The Bare Facts

Sunday morning, Mr. Pom has me out of bed by 6:15 and on the beach by 7:45. We would have been there at 7:15, but I was tired and cranky and had a bit of a cold and insisted on waiting to the late hour of 7:00 a.m. for Starbucks to open. I may be an early morning mermaid, but give me caffeine or I may punch you very hard in the arm.

We drove to our usual beach, but decided to go all the way to the end to avoid the crowds. It was just the two of us and we were traveling light since we'd planned to leave by noon to go to my nephew's birthday party. When we got out of the car we noticed for the first time a boardwalk that stretch into the dunes and decided to take the half-mile walk to wherever it led.

The dunes were gloriously quiet; birds were chirping and a brown bunny was hiding in a patch of tall grass. We passed a few other early morning walkers and beach goers, many of whom had wagons and carts filled with all sorts of coolers and what looked like tents. I figured if you are going to walk a half mile across the dunes, you won't be doubling back for concession snacks.

After a 10 minute walk, we arrived at a gravel road, then another stretch of boardwalk. We reached the top of the walk and saw the beach as beautiful as ever in the early morning sunlight.

And then we noticed the sign. It began with "Warning" and I assumed it would caution that there were no lifeguards this far out. There weren't any lifeguards - but that's not what the warning was.

"Warning: This is a clothing optional beach".

Say what?

Oh, I'd heard about this little hidden stretch of sand but I thought it was somewhere else entirely.

Mr. Pom and I looked at each other. Now what? Neither of us were interested in shedding our clothes in public but it was a long walk back. The beach was pretty deserted - how bad could it be? We figured there'd be a couple of sunbathers discretely nude on their blankets and we'd just keep our eyes on the sea.

We climbed down the steps and practically walked right into a very tall,  very naked man and his very petite, saggy wife. Mr. Pom appeared faint so I grabbed him by the elbow and steered him directly to the high tide line and placed our chairs straight ahead at the ocean - only!

The Pomegranates admit to being a little flummoxed. We are not quite as hip and edgy as we purport to be. At least not when a very rotund, naked as a jaybird man is bending over with his rear in our face as he digs a hole for his umbrella.

It was not a pretty sight.

But that turned out to be the most interesting part of the beach - there were few pretty people! There were far fewer firm, pretty bodies on the nude beach than there were down the road at the regular beach. The average age was over 40 and men made up 80% of that. There were some really buff young guys - I assume all gay, but really no great looking chicks. Poor Mr. Pom. At least I had something pleasurable to view.  Bottom line, no pun intended, that there is far less voert sexuality than there is  down the beach where scantily clad, tattoed, and pierced bodies cavort.

The nude beach also had an unexpected Desert Island culture. Those tents I thought everyone had turned out to be  windscreens that were unfurled and pounded into the sand to create little rooms so the bathers could have some privacy. Some groups had several they strung together, along with small tents, hammocks, and elaborately dug bunkers that provided more screening. Tall flags were planted outside each compound and some fellows must be regular attendees as there space were marked with short fencing topped with shells - very Gauguin!

But all attempts at privacy were dangling in the breeze when walking along the shore line or swimming, fanny side up. Everyone was so relaxed and seemed to know each other that we, the only clothed people on the beach, felt completely conspicuous. I hate being overdressed.

This is how the Poms like to see people dressed on the beach.

But let's face it, the Pomegranates just aren't ready for men and women strolling the surf naked as jay birds.  Mr. Pom in particular could not relax. He held a magazine in front of him for an hour without turning a page. You're talking about a man who locks the bathroom door when he's home alone. Me? I don't even want to look at myself naked, let alone subject anyone else to it!

We gave up when the beach became more crowded and we were soon sitting towel to towel with other people's bare asses.  It was amusing to observe, compare, mentally measure, and repeatedly ask Mr. Pom: am I fatter than she is? Is she bigger than I am?  Of course, I won't go into whether Mr. Pom was asking similar questions, but let's just say that men are certainly more fixated on the lengths....one will go to dig ditches in the sand.

We bagged it about 10:30 and trekked back to the regular beach where we sat amidst the squealing kids,  making out teenagers, and old, dried up married couples like ourselves, all of whom blessedly had clothes on.

There are just some places that aren't meant to be sunburned.