Naked Truth

Wreck Beach is a cult. It would be easier to sell Vancouver away to corporations, including the Olympic Games, and to all those international real estate investors than to close down this nudist paradise. It smells of pot, mushrooms and booze. Any kind of prejudice is gone when you put your underwear away. It’s got its own rhythm: the alpha males doing dirty work, the feminist carrying statements on their privates, the vendors with an infinite variety of products, the old, the homeless, the fat, and the kinder. Not everybody goes there to show off, but there’s a bit of chauvinism in those who pass by you jogging. It is impossible to feel intimidated though, when you are also part of the big zoo.

Just going up and down the well-maintained staircase is worth the effort. I loved it! That ocean breeze visiting untouched spots, the image of that Asian elder wearing a bathing suit (or should I say parachute) up to his diaphragm; the shaved ones, the tattooed, the shy ones, the curly woman who cuts hair or gives massages, the blond model holding her stilettos, the guy on a blackberry conference call, the couple flirting, the chubby girl that screams “finally free”. What a morning! Too bad I was burning… otherwise I would’ve stayed for the concert night. A huge pilgrimage of wreckbeachgoers was arriving as I left the borders of that ecosystem. And yes, tourists come to take pictures. As I hit the street, a group of six “un-tanned” Korean girls asked me in broken English where the wlek bitch was! Follow the crowds, I told them as I pointed my finger into the bushes… Share