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The Elusive Beach Spirit of California
From the edges of America. I am a native Californian who grew up on the Southern beaches – my peer group pressure was built around how many days you were absent from the beach during the summer. More than three days and you were socially shunned. The halcyon days of the 1960s shaped my worldview and my sense of self While on a recent journey to coastal California, my girlfriend and I found ourselves following the faint path of a distant era. On a long wind-swept beach, alone except for the seals who shadowed us some twenty yards offshore I was overtaken by an urge that erupted from the unknown. I casually dropped my shorts and waded into the chilly surf with nothing between myself and the cosmos but skin. It had been a very long time since that reality had been the only one; like a forgotten lover, who conjures up minute details of another time and place. It was a transcendent moment - an indescribable merging of soul and flesh with the undulating pulse of the Pacific Ocean. I was reading a book about man’s incessant draw to the sea. “We spend the first nine months of our lives within a sack full of embryonic fluid.” To swim in the ocean naked is to become one with a larger rhythm and to lose one’s self in the watery void that stretches to the other side of the world. We lounged around in the sand spit, at the mouth of a narrow arroyo, trying to resist the steady wind and blistering sun. For a few moments on that afternoon in August 2003 we felt the elusive spirit of California. Based upon this dazzling moment of sunlight on the water, Sally and I were intrigued by the description of another nearby beach in our guidebook; “This crescent shaped nude beach is a beauty!” Our hearts skipped a beat. Could it be that we would find another oasis and trade the concrete Kudzu of coastal development and Gucci police for an unblemished shoreline peopled with like-minded coastal vagabonds basking in the untamed rush of a naked beach? We arrived at the parking area of the “secret beach” (an oxymoron) and were greeted by a phalanx of muscle trucks parked in the dirt lot perched on a bluff, overlooking the sea. Some of the trucks were occupied by their drivers who pulled at their beers and kicked at the dirt while listening to Country and Western music. I enjoy both, it just seemed very odd – not a note of Grateful Dead was to be heard. Not a Volkswagen bus in sight either. The Lot Lizards were friendly enough, and pointed out the well-concealed trailhead that would lead to the ocean. Down to the sheltered cove we went, looking over the calm bay graced by a half-mile strand of white sand and flanked by a hundred-foot bluff. Blue sky invisibly merged with cobalt water out there. Another time? Perhaps. The beach was well attended and we staked out a little spot near the water; far enough away from the other enthusiasts so as not to crowd them, while hanging on to our own modest privacy. We removed our clothing and I slid into the chilly water. Upon returning from my refreshing swim, Sally, never shy, had covered up with a towel. “There’s no women!” she whispered with concern. Not only were there no women, there seemed to be no one on the beach under half a century. Within a few moments of reconnoitering I came to a harsh realization – there are some people – myself included – that just should not remove their clothing in public. There is nothing remotely appealing at the sight of an even dozen of fifty-plus men strutting their flaccid, and sometimes turgid weenies on a “secret beach”. Unwittingly, we had taken up positions on a reviewing stand where naked codgers walked back and forth along the beach. This was a long way from merging with the watery void. The sun was harsh, so many of the strutting peacocks covered their balding heads and sagging bodies with hats and t-shirts in order to shield them from the harmful rays. Yet their swaying balls and dicks were flapping in the breeze, and beet red from the sun. This “crescent shaped” beauty was a parade ground. The endless procession of red peckers was breathtaking – back and forth along the shoreline they sashayed – like a group of Emperor Penguins trying to attract a mate. A few of the potbellies were large enough to protect their tiny schlongs from the sun. From where their heads were planted, all they could see was the tops of their feet and toes, rhythmically protruding, one step at a time, from below their Buddha-like bellies. Back and forth, back and forth, passing each other with the occasional wink and a nod – like bankers tipping their derby’s on Fleet Street. We found ourselves transformed from eager enthusiast to wildlife biologist, fascinated by this unique behavior and display. Within an hour of our arrival a group of four young women joined the Red Peckers. These were twenty-something’s and lovely, and set up camp on an open patch of beach. And in time it seemed that they too, were seeking something quite different than a spirited communion of surf, sun and flesh. The beauties disrobed cautiously, the youngest and most beautiful giggled as she swung her breasts around like pinwheels, then rubbed them with glee as if they had never seen the outside of a bra. They waded into the quiet surf like a group of five-year-olds on their first trip to the beach. They laughed and giggled, recalling the joy found in old photographs of black and white bathing beauties, sans the enormous pantaloons and skirts required by a more timid age. They drank from their beer bottles and talked on their cell phones while standing knee deep in the lapping surf. I’m guessing they had never been naked on a beach before. And I’m guessing they read the same guidebook we had. Like yellow jackets at a picnic, the Red Peckers descended on their beach frolic. One of them swam over and bobbed in the water by their knees. Others walked over and introduced themselves like conventioneers – all they lacked were the tags; “Hello – My Name is . . .”. Their grey whiskers protrudedfrom their baseball caps and their red peckers emerged from the folds of their stomachs. The virgin mermaids were being hit on by a group of grandfathers! The naked Goddesses became the center of attention as the Red Peckers bobbed and weaved and placed gifts of cold Heineken and Corona at their feet. Sally wondered out loud if the truck welcoming committee was up in the parking lot with binoculars. As we walked back to our car I realized that the world is fast becoming a place that is no longer familiar. I found myself longing for another time. There was a moment in my adolescence when the world seemed to be changing – and like the young lovelies frolicking on the beach, I believed I would remain the same forever. What do you think? Email David Vassar with your thoughts. |
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