—Audrey Hepburn, Roman Holiday (1953)
23
In the middle of July, Porter and I have another day off together. He tells me we can do whatever I want with it, that he’s my genie and will grant me one wish. I tell him that I don’t want to see another soul for an entire afternoon. I have something I’m ready to share.
He picks me up in the camper van at noon, two hours after my standing breakfast date with Grace.
“Where are we going?” I say, folding down the visor to block the sun as I hop into the passenger side. I’m wearing my white vintage Annette Funicello shorts and the leopard sunglasses Wanda and Dad brought me back from San Francisco. My Lana Turner ’do looks especially perfect.
Porter glances at my sandals (they’re the ones he likes), and then my shorts (which he continues to stare at while he talks to me). “You have two choices, beach or woods. ?e woods have a stream, which is cool, but the beach has an arch made of rock, which is likewise cool. God, those shorts are hot.”
“?ank you. No people at either location?”
“If we see anyone, I will act crazy and chase them off with a stick. But no, these places are both usually deserted.”
After some thought, which included taking deep-woods insects into consideration, there’s really no choice for the purpose I have in mind, so I gather my gumption and say, “Take me to the beach.”
?e drive is about fteen minutes. He has to squeeze through a narrow, rocky road through the woods to get to the beach, pine branches brushing against the top of the van. But when we emerge from the trees, it’s glorious: sand, gray pebbles, tide pools, and rising up from the edge of the shore, an arch of mudstone rock. It’s covered with birds and barnacles and the waves crash through it.
?e beach is small.
?e beach isn’t sexy.
?e beach is ours.
Porter parks the van near the woods. He slides open the side door, and we take off our shoes and toss them in the back. I see he’s got his board and wet suit neatly stowed; he’s been sur ng almost every day.
We splash around in the tide pools for a while. ?ey’re teeming with star sh, which I’ve only ever seen dried on a shelf in a souvenir store. He points out some other critters, but I have more than coastal California wonders on my mind. “Hey, where’s the nude beach?”
“What?”
“?ere’s supposed to be a nude beach in Coronado Cove.”
Porter laughs. “It’s up by the Beacon Resort. It’s not even fty feet wide. ?ere’s privacy fencing on both sides. You can’t see inside, nor would you want to, I promise.”
“Why?”
“It’s a swingers’ club for retirees. Our parents are too young to get in.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Ask Wanda. ?ey get busted for violating after-hours noise ordinances with all their swingers’ drinking parties. ?at’s why they had to put up the fencing. People complained.”
“Gross.”
“You say that now, but when you’re eighty and just want to get nude and be served a fruity umbrella drink on the beach by another eighty-year-old nude person, you’ll be thankful it’s here.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He squints at me. “Why are you asking me about this?”
I shrug. “Just curious.”
“About getting naked on a beach?”
I don’t say anything.
His eyes go big. “Holy shit, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” He points at me and shakes his head. “Something’s not adding up here. ?is isn’t you. Now, me, I’m a fan of all things naked. And if you asked me to strip right now, I will. I’m not ashamed. I spent the rst few years of my life on this planet naked in the ocean.”
