“Why do they always hang around the ends of the beach? It’s like they want everyone to have to see them …”
After walking about 6 miles on the Tomaree Coastal Walk, a 14mi hike in Port Stephens, on Australia’s East Coast, we found ourselves at an impasse. And my mom was not impressed.
After battling our way over hills, thick sand and bush fire ravaged scrub, we had arrived at a pants-free stretch of sand called Samurai Nudist Beach.
One Mile Beach, and beyond it, our final destination, Anna Bay, lay beyond, protected – like a castle of old – not by a moat, but by an army of nudists.
There was no way over it, no way around it, no way under it. We had to go through it.
As my mom pointed out, the nudists were gathered in clumps at both ends of the beach, as if hoping to intimidate innocent hikers as much as possible.
Staring out over the sea of 4WDs with awnings, caravans with sun loungers, surfers, old people and families, I noticed there was – as there always is at nudist beaches – a man prowling along the sand with his arms behind his back, and his “samurai sword” bobbling proudly out in front.
As he reached the rocks at the end of the beach and finished his “patrol” of the area, I prayed my mom didn’t look down.
“You never told me there was a nudist beach,” mom said.
Another old guy was wading naked into the water with a body board, while – just in our immediate vicinity – a family was playing in front of their caravan and a couple of couples were sunbathing up the back of the beach.
To make things worse, every few minutes that passed, as we awkwardly ate our lunch, another vehicle ploughed down the dunes, adding to the Samurai Sword army.
There were young people too, but they were mostly surfers, and mostly had their wetsuits on. They were in the middle of the beach.
Everyone was very polite and respectful of each other (and to be fair, we were warned with multiple signs). But still: to our sheltered, prejudiced eyes, it was a bit of an affront. A pale, wrinkly inferno forever seared into our brains.
I left my mom and brother (it was supposed to be a fun family hike) eating jelly snakes and trail mix and went for a swim with my partner. I thought this would break the ice with the nudist colony, but it only made things worse. The stares (imaginary or not) at my board shorts sent tingles down my spine.
I’ve never felt so judged for not doing something (even if no-one actually judged me: I was probably judging myself).
We took a few photos (of ourselves, not the nudists) on the rocks to remember this bizarre moment, and got some funny looks from one guy. This was another faux pas – never take photos on a nudist beach, or – quite rightly – people will get annoyed.
Putting the phone away, we then packed up our gear and continued walking. We thought we were in the clear but then at the other end, a middle-aged couple, casual as you like, strolled past us into the water, bums proudly gleaming.
Here, there was also another guy chilling naked on a sun lounger by his truck. Beauty.
At the end of the day we decided it was worth the trek, as we had discovered a hidden coastal paradise just as beautiful as Seal Rocks and its neighboring beaches, except less crowded, and closer to Sydney.
Likewise, after visiting The Shoal Bay Country Club, where you can score $23 USD cocktail jugs and listen to a DJ remixing Fred Again and the Red Hot Chili Peppers AND easily get a table without booking, I decided: this is it. As long as you’re not averse to the odd “cutlas” being brandished on some of its remote beaches, Port Stephens is the new Byron Bay. No, screw that. It’s better than Byron.
Maybe I’ll even get my swimsuit off next time, too.
