Dropping the Defenses: What a Nude Beach Taught Me About Acceptance

It is revolt that man goes beyond himself to discover other people, and from this point of view, human solidarity is a philosophical certainty.

Albert Camus

The set up

It was Labor Day. School was out, the sun was swelteringly ripe, and we wanted, more than anything, to get drunk at the beach. This was our Labor Day tradition, and, by god, it would be upheld: cheap beer, flying frisbees, and warm sand. Potentially a barbecue, if a family at the beach left their grill unattended.

The morning of, the five of us, donned in similar apparel of exotically-patterned board shorts and mangy flip-flops, gathered around my Honda Civic. Hastily, we planned our excursion. Per usual, we were harried and wholly unprepared, as groups of young men usually are. The contents of the cooler had been given more attention than the destination. It had to be a new beach, another caveat of our tradition. After much impassioned debate, the location was decided: Marshall’s Beach. We packed our individual contributions of snacks, towels, sports equipment, etc., and hit the road.

The arrival

Upon our arrival, we tumbled out of the car and got our bearings. After stumbling through a scraggly and unkempt passage, the trail spat us out onto the beach. The sight was undeniably idyllic. Soft, turquoise waves lapped pleasantly against golden dunes, intermittently studded with the outcropping of sea-rock pillars. They rose from the sand like the grasping fingers of a submerged giant. All this beauty was laid out beneath the shaded undercarriage of the Golden Gate Bridge, which traversed from a shelf of the beach’s wall to the gleaming city.

The place seemed relatively uncrowded, with small gatherings of beach-goers dispersed across the sand in remote clumps. Wandering to a pocket of warm sand, we set up camp and got to relaxing. Further down to our right, the rocks grew taller and connected to the cliff’s wall. The great barrier of sea-stone separated our segment of the beach from what was, ostensibly, more sand on the other side. It stood like an ancient gate, mossy and resolute. Almost formidable, as if guarding the entrance to some dangerous land. Curious people walked towards it and disappeared through its shaded passageway, but we were content with staying put.

The reveal

Everything was normal—or, normal in the sense that we were quite drunk already and violently chucking a frisbee—until a man appeared from the rocky portal wearing nothing but a spiked collar. In the shock of unexpectedly seeing a penis in the wild, my hand failed to intercept the incoming frisbee. It bounced painfully off my forehead. With rebounding force, the disc rolled over into the leisurely path of the studded stranger, who strolled over to retrieve it.

Again, I was hit with a wave of dismay as he bent over and his brown starfish waved ‘Hello.’ The man, well-endowed and old enough to be my father (a disconcerting pair of observations, no doubt), handed it over with a polite nod, as one might act in their Sunday best. He kept on his merry way. I assumed he was a rogue and perhaps deranged oddball who’d sacrificed his clothes to Poseidon a ways back. That is, until another naked man crawled out of the stony formation about a minute later.

The realization

I was aware that this was San Francisco, home of the highest acceptance rate for public nudity. Still, a warning would have been nice; I always figured the nudity was encountered only after seeing a giant sign that read “Public Nudity This Way” with stick figures gesturing to their 2-dimensional private bits. Unbeknownst to us, we’d stumbled upon the clothed part of a clothing-optional beach. With this realization, some aspects of the beach made more sense: the lack of children, the items of discarded bath-wear lying about as if their owners had suddenly evaporated, and the inflated population of gay men.

The enormous rock “gate” stood as a marking point for the divide. It wasn’t a strict rule: people’s clothes didn’t magically appear or disappear during the crossing, and the lines were blurred as nudists and normies alike passed each other on their territorial exchange. This was incredible to me, like some hedonistic vacation spot in Europe or a revamped Greek bacchanal—something I’d always regarded as an activity people who aren’t me do. Not that I’m averse to nudity, or a staunch defender of “public decency,” I just never considered encountering such a concept. I’m usually the type of guy who wears clothes out of the house, but here, perhaps I could try that other version of me—the one who’s always wanted to feel the extreme liberation of publicly peeing into a crashing wave.

The exploration

The group was instantly divided on what we should do. The potential nudists won the vote, 4-2. The two who stayed back would watch the stuff. Meanwhile, the four of us loosened our drawstrings and started our journey to the dark side of the moon. Once we arrived at the intersection, it took us a minute to traverse its craggy terrain. Finally, as we peered over a rock precipice, the other side bloomed into vision. With large eyes, we took in the strange haven that was a nude beach.

To no one’s surprise, everyone was naked, but the immediate normalcy of it took us aback. Sure, the mirage of flesh in every direction was a shock, but after a moment of adjustment, I could understand them as detailed persons lounging about. There were no wild orgies or perverse rituals or even much physical sensuality at all: It was just people, doing what they do at a beach, but naked.

We unveiled ourselves warily, carefully stepping out of our clothes. I had a sneaking paranoia that once I got naked, I’d ruin the whole thing. They’d think that is just too far. The bubble of comfort would pop, and the entire beach would suddenly throw their clothes on, filing out and shaking their heads in disgust. To my surprise, no one seemed to care or even look up.

The Transition

Shaking off our apprehension, we looked at each other with nervous grins, making sure to keep it eye level, and entered the fray. This side of the beach was way more populated and had the bustling, social energy of a party. On huge blankets that spread out to the size of dining room rugs, sat groups of roughly twenty: sunbathing, chatting, downing drinks, and making out. Revelers got up from one blanket and joined another. There were no designated groups or cliques, and everyone went where they wanted, talking with whoever interested them.

Liberated from social norms, they even peed in the water, not hidden in the depths of the waves, but standing on the shore. I’d never seen such a showcase of taboo acceptance, and I got to thinking. Did wearing clothes make us lamer, constrict us? Besides the microplastic-induced tumors, was it also killing our souls? Was there something about accepting the nudist philosophy that allowed their defenses to, like their underwear, drop?

At first, every bit of me detested the exposure. Sure, the sea breeze felt nice, especially on those parts so often left dark and sweaty. However, these bits were, until then, reserved for the private, romantic moments in my life. Suffice to say, they’d spent a lot of time in hiding. If someone could at least buy me dinner… I wandered along the outskirts of the function, sheepishly looking in. My buddies trailed behind, phallic tails between their legs. We walked like stiff mannequins, unsure of our own physicality.

The advice

All except Mike, who was leading us confidently; he was the one guy amongst us who’d done this before. He and his boyfriend would frequent a nude beach in San Diego during the summer. He was clearly in his element, now, smiling and waving like some disrobed king.

Mike noticed our trepidation and pulled us aside to lay out some much-needed guidance: “Listen, I know you guys are new to this, but they won’t bite. Just pretend like you’ve done it before, and soon enough it’ll feel just fine.” The keyword I extracted from that counsel was pretend. Perhaps the real me, Cooper with clothes, couldn’t find in himself how to get comfortable here, but a makeshift, temporary me could. A fake-it-’til-you-make-it type of thing. 

We said alright, and, like the wave of a magic, limp wand, we assumed our new identities. I don’t mean queer bating, or anything of such an ignorant sort, but just acting like we’d done this before. Nudity, I mean. “C’mon, let’s talk to some people, let’s have fun!” Mike said. A beer was passed around and finished, and we followed him in, strutting now.

The introduction

All skin colors, all shapes, all smiles. Some took the hobby to a new augmented length and straddled their genitalia in tight leather accoutrements. Some expressed humor, wearing Speedos with a circular hole in the front panel, an arrow in print pointing towards it, reading, “Suck here!” Small talk was an unnecessary appetizer, and conversation often started at the main course. A common topic was sexuality, and with no judgment, we were informed that we walked very straight. I took subtle offense that my preferences were so plainly worn on my sleeve, or lack thereof.

The day melted into a stream of beautiful conversations, laughter, and the occasional misplaced flirtation. One of my friends, tall and lean, was found very desirable that afternoon. Though unable to match their passions, his confidence sustained an unfortunate boost that day, which has not subsided since. I have to insist that walking around campus in the nude will not garner the same results. I also found some comfort in my body, seeing as no one ran screaming or captured me for further scientific experimentation.

The lesson

What I learned talking to those wonderful, confident people was that they were totally un-strange. Don’t get me wrong, they were plenty interesting and full of life, but they weren’t as bizarre as I’d expected. Their life route to being here was relatively mundane. It turns out that a lot of them were members of a queer Facebook group. Weekly, they organized a nude excursion to this beach to hang out and catch up. Otherwise, they were going about their life working regular jobs, tending to family, grocery shopping, whatnot—all whilst completely clothed.

Beforehand, I’d had the outlandish notion that their entire lives were spent in the nude, save for the rare occasion of a funeral, whereupon a black satin sock might be deployed. The more we conversed, the more foolish I felt in my previous assumptions. If I’d never met them, I’d have a totally extreme misrepresentation in my mind.

I learned a lot about myself that day, too, and not just that I did enjoy peeing in the ocean. There are many things I wouldn’t do. However, my list of unapproachable activities is ostensibly shorter than most people’s. Whether a matter of low standards, high tolerance, or morbid curiosity, I tend to find myself in situations that most would consider uncomfortable, such as exposing my genitalia in public.

My thoughts

Whatever the underlying reason, I believe there’s a defining logic that eases my explorations. I’ve found there are groups that, in their casual nature of performing an exotic activity, render it perfectly normal. These environments serve to create a hypothetical bubble where one might, without repercussions, challenge their conception of themself. After that realization, differences fade.

The journey through self-discovery is marked by the placement of boundaries for what one is capable of and what one might be capable of. When one works to form this identity of dos and don’ts, their ballast is secured by methods of comparison with others. From the diverse, amorphous bustle of human interaction, one plucks the trends or lifestyles they wish to absorb as well as abhor.

When a stranger passes, fully alive in their own body’s language, clothes, and essence, naturally, one questions the surface-level appearance of this stranger while assuming deeper extrapolations about their personality or habits. Does this stranger, and how they present, seem to be compatible with how I regard myself? Can I steal something of theirs? 

Although I didn’t plan on joining the Facebook group or starting my own nudist colony, I appreciated the one-off experience to understand their world and its inhabitants better. I appreciated them allowing me to steal some of their confidence. I believe that most people have a well of pre-established ignorance within them, of stagnant, rotten water. But it can be refreshed easily by trying something strange.

So, reader, go out there and try doing a weird thing with weird people. Just don’t tell your mother!