The Nudist Beach

I awaken from a deeply exhausted sleep, bright rays of sun piercing my eyelids, and stumble bleary eyed from the tent to discover, upon looking at my watch, it is only 6 am.

‘Uggggggg’, a voice screams inside my head, for I had only gotten to sleep around 2 am.  I experience an instant deterioration of mood.   I’m thirty years past being a teenager and need my sleep.  How can one bloody tent take three men, three hours to erect?

Now, before you go judging my tent erecting skills too harshly, let me remind you it was midnight (we’d got lost getting to the campsite.  Women and maps!) and this particular tent is not one of your modern, easy to whip up in two seconds lightweight nylon-type igloo tents.  No, this tent (made in Chekeslavakia – what the hell do they know about making tents?) is reinforced, bloody heavy canvas consisting of an annex large enough for an army mess tent and with sleeping quarters capable of accommodating a platoon of fully equipped army personnel.

My ex-girlfriend, sitting outside in a camp chair, a mug of steaming tea in one hand and the map of the campsite in the other, glances up at me.  On noting my sullen expression, she frowns and begins to bite her bottom lip a trifle nervously.  Her eyes slide away from me back to the map, which she now turns upside-down, as if to reassure herself about something , or maybe she’s turning it the right way up – who  knows with women and maps – and I get a queasy sensation in my stomach.

‘What?’ I demand.

There is a long pause and then she announces, almost too casually, ‘I think we may have put the tent on the wrong spot.’

For some inexplicable reason the word “we” suddenly engulfs me with feelings of intense hostility towards this woman who shared four years of my life and continues to do so, these days supposedly as a friend.

‘What do you mean “we”,’ I growl in a voice intended to be translated as:  I need more sleep and the offer of a cup of coffee would make me a much nicer person and standing in the dark issuing directions is not putting up a tent, if that’s what you think you were doing last night.

She points to a stake in the ground.  It has a weather beaten piece of timber attached to it and a faded number 59 painted on it, completely invisible last night but clear as day now.  ’59 is actually that spot,’ she informs me, pointing to an empty site next to the tent, ‘not this one. We’ve put the tent on the wrong site.’

One of the things I’ve always hated most about camping is the lack of a television set to keep people entertained.  It’s the other campers I’m talking about.  The ones now sitting in front of their tents, fingers wrapped around an early morning cup of coffee, with nothing better to do than hoot with laughter at my ineptitude in taking down a tent in an orderly fashion and their shouts of encouragement as I chase my ex-girlfriend around the campsite, threatening to stab her with a steel tent peg that I’d whipped out of the ground, causing the whole tent to collapse into an untidy heap.

I didn’t catch her, alright?  And I wasn’t seriously aiming to stab her with a tent peg, if I had.   I just needed to run off my bad mood.  The worst of it was that my ex-girlfriend had stormed off in a huff.  And, yes, I did re-erect the tent on the new bloody site without the help of the two men who’d volunteered their services last night, as they were too busy cramming their mouths with freshly cooked bacon and eggs.  Besides, if I hadn’t re-erected it I would have had nowhere to sleep.  I sincerely hope, with my entire weary being, the tent and I never meet again after this weekend.

Grabbing my towel I set off towards the beach intent on swimming as far out to sea as I can to lose my bad mood.

It was a great swim.  The water temperature was perfect, the swell just as it should be and now, lying face down on my towel in the shade of some rocks with my equilibrium fully restored, my only intention was to catch up on my missed sleep.

I’ve just reached that state of extreme drowsiness when I hear two females chatting away on the other side of my rock.  Initially annoyed by the intrusion, I suddenly find myself paying a little more attention to their animated conversation.

They are discussing a nudist beach, apparently just on the other side of the headland. They are planning to join three of their friends there.  I lift my head as the two girls walk off.  Attractive, is my first thought.  Hot bodes, is my next thought.  Hmmmm, I think, suddenly wide awake.

I don’t know about you but I’ve always wanted to add it to my repertoire of life experiences ‘spent time on a nudist beach’.  The thought attaches itself firmly in my mind as I sit up and study the headland.  I spy a dirt track meandering its way to the top.  I rise to my feet hoping there’s a similar track meandering its way down the other side of the headland.  Not giving myself time to change my mind, I set off resolutely along the beach.

I have reached the top of the cliff, not without some considerable effort and bodily injury from sharp rocks and thorny bushes.  The only problem is that having arrived at the top I realise the headland is heavily overgrown with low lying scrub.  I look around for a way of getting to the far side, too determined now to give up at this point.

Amazingly, I find a path of sorts.  Overgrown to the point where I almost missed it but, it’s definitely a path and it’s leading in the right direction.  I bundu-bash my way through it, and emerge onto a rocky outcrop above a secluded beach lying within a small cove, both ends of the beach protected by a tall headland.

There are people on the beach.  Somewhat indistinct but definitely people lying in twos or singularly.  No children that I can see.  Most definitely an “adults only” beach.  I lean over the rock, as far as I can, trying to gage if the people below are wearing bathing suits or not.  Or not, I finally conclude.  Clearly, from this height, any detail of interesting body parts is quite out of the question but that’s fine, at least I’ve found the beach. Now to find a way down to it.

I’m busy pondering this next obstacle in my quest to lie on a nudist beach when I hear the crunch of a footstep behind me.

‘What are you doing?’ a female voice demands.

Whipping around, I see my ex-girlfriend pushing her way through the scrub.

‘Nothing,’ I mutter defensively.  It never ceases to amaze me how, even at the ripe old age of fifty, on far too many an occasion I can sound just like a truculent three year old.

I attempt to scramble to my feet but in the same instant my ex-girlfriend steps forward to peer over the edge of the rocks, clearly interested to see what has kept me so engrossed.  We collide.  To prevent myself from hurtling into space and landing most painfully on rocks below, I grab hold of her.  We fall in a messy tangle amongst some prickly bushes.

‘Ouch,’ she yells.  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’

‘Do what? Save you from becoming a crumpled heap at the base of the cliff?’

‘Bullshit,’ she laughs, ‘you weren’t trying to save me you were trying to save yourself.’

‘You followed me, didn’t you? I accuse, defensively.

‘Yes, she admits, ‘but only by chance.  I was heading back along the beach towards the campsite when I saw you heading for the cliff path.  I wanted to apologise for putting you through all that trouble with the tent and to thank you for offering to come up here and help me erect it.  I hadn’t even considered how difficult it would be trying to do it on my own.’

Before I can think how to respond to this totally unexpected outpouring of gratitude, she pushes herself off me and stepping onto the large flat rock, peers down at the beach below.  She studies it for several long minutes and then turns back to me.

‘I know how to get to it.’

‘Get to where?’ I ask innocently, hoping like hell she hasn’t guessed why I’m up here.

‘The nudist beach.  The one down there.  The one you’ve been studying so intently.  The one I think would be great to go and visit.’

I look at her in astonishment.

She lets out a loud laugh.  I’ve always wondered what it would be like to lie naked in public with all ones bits and pieces on full display.  This way I get to find out.’

I wish she hadn’t put it quite like that.

Once on the beach, I begin to have second thoughts as we stand looking for a good place to lay our towels for several feet away, outstretched on two large towels, lie a middle aged man and woman with bits and pieces of flabby flesh lying in puddles around them, accompanied by grotesquely dimpled bums, which are turning bright red in the sun.

I drag my eyes away from the horrible sight and search for something more appealing.  Oh my, oh my, oh MY!  Three of them.  Three nubile beauties walking along the beach, no doubt intent on frolicking in the surf, naked as the day they were born.  Oh, golly gosh….  I watch them with appreciative delight.

‘Wow, it’s hot’, I casually remark, as we select a fairly secluded spot to lay our towels on the sand.

I sneak a glance at my ex-girlfriend lying on her stomach, her face buried in the crook of her arm.  She appears dead to the world.  I guess she also didn’t get much sleep last night.  I gingerly rise to my knees.  The ocean looks so inviting and a swim would do me the world of good. I arch my back in a cat-like stretch, surreptitiously looking down to make sure my groin doesn’t look like a carved effigy all covered in sand.  I give my hips a shake it all off wriggle to dislodge the small layer of sand form my penis.

I get to my feet, take a deep breath to still my racing heart and step off my towel onto the sand.  As I lift my foot to take another step a muffled voice behind me says, ‘Be careful of the shark.’

With my foot hovering in mid-air I turn to look at my ex-girlfriend.  Her head is still buried in the crook of her arm. ‘What shark?’ I demand, glaring back at her.

She lifts her head and peers up at me through her sunglasses.  ‘The Byron Bay shark.  It’s apparently huge. They suspect it might be a great white.’

Oh, rubbish.  Do you honestly think I would fall for that,’ I snap back and take another step forward.

‘It was today’s headline in the local paper at the petrol station.  I’m surprised you didn’t see it when you were paying for the petrol? The paper was lying on the counter.’

My foot hovers in mid-air as I’m about to take my third step across the sand.  For a split second I’m unsure as to whether to believe her or not.  Looking back at the ocean I see the three maidens leaping gleefully around in the small waves.  That decides me.  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ I announce nonchalantly and break into a steady jog across the sand towards the ocean… and the three lovely young ladies.

Bad move…  jogging.  I suddenly realise that I’ve never jogged naked before.

You see, in the past, when I’ve felt the desire to break into a manly jog along the beach I’ve usually had swimmers on, a budgie hammock or knee length boardies with built-in net undies.  Without these restrains I’m slowly discovering that jogging naked is doing something to my manhood that I would prefer not to happen in public, naked or not.  How embarrassing.

I slow to a more gentle jog, more of a long stride, would be the best way to describe it.  But still, my manhood reaches determinedly for the sky.   I glance back over my shoulder and see that my ex-girlfriend has her chin propped on her folded arms and is watching me.  Her sunglasses are firmly in place and it’s hard to read her expression.  Well, I can hardly turn back, can I?  So I have little option but to continue towards the water, not so?

I swing my hips towards the left, hopefully hiding the lower half of my body from the three women still frolicking in the waves.  At the same time I twist my shoulders to the right and fling out my arms in what is known in yoga as the warrior poise hoping like hell anyone watching me will realise that I’m doing a series of muscle loosing exercises getting ready for a graceful, athletic plunge under the first decent size wave.

It comes to me, as I continue to twist my body into all sorts of strange contortions designed to hide my lower half from public view whilst looking like ye ole Ironman doing loosing-up exercises, that perhaps that’s why the bushman and other hunter gathers wore loin clothes.  It tied the damn thing in place so that there was none of this flip-flop-how’s-your-uncle, situation.

The only problem is that I have a sneaking suspicion that this crab-like dance I’m doing along the sand has me looking less of an Ironman and more of a mentally deranged crab.  or I stretch my arms out front and back like a surfer skimming down a massive wave on his board.  Except I don’t have a board and if I’m not mistaken those three women are throwing  highy amused glances in my direction.

At last I reach the water.  Usually, I will enter up to my knees and stand for a minute or two to let my body acclimatize to the temperature of the water.  This time, however, I rush in and plunge under the first wave that comes my way.  The wave, being as small as it is, is more churned up sand than water and I come out the other side feeling as though I’ve rolled down a sandbank rather than dived through an ocean wave.

I plunge under the next wave, this one slightly larger, and set off into deeper water in what I hope is my best over arm crawl.  The temperature of the water is warm and seductive and I’m actually beginning to enjoy my swim.  I glance back at the shore and realise that I’m some distance from it.  I’m a fairly strong swimmer so that doesn’t worry me but what does enter my head is that sharks also like warm water.  I turn around and begin to swim back towards the shore.

This is not such a bad thing as the three lovies are now diving under the waves and as they pop up the other side, my side of the wave, I’m able to appreciate the artistic beauty of three pairs of breasts, each pair so very different from the others.

I realise the owners of the breasts are not quite as oblivious of me as they are trying to make out, as every now and then I catch them looking at me as they pop up through a waves, girl followed by breasts.  I smile.  They smile back.  ‘It’s beautiful out here.  You should try it,’ I call out and they smile and one of them obligingly begins to swim in my direction.

Delighted at my luck, I mentally sort through my repertoire of opening lines, designed to instantly seduce any women into thinking of me as a sexy, laidback hunk of manhood… or something to that effect.

It is at that moment that something touches my foot.  I feel myself going cold and without causing unnecessary movement begin to paddle rapidly towards the shore.  I’m doing just fine until the thing attacks me again, this time wrapping a tentacle around my other foot.

I don’t recall screaming shark or giant octopus in mad panic as I trash wildly towards the safety of the beach.  I do recall seeing three very lovely, very naked young women hurtling through the shallows , screaming at the top of their lungs and to my utter mortification, having reached down to see if I still have a foot attached to my leg, my hand closes around a large piece of seaweed.

I scramble sheepishly though the shallows and notice my ex-girlfriend, sitting on her towel doubled over, hysterical with laughter having witnessed  the fact that I scream just as loudly when a piece of seaweed touches my foot as I would if being devoured by a great white shark.

I march up the beach planning all sorts of mean and nasty ways to pay her back.

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