Beach and Bums

The strangest thing about Cap d’Agde isn’t that everyone is naked. It’s how quickly you stop noticing.

That thought didn’t occur to me when the alarm went off at six o’clock.

At that point, I was far more concerned with getting to the sea before the temperature climbed into the high thirties. The campsite was still asleep, the only sounds coming from birds hidden amongst the reeds and the gentle hush of the Mediterranean somewhere beyond the dunes. The air was cool enough to make you appreciate it, knowing it would soon disappear beneath another scorching day.

I slipped on my Crocs, clipped a tiny striped waist pouch around my waist and set off towards the beach.

It wasn’t exactly a fashion statement.

Inside was my credit card and just enough cash for an emergency croissant should disaster strike. The tow float stayed behind this morning. Normally I’d never leave it, but the sea was calm, visibility was excellent and I planned to hug the shoreline.

The boardwalk wound through the dunes, framed by tall grasses that rustled gently in the breeze. Ahead, the Mediterranean shimmered beneath a sky that was slowly turning from deep orange to brilliant blue.

The sea looked as though someone had polished it overnight.

Stepping into twenty-seven degree water feels wonderfully civilised.

There is none of the British tradition of inching slowly forwards while making noises normally associated with minor surgery. You simply walk in until the water reaches your chest and then begin swimming.

Within minutes the world became wonderfully quiet.

The rhythm of each stroke.

The taste of salt.

Tiny ripples lifting my body.

The sun slowly climbing behind me.

I swam for around a kilometre, occasionally rolling onto my back just to float and stare at the endless blue sky. There was nowhere else I needed to be and absolutely nothing demanding my attention.

Life doesn’t often give you moments like that.

Eventually I reached a small rocky outcrop and climbed ashore.

Walking back along the beach, the warm Mediterranean breeze dried me far quicker than any towel ever could. Around me the beach was beginning to wake. A man wandered past carrying two coffees. An elderly couple were already reading their books. Someone was carefully building what looked like the world’s most ambitious sandcastle before eight o’clock in the morning.

Nobody seemed to be in any sort of hurry.

Back at the campsite, Dana was just waking up.

“I’ve been swimming.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Your hair’s wet.”

She had a point.

Breakfast, however, required a little more effort.

Or more accurately…

A trip to the bakery.

La Boulangerie du Village should probably come with a health warning. The smell reaches you before you even open the door. Fresh baguettes, warm butter, caramelised pastries and coffee drift out onto the street with the sole purpose of destroying any intention of eating sensibly.

The boulangère smiled as I enthusiastically pointed around the display.

“I’ll have two of those.”

“And one of those.”

“Oh… actually make that two.”

By the time I’d finished, she’d filled two large paper bags.

Twenty-five Euros later I walked back feeling rather pleased with myself.

Dana looked inside.

“What did you buy?”

“Breakfast.”

She looked again.

“This isn’t breakfast.”

“It is.”

“This is breakfast… lunch… and emotional support.”

I couldn’t really argue.

Five minutes later we were walking over the dunes together.

I don’t think I’ll ever tire of that moment.

The boardwalk twists through the tall grasses before suddenly opening onto a vast stretch of soft white sand with the Mediterranean stretching endlessly towards the horizon. It’s like walking through a theatre curtain just before the stage lights come on.

Even after several visits, we both stopped for a second.

Some views deserve it.

Finding somewhere to settle should have been simple.

The beach stretched for miles.

Yet somehow we spent several minutes wandering.

“Too close.”

“Too windy.”

“Bit of seaweed.”

Finally Dana nodded.

“There.”

Apparently there is a precise scientific formula for beach towel placement known only to experienced women.

Out came our little wagon.

Umbrella.

Books.

Towels.

Cold drinks.

The operation had begun.

Like every successful engineering project, I immediately assumed the role of project manager.

“A little further left.”

“No.”

“I think it’s leaning.”

“I know.”

“Maybe…”

“Bryan.”

That single word carried years of experience.

I wisely stepped back while Dana finished the job in about thirty seconds.

Naturally I congratulated us both on my excellent supervision.

The sea was already calling again.

Within minutes we were walking across the hot sand, almost jogging by the time our feet realised just how hot thirty-eight degree sunshine can make a beach.

The first touch of cool water around your ankles was bliss.

Soon we were floating together just beyond the small breaking waves.

Sometimes chatting.

Sometimes saying nothing at all.

There are people you have to fill silence with.

Dana has never been one of them.

We simply floated, listening to the sea breathing around us.

Back on the beach, we settled into what has quietly become one of our favourite holiday activities.

People watching.

Dark sunglasses on.

Hats pulled low.

Convinced we were completely invisible.

I spent a good ten minutes making completely serious observations.

The French seemed effortlessly relaxed.

The Dutch looked as though they’d been naturists since birth.

The Germans appeared to have perfected the art of carrying folding chairs.

The British…

Well…

There is a certain walk that says, I’m pretending this feels completely normal while secretly wondering if I’ve left my dignity back at the campsite.

Then I realised something.

My sunglasses weren’t mirrored.

Everyone could see exactly where I was looking.

Brilliant.

Dana glanced across.

“Finished staring?”

“I was observing.”

“Anthropological research?”

“Exactly.”

She smiled without looking up from her book.

“I’ll write that on your defence statement.”

The funny thing was, after an hour or so, I genuinely stopped noticing who was and wasn’t wearing clothes.

Instead I noticed completely different things.

A man proudly carrying an inflatable unicorn.

A lady balancing four ice creams without dropping one.

An elderly gentleman with a long surgical scar laughing with his grandchildren.

A young couple covered in tattoos.

Someone reading a crime novel.

Someone snoring loudly enough to frighten nearby seagulls.

The nudity disappeared.

The people remained.

It struck me how much time we spend at home comparing ourselves with impossible standards.

Perfect bodies.

Perfect holidays.

Perfect lives.

Here…

None of that seemed to matter.

Nobody appeared to be performing.

Nobody looked embarrassed.

Nobody seemed interested in judging anyone else.

Everyone simply looked… comfortable.

Comfortable in their own skin.

Comfortable in their own lives.

Comfortable enough not to care.

Watching Dana reading peacefully beside me, occasionally smiling at something in her book before wandering into the sea for another swim, I realised I’d begun to feel exactly the same.

Not because I suddenly thought I had the body of a Greek god.

Far from it.

But because I’d stopped caring that I didn’t.

There was something unexpectedly freeing about that.

I’d expected Cap d’Agde to challenge my confidence.

Instead, quietly and without ever announcing it, it had taken away a small piece of self-consciousness I’d apparently been carrying around for years.

Later that afternoon I watched Dana strolling towards the water again, the sunlight dancing across the tiny waves around her ankles.

She looked completely at ease.

So did everyone else.

And for the first time since we’d arrived…

So did I.

As the afternoon cooled ever so slightly, we folded the towels, collapsed the umbrella and loaded everything back into the wagon.

The walk back through the dunes felt slower than the walk out.

Not because we were tired.

Because neither of us was in any rush for the day to end.

Tomorrow we’d almost certainly return to exactly the same stretch of sand.

Not because there was nowhere else to explore.

But because sometimes a place gives you something you didn’t even realise you’d been looking for.

We arrived at Cap d’Agde wondering whether we’d ever feel comfortable on a naturist beach.

We left the beach that afternoon wondering why we’d ever been worried in the first place.