Yes, with the exception of my off-white, low-top Vans, I did take off all of my clothes. I had to. Because like the old saying goes, “When visiting a nude beach for the first time, do as the nudists do”—even if it’s 59 degrees outside and the ocean breezes sting like a cold, wet towel slapping your bare ass. So that’s what I did during my first trip to Black’s Beach, San Diego’s infamous nude locale.
Did I feel liberated? More free? Not exactly—mostly just cold. But was it worth it? Hell, yes. Whether you strip down or not, the BB Experience is something every San Diegan ought to enjoy at one time or another.
At least, that was my takeaway, after visiting on a sunny and windy winter afternoon.
The beach itself is immaculate: a long, wide strip of firm pebble sand that appears tailor-made by God for casual strolls along the Pacific. Dozens of people, clothed and unclothed, did just that, including one middle-aged man dressed in nothing more than black Hokas, black sunglasses, and black mittens—an odd item to see at the beach, but then again, that breeze was chilly. The relatively frigid conditions seemed to put an extra pep in his step.
I was not feeling as active, especially after taking the “easiest” path to Black’s Beach: a 308-foot descent down a rocky and sandy path next to Torrey Pines Gliderport. The trek is tough, but the view is incredible—you’re sandwiched between brown cliffs that loom over the four-foot waves slowly collapsing into the shore. There are worse places in the world to trip and die.
When you reach safety, you can gaze up at the sky and see a handful of hang gliders hovering above you. Look ahead, and you’ll come face-to-face with “a bunch of bare-ass naked dudes,” as one Phoenix tourist told me while we passed one another on the trail. He wasn’t lying. (“Dudes” is the keyword here, considering I only saw one woman sunbathing nude during my visit. Still, my head stayed on a swivel all afternoon, just in case the future Mrs. Burch happened to stroll by in her birthday suit—it’d be a fun “how we met” story to tell the grandkids one day, I figured.)
It was time for me to join them. I shed my clothes and plopped down on my striped beach towel to soak in the modest sunlight—and the ambiance. My plan for the day was to be part anthropologist, part exhibitionsist.
I did not feel nervous, necessarily, but I was aware of my current situation; my brain seemed to have a constant “your clothes are now off” alert buzzing, like the iPhone alarm you hit snooze on 20 times every morning.
Even as I ignored the mental alert, I found myself hyper-in-tune with my senses. Each shift on my towel reminded me that small pebbles were grazing parts of my upper thigh that normally weren’t exposed. The unsavory thought of sand making its way into other, usually covered parts of my body crossed my mind, too, so I moved gingerly.
Nudity also complicated the ordinarily mindless act of flopping out to tan. I didn’t want to give the dudes on the beach too much of an unsolicited eyeful as they walked by, so I opted for a cross-legged sitting position as I read my book.
The beach’s hippie vibe seemed to embolden my unclad brethren, though. Chilling on a towel wasn’t an option for most of the dozen naked guys I saw. They had to be doing something while in the buff.
One 30-something man worked on perfecting his handstand while wearing only sunglasses. Another fellow who looked like he’d been a roadie for Crosby, Stills, and Nash in 1969 snuck off to the shrubs to fill his pipe with sativa. And another dude in his 20s, the boldest of the bunch, ripped off his clothes and sprinted into the ocean. He must be a big cold-plunge guy, I thought. I considered joining him, but that Seinfeld episode about what happens to dudes in frigid water raced to the front of my mind. I decided I’d hit my adventurous quota for the day. I’ll follow in his footsteps next time I visit—during the summer.
