended.

A pale-skinned, naked obese woman patrolled the shallow waters where the waves first touched the beach, while her doughy arms lifted dumbbells simultaneously. Leathery old men with withered beards staggered by, their thin legs bowed by crumpled knees, prune-shaped buttocks supporting their hunched backs. Bare-bummed, brown-skinned children skittered across the glassy trails of waves on skim boards. The throb of the drums in the background kept up a constant, primitive rhythm.

We found a place in the centre of it all and spread out our blankets. I stripped down to my bikini, a royal-blue fire against my snow-white skin. That was as far as I would get, afraid of revealing my jewels to the scorn of the blazing summer sun. J.R. sported his swim shorts. Serge didn’t bring his, fearless as he liberally disrobed, revealing his pallid, slight physique. We sat back and drank in the atmosphere of smoky joints, dreadlocks, and free spirits.

We didn’t know what to do first — order a drink, get something to eat, or jump in the water. Hesitant to expose my bone-china complexion against the sea of tans, I slathered on sun block, content to just sit and watch the scenery.

The view from the beach was an ocean with no city skyline, dabbled with sailboats, rubber dinghies, and a cruise ship crawling along the distant horizon. We felt like we were thousands of miles away from Vancouver. Serge got up and headed straight for the water. We admired his courage as he walked into the water up to his ankles, stood for a bit, and then walked back towards us. J.R., with a playful, child-like demeanor, pointed towards his groin and chimed, “Look, you’re askew! You’re askew!”

Serge looked down, a little embarrassed. But recognizing J.R.’s insecure attempts at humiliation, he laughed it off. A couple sitting near us chuckled confusedly and asked, “What’s a skew?” We didn’t give an explanation, hoping they’d either figure it out or just forget about it. Serge walked away, chatted with someone selling drinks and then came back.

“Wow, that was amazing!” he said, collapsing beside me.

“What?” I asked.

“Just getting up and walking around totally naked!” he said. “At first, I was terrified, but once you do it, it totally boosts your confidence, and you feel so free!” He leaned back and lit up a cigarette, blowing smoke into the wind.

We ordered drinks and sandwiches, the vendors coming right to our feet just like at a beach in the Caribbean. Eventually, we got up and waded into the ocean, enjoying the fresh, cold relief of the salt water. After I got out of the water, I realized it wasn’t so fresh. I saw a woman walk into the water until she was waist high, stop, look around for about five minutes, and then slowly walk back onto the dry sand. I found myself doing the same thing, since after a few beers, I couldn’t be bothered to make the trek to the foul-smelling port-a-potties back at the foot of the stairs.

The day floated by. The sun was beginning to glow dark orange as it touched the horizon. We stayed until it melted from the sky into the inky-blue ocean. Serge and I found J.R. banging away with a group of drummers, his black hair matted with sea and sand. When he saw us with our blankets packed and clothes on, the huge smile on his face disappeared instantly. He realized we had to go before it was too dark to navigate our way back up the trail.

A day full of beer, hot sun, and dope thickened our blood and made our limbs heavy as we mounted the hefty stairs. I had to stop several times to catch my breath. We were met halfway by an Asian man in a white robe. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, chanting and ringing little bells. My eyes met his, and his face lit up.

"Breathe in deeply through your nose and out through your mouth! You’ll get more energy that way!” he said, grinning. I grunted, and stumbled over the thick tree roots.