A Tale of Two Nude Beaches
What two cities taught me about free expression, consenting to security, and the demand to take space
At many points in my life, I’ve assumed that I’d inevitably end up living in the Pacific Northwest. On paper, cities in the PNW seemed to check off all the essential boxes: easy access to nature, progressive politics, tech industry jobs, and a lively music and arts scene make a future move there seem a no-brainer. But I hadn’t spent enough time in the area to know if settling on the other side of the country from my family and friends would be worth it, let alone enough to figure out which city I wanted to land in.
And from afar, its two main cities aren’t easy to compare. The weather is similar, the pioneering lineage of its white-dominating populous is identical1, and both are begrudgingly known for skewing the rest of their rural state’s politics from libertarian to liberal. Comparing statistics alone can make it hard to understand a city’s vibe: Seattle is more expansive, dense, and affluent, but how does that make a place feel? How does it make a community feel?
Over the summer, I stumbled into a new way to compare these two places that can’t be captured on a census breakdown: how each city handles nude beaches.
Swimming naked in public comes easily to some folks. Maybe it’s a special kind of confidence; maybe it’s the absence of a certain kind of fear. Most of my own experiences skinny dipping involved the cover of the night, a small group of girlfriends, and enough alcohol to dull my sense of judgment.
That all changed last summer when Clementine, my van, took me to southern Oregon to attend a women’s retreat. In near-perfect conditions – deep in nature but on private land accessible only to women – I found a new kind of skinny dipping focused less on the thrill of public nudity and more on the joys of being vulnerable and immersed in nature. Swimming in nature2 feels a million times better when there’s nothing – not clothes, not unwanted observation – separating you from the natural world. Since then, I’ve found only a handful of other occasions wherein swimming naked felt open yet protected – pinning the freedom of the wilderness against the security of permission from some authority.
Half an hour east of Portland, a few miles beyond the Sandy River, which cuts a transitional divide between developed exurbs and rural Oregon wilderness, sits a small state park along the Columbia River. Rooster Rock State Park seemed like the suitable low-key public space to park for the afternoon with the doors open, so I spent a few hours quietly reading and enjoying a view of the low, mid-summer water flow. The large parking lot was mostly empty on a sunny Saturday afternoon, though I noticed one section filling more quickly than the others. I decided to investigate.
There, I found a massive information board detailing the swimming regulations, hunting season dates, wildlife warnings, and the like. And one sign read, in bright white capital letters: ATTENTION: BEYOND THIS SIGN YOU MAY ENCOUNTER NUDE SUNBATHERS.
I had stumbled upon one of the two3 legal clothing-optional beaches in Oregon, both at least a half-hour drive from the city and both incredibly clearly marked, even on Google Maps. It gives would-be nudists the legal green light to frolic at will, a step beyond the state’s generally lax public decency code. That’s not to say that I feel it necessary for the state to wholly determine when and where we can be nude, but I certainly feel more comfortable when there’s no ambiguity.
The sign at the head of the trail to the beach explained in great detail where visitors could find the nude area. It included a map of the area with clearly defined borders and an explicit warning to the buff and the dressed, which amounted to “don’t say we didn’t warn you.” With my free hour, I decided to give it a shot and took off towards the river.
The walk to the beach itself was intentionally a little inconvenient. A few yards down the unassuming dirt path, another sign pointed toward the nearest end of the nude-optional portion with yet another warning. The park’s commitment to providing explicit instructions felt twice as beneficial. It reminded non-nudes what they were consenting to by walking down a specific path and assuring the nudists they were allowed and protected to be there.
Once I broke through the trees and arrived at the beach, I noticed a family playing loudly in the low wake. The Columbia River reaches its peak flow in May and slowly dries through the summer, where the recessing depths expose the sedimented beach that can only exist in the overlap between summer’s warmth and low water. The ephemeral conditions made the beach feel sacred, even if the shoreline was less of a lido and more so the exposed bottom of a riverbed. Still, looking down the length of the 3-mile stretch of coast, nudists and non-nudists spread out evenly and at a respectful distance from the mud and each other. I made my way far enough along the beach to match the average distance everyone else seemed to silently agree upon.
Most people were sunbathing alone or in small groups. A few groups had speakers and coolers, but the overall manner was peaceful ignorance, as though we’d all decided to pretend no one else was there. Do not perceive, and you shall not be perceived. I laid out my towel, popped my top off, and lowered onto the damp sand. With all of the warning sign advertisements for a nude beach, I’d assumed it would be packed with folks looking to party. Still, on that sunny July Saturday, the people who’d passed through the many reminders of bodily consent had done so to sit quietly in their own commune with nature.
I walked over to the edge of the water and assessed the conditions with my bare feet. Lightly, my toes sunk into the wet mud. The water was colder than I’d expected given how shallow it looked, and the July sun was still not hot enough to require shirking my senses and diving in to cool off anyway. So instead of submerging myself to reap the benefits of nude swimming, I simply stood at the riparian with my exposed chest open towards the sky and my feet slowly sinking into the coast.
The family at the entrance continued to splash loudly in the distance; dogs ran after thrown balls and kicked up the silt; sunbathers laid with their butts exposed and their headphones on; an occasional person would walk just far enough into the water to rinse off before turning back to continue sitting quietly.
It could be the overt formality of the beach that filtered out would-be rabble-rousers. Its fleeting nature and distance from the city made the beach too fickle and inaccessible to more swimmers. Or this place was designated nude specifically because of its low-key nature and moderate temperament. It wasn’t the refreshing jolt of water that I craved, but the beach served its purpose of providing a safe space to exist comfortably in the buff.
A few days later, I drove Clementine north to Seattle. Seattle in July gave me more sunny days and better access to lake, ocean, and river water, which all seemed crisper and more inviting than the Columbia’s muddy waters.
My partner and I rented an Airbnb for the week to work remotely, catch up with friends, and celebrate our anniversary. The rental sat on what felt like a 45-degree-angled hill, giving meaning to the neighborhood title Capitol Hill and stress-tested Clementine’s breaks. Still, walking around the steep local streets on such a perfect summer day was practically a requirement when there was a body of water that was close to the city. One afternoon, Michael and I decided to hike toward the nearest body of water, Lake Washington, in hopes of getting our feet wet.
I have this theory that you can tell how affluent a neighborhood is by looking at how complicated its streets are organized. The curves formed by giant, old trees and unplanned intersections imply customization that only comes from owning land before a city sprawled – and having enough wealth to keep the city from sprawling onto you. The beachfront parks along the lake were obscured by misleading one-way streets and private roads and old, dense tree coverage. We almost missed the beach we’d been navigating to, thanks to its awkward positioning squeezed between two massive compound-like mansions on either side. But we were excited for the clear, cold water nonetheless.
As we approached Denny Blaine Park, we noticed a few men hanging around the entrance, naked. As we got closer and moved past the grassy entrance area onto the sand, the scene came into frame: it was a nude beach. No signs, no warnings, no legal consent, just a few dozen fully naked sunbathers crammed into a small patch of grass and sand wedged between two concrete walls equipped with security cameras pointed towards the small beach and surrounding water. The water had already been a surprisingly difficult goal to reach, so we decided to keep walking and feel it out.
Most of the sunbathers were men, either alone or in small groups. As we walked past groups blaring competing pop music, one man slurred a shout-over to one of the only groups of women, “You’re beautiful!”
“Thanks!” one of them responded.
“Like, I would fuck you. And I’m gay!”
The woman, topless, half-heartedly laughed in a way intended to end the conversation. It was hard to tell if she welcomed the compliment or thought it was too sexually aggressive despite the offender’s sexuality; regardless, the beach was too small for the group to move and set up elsewhere, even if they wanted to. The vibe felt jovial, if not a little sloppy – as many cruising sites do.
The beach used to be referred to as Dykeki as a nod to its one-time crowd of mostly lesbians. However, that stereotype seems to have faded in trend with lesbian-specific spaces across the country.4
We continued walking through the crowded park to the water, passing by and navigating through throngs of naked men laying dicks-up in the mild Pacific Northwest sun. Ages ranged, though no one seemed younger than their late 20’s. While plenty of men were tanning alone with their headphones or small speakers playing music, the only women were in small groups, tucked away under umbrellas. Few of the women had their bottoms off.
Michael and I reached the lake's edge and put our feet in the water. Only a few buildings dotted the shoreline of Mercer Island across the water, making the tiny nude shoreline feel more secluded than the Seattle skyline behind us. The clear and refreshing water made the muddy river bank of Portland feel like a tepid tidepool. I was, yet again, without a bathing suit, eager to feel revitalized and open to the moment.
Michael turned to me with his hands on his hips. “What do you think? Should we go for it?”
I looked around at the hordes of naked men scattered about and then at Michael. Many were gay, but the interaction on our way in gave me pause. Should I feel awkward getting naked in public in front of men, even if I am not the object of their sexual desire? Why did it feel so much easier to be naked in public with women, even if they were queer and possibly more interested in my body than a gay man? And why did I care about being looked at naked when I know how good I look naked?
I smiled at his openness and ease. “Might as well,” I answered. “We’re already here.” We shimmied out of our clothes and piled them under a small bush by the shore. I paused to breathe at the shoreline, chest open to the sky, and stepped into the lake.
We swam and laughed and floated on our backs in the sun. The barrier between my body and the earth had never felt less defined as I allowed the bobbing waves to encompass my entire being. As I moved through the water, the weighty parts of my body effortlessly hovered along, allowing for a sense of mindlessness that comes from not constantly thinking about how your body looks or feels – an ironic juxtaposition given the perceived eyes of strangers. I wrapped my legs around Michael and gave him a kiss for encouraging us, knowing that I likely would not have accepted this moment had I not had a male companion with me.
After soaking in as much as I could, I started to head back to the shore to dry off while Michael basked in the sun a little longer. I awkwardly toweled off with my shirt and put my basics back on before I was dry. As I did, a man walked over to me.
“I love that necklace!”
He was wearing a tiny Speedo and had a gold chain himself. I smiled and thanked him.
“Where did you get it from?”
“Etsy, I think,” I responded, keeping my answers kind but short.
“It’s beautiful! Yeah, I saw you swimming out there earlier; you are so gorgeous.”
I smiled again as I stood there in a wet thong and attempted to put my bra back on. “That’s so sweet! Thank you so much.”
Maybe he wasn’t gay. Maybe he’d been watching me, blissfully floating and unaware of being perceived. Or maybe he was more interested in my partner and curious about how friendly I’d be. Maybe he was just nice and picked a weird time to compliment me. Either way, the whiplash threw me from being a drop in a lake to being pursued, naked and alone. Having a long history of learning to reject men without hurting their feelings, I gave him one more smile and told him to have a great day. He took the hint and told me to do the same.
Just then, Michael had made his way to the shore upon seeing the interaction. “Everything okay?” he asked.
I looked at the concrete fortresses on either side of the small beach, sporting security cameras and fencing, and then back out at the perfectly serene water. Unlike the beach in Portland, which felt oddly quiet at times, this entire space felt concocted to observe people: for beachgoers to watch each other and assess potential hook-ups; for the mansion owners to constantly surveil their homes in case of a perceived threat; and for cops to scrutinize attendees despite public nudity being “legal” in the city.
“Yeah,” I responded, “nice swim, nice enough guy, but I’m ready to go.”
Maybe Denny Blaine Park feels more comfortable with a demographic of older gay cruisers who defy the State and wealthy homeowners by insisting on their right to exist au natural, and I wouldn’t take that away from anyone. More power to the free-wheeling penises that fight against the privatization of lake access and nature within a dense, wealthy city. But if the “public” space is only fit for specific, in-the-know groups of people, how free can being naked feel?
The Portland nude beach loses some of its primal spark through over-explaining and over-advertising the point. Seattle, in contrast, felt overly policed by both the attendees and actual law enforcement, but all the more satisfying to stumble upon and enjoy within walking distance. But most importantly, both spaces had to be carved out and fought for by a community that wanted a safe space to exist as naturally as possible, no matter the cost — if that space is inconvenient for you, that’s a you problem, and I respect that. I appreciate that those beaches existed at all, even if the culture of these communities takes a little getting used to.
For now, I’ll save my sacred skinny dipping excursions for the women in the woods.
https://www.ohs.org/oregon-historical-quarterly/award-winning-articles/upload/WIlm_Old-Myths_OHQ-123_4_Winter-2022_web.pdf
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0272494423001214
https://travelingbare.com/oregon-nude-beaches/
https://www.axios.com/2023/06/30/lesbian-bars-america-2023