Wreck Beach, Carellin Brooks tells us, is the best nudist beach in Canada and, in a rare moment of uncertainty, “possibly the world”.
Her slight yet witty volume is less a guide to the multifarious strips of sand beneath UBC and more an ode to its pristine beauty and erratic history. And this is a history worth uncovering, awash with tragedy and comedy, sex and drugs and local politics, and a cast of characters which, in all their shapes, sizes, and idiosyncrasies, are decidedly Canadian.
That Wreck Beach has become a Vancouver landmark is undisputed. It attracts over 500,000 visitors each year and has been functioning as a nudist beach for about 50 years now, depending on whose account you believe. But what makes it so fascinating, beyond the obvious appeal of natural beauty and copious genitalia, are the passions and opinions it evokes in people. At its heart Wreck Beach is a story of a community struggling to remain self-sufficient and sovereign while attempting to satisfactorily shoulder the responsibilities of that impulse. This is very much the tale of a frontier society, where place and identity are inextricably bound.
In this regard Brooks’ Wreck Beach rarely disappoints, replete as it is with the cream of BC society: students, families, stoners, thugs, gawkers, “bushtails”, skimboarders, and “nude Nazis”. The latter refers to Wreck Beach regulars, many of them members of the Wreck Beach Preservation Society, who have worked tirelessly to keep the beach unspoiled and “pure”. There is of course a double-bladed conservatism, some would say elitism, about this group (for instance, the creation of a nudists-only logged-off section for regulars known as the White House), but they also ensure that the area is kept clean and safe, often bumping heads with local councilors and the RCMP in the process.
In amongst this patchwork of bodies there emerges a truly rich cast of characters. There’s Watermelon, an iconic beach vendor busted in 2001 by RCMP Constable ‘Napoleon’ Francoeur for selling cookies with a kick. Or the ‘Can Man’, so known because of the pesky song he sings as he collects empties (“Can Man, I’m the Can Man. Give me your cans, man, I’m the Can Man…”). Or Korky Day, the “perennial hippy” who organized the 1970 nude-in that brought the plight of the beach-goers to the public’s attention. In 2000 Day stripped to the nip during a performance of Wreck Beach, a play inspired by the killing of Christina Joy Thompson. When confronted by the furious director, he proposed putting it to a public vote; if they decreed, he would rerobe. The vote went in Day’s favour and he sat through the rest of the performance in his birthday suit.
It is to Brooks’ comprehensive research and concise, wry style that the book owes its charm. This is, after all, a local history based largely on oral accounts and Brooks brilliantly balances treating her subjects both with sincerity and a healthy sense of humor. This is an essential addition to any visitor’s backpack, whether nude Nazi or newbie. (Transmontanus)
