Finding My Place on Quend-Plage’s Naturist Beach

I was already walking south along the sand when I started wondering whether Quend-Plage's naturist area was a real place or just something I had confidently misunderstood. I kept scanning the beach for the smallest useful clue while trying not to look like someone conducting a search operation in broad daylight. Then I spotted a naturist ahead, and the simple fact of seeing one person dressed for the beach in an entirely different way made me breathe out. At least I hadn't marched to the wrong coast.

I moved closer to the dunes and began the next difficult calculation: how much space counts as polite space for a towel? Every promising patch seemed either too near someone else's things or so far away that choosing it would feel like announcing myself. I stood there holding my bag, pretending to study the shoreline while actually measuring invisible boundaries. The beach had no painted lines, which was both liberating and mildly inconvenient.

The problem solved itself when two naturists shook out their towels, gathered their belongings, and headed away. Their departure opened a clear place with enough sand between the neighboring towels that I could settle without feeling as if I had joined a private picnic uninvited. I walked over, put my towel down, and gave it one unnecessary adjustment at each corner. That small ceremony made the spot feel like mine, or at least like a spot I was allowed to use.

I took off my swimsuit, applied sunscreen, and waited for the anticipated wave of embarrassment. It never arrived. There was no dramatic pause in the beach, no collective turning of heads, and no voice from the dunes declaring that I had failed an entrance exam. I lay back and found myself more occupied by the practical question of whether I had put the sunscreen somewhere within reach than by the fact that I was no longer wearing swimwear.

For a while I read and rested, and the whole thing became surprisingly ordinary. Then a few small flying insects began making my patch of sand feel like the least desirable seat in the entire country. I sat up, brushed at the air, and tried relocating my book before the insects could claim that too. When that achieved nothing, I stood and walked toward the water with the brisk determination of someone fleeing a tiny, poorly organized army.

At the edge of the sea, I stepped into the shallows and waded until the water reached my knees. I turned back once toward my towel, then faced along the shoreline and kept walking, letting the movement solve the problem more effectively than any amount of irritated swatting. The cool water was an excellent reset, and I noticed that I felt no more self-conscious there than I had on the sand. A few clothed walkers passed nearby, and their clothes somehow seemed less relevant to me than the insects did.

I returned to my towel, dried off enough to sit comfortably, and spent the afternoon moving between reading, resting, and short walks along the beach. The passing walkers did not stop, comment, or make the event about me; they simply continued on, which was exactly the kind of public indifference I had secretly hoped for. I still noticed my own thoughts now and then, but they had lost their sharp edge. The day had become less a test of courage than a pleasant afternoon with an unexpectedly active insect population.

When it was time to leave, I packed my things and looked back at the space between the dunes and the shore. My first visit had begun with me searching for proof that I was in the right place and ended with me wondering how soon I could come back. I walked to the car, ready for the drive home, carrying the same swimsuit I had arrived in but a much smaller supply of anxiety. The beach had not made a fuss about me, and I decided I wouldn't make one about it either.