Over the years, Megan and I have visited nude beaches all over the world. At this point, we’re fairly difficult to shock.
We’ve dealt with confusing directions, freezing water, brutal hikes, curious tourists and beaches where the promised naturist section seemingly exists only in someone’s imagination. Most of the time, we laugh it off. You find the beach, put down your towel, go for a swim and wonder why anyone ever decided swimwear was necessary in the first place.
But every now and then, something happens that completely derails the day.
We normally write about our favourite nude beaches - the places we’d happily return to and the experiences that remind us why we love naturist travel. This time, we thought it would be more fun to share the other side of it.
These aren’t necessarily the worst nude beaches we’ve visited. Some are beautiful, some have lovely local naturist communities and some are places we would still recommend—with a few warnings attached.
These are simply our worst and most memorable experiences: days involving theft, wild animals, unwanted behaviour, strange atmospheres and one deeply uncomfortable request for sunscreen.
So here they are, in no particular order.
In this post
- Everything Megan owned was stolen in New Caledonia
- Our naked standoff with a wild boar in Spain
- Discovering the other side of Cap d’Agde
- The men who couldn’t leave themselves alone in France
- The “nude beach” where nobody else was nude in Romania
- The world’s most awkward sunscreen request in Australia
Everything Megan owned was stolen in New Caledonia
New Caledonia is one of our favourite places in the world. We love Nouméa, the surrounding islands, the clear water, the food and the mix of French and Pacific culture.
Topless sunbathing is common around the capital and generally isn’t treated as a big deal. Full nudity is a different story. Outside Nouméa, we understood attitudes to be more conservative, particularly in traditional Kanak areas.
Plage des Nudistes, on the Nouville peninsula, was the only well-known nude beach on the island. So, realistically, this outing was probably less about Megan desperately wanting to visit the beach and more about me finding somewhere I could strip off with Megan.
Nouville is around a 20-minute drive from central Nouméa and isn’t exactly the city’s most glamorous suburb. The road winds past industrial areas before reaching a quiet little coral beach tucked around the coastline.
When we arrived on a weekday, hardly anyone was there.
We put our bags down close to the water. One contained most of my things and the other contained Megan’s. Then we went in for a quick swim to cool off.
We weren’t far away, and we weren’t gone long.
A few minutes later, Megan suddenly started screaming.
“Where’s my bag?”
At first, I assumed she had simply forgotten where she had put it.
“It was right there.”
We looked behind the towels, checked around the rocks and stared at the same tiny section of beach as though the bag might suddenly reappear if we concentrated hard enough.
Then came that horrible sinking feeling.
It was gone.
Someone had walked onto the beach, taken Megan’s bag and disappeared while we were only metres away in the water. Inside were her wallet, cash, bank cards, identification, phone and most of her clothes.
In the space of a few minutes, a relaxing afternoon had turned into a complete nightmare.
Megan was understandably frantic. I was trying to stay calm while mentally going through everything that was missing, everything we would need to cancel and how exactly we were going to explain this to the police.
At one point, Megan gave me a look that seemed to say, “You brought me all the way here so you could get naked, and now everything I own has been stolen.”
It was difficult to argue with that assessment.
As awful as it was, we also realised very quickly that it could have been much worse. Had the person taken my bag instead, they would have found both our passports, the keys to our rental car, a brand-new drone and substantially more cash.
For some reason, we had placed virtually every item capable of destroying the entire trip into one unattended beach bag.
Thankfully, the thief also left behind enough of Megan’s clothes to stop the situation from becoming even more awkward. Standing naked on a beach after your phone and wallet have been stolen is bad. Standing naked after your phone, wallet and every item of clothing have disappeared adds an entirely new problem.
We eventually drove to the police station and attempted to explain what had happened in our truly terrible French.
Yes, we had been at a beach.
Yes, it was an unofficial nude beach.
Yes, we had left our worldly possessions unattended on the sand.
No, we did not see who took them.
It was not our finest travel moment.
Apparently, opportunistic beach theft can happen around Nouméa when people leave their belongings unattended while swimming. But honestly, we should have known better. We wouldn’t leave our wallets, phones, passports, drone and car keys sitting unattended on a beach at home.
For some reason, when travelling, common sense occasionally goes on holiday too.
It was an expensive reminder: take only what you need, keep your valuables together and never assume that a quiet beach is a secure beach.
We still love New Caledonia. We just love it slightly more when our belongings remain where we left them.
The beach was peaceful. The police station was less relaxing.
Our naked standoff with a wild boar in Spain
Imagine being completely naked and suddenly coming face-to-face with a massive wild boar determined to eat your chips.
That was our experience at Playa de las Alberquillas in Spain.
The day began innocently enough. We had settled onto the beach, taken our clothes off and started relaxing when we noticed several little piglets wandering through the grass behind the sand.
“Look at the cute pigs,” one of us said.
And they were cute - small, harmless-looking and happily sniffing around in the vegetation.
Then their mother appeared.
This was not a cute little pig. She was enormous.
The wild boar emerged from the grass with the confidence of an animal that had done this many times before. She knew the beach was full of bags, towels and tourists carrying lunch.
Almost immediately, she tore into an unattended beach bag. Out came sandwiches, towels and various other belongings as she pushed through everything in search of more food.
People began moving away. Umbrellas and beach mats were being knocked around, and the entire beach suddenly became much less relaxing.
Then she turned toward us.
At first, I thought she was simply moving along the beach. Then she started coming directly toward our food.
Megan began scrambling to pack everything away while I stood up and tried to make myself look threatening.
Completely naked.
There is nothing more humbling than attempting to establish dominance over a wild animal while your entire body is exposed. Normally, if you confront something dangerous, you at least have shoes on. Perhaps trousers. Maybe a jacket that makes you look larger.
I had absolutely nothing.
I started yelling at the boar to back off.
“Go away!”
“Get out of here!”
Somehow, I expected an enormous Spanish wild boar to respect instructions delivered in English by a naked Australian man.
Megan was trying to hide the food while also giving me a look that suggested she wasn’t entirely confident in my wildlife-management strategy.
The boar kept coming.
For a few seconds, I genuinely didn’t know what would happen. Wild boars are powerful animals, and this one had already demonstrated that beach bags and umbrellas were not much of an obstacle.
Eventually, either my shouting worked or she realised our chips were no longer available. She moved on in search of an easier target.
I stood there for a moment, still completely naked, feeling both victorious and ridiculous.
Nobody was hurt, although someone’s lunch and unattended bag were absolutely destroyed.
Before that day, our nude beach checklist included sunscreen, water, towels and somewhere safe to leave our valuables. It now also includes checking the grass for aggressive wildlife.
Nothing prepares you for defending your snacks without pants.
Discovering the other side of Cap d’Agde
We had heard that Cap d’Agde could be a little risqué, but it is also one of the most famous naturist destinations in the world.
It calls itself a naturist village. It has accommodation, shops, restaurants, clubs and a huge beach where nudity is supposedly part of everyday life.
Surely, we thought, a place this iconic must offer a relaxed naturist experience.
We visited on a quiet weekday expecting exactly that.
The first surprise was how controlled and commercial the experience felt. There was an entrance process, parking and a day-access charge before we had even reached the beach. It felt less like casually visiting the coast and more like entering a privately operated attraction.
Still, we were excited.
This was Cap d’Agde. It had to be famous for a reason.
Once we reached the beach, however, the atmosphere felt strange almost immediately. As we walked along the sand, Megan and I kept exchanging those silent looks couples give each other when neither wants to be the first to say, “What the hell is going on here?”
It felt like people were looking us up and down—not simply noticing new arrivals, but openly assessing us.
Then we started seeing people wearing lingerie and high heels.
On the beach.
High heels are already an ambitious choice on pavement. Wearing them on sand inside a naturist village felt like a level of commitment we hadn’t anticipated.
We also noticed businesses advertising dress codes. Again, this was inside a place built around the idea of not wearing clothes.
The real surprise came when we saw groups of people standing in circles in the shallow water. Each circle appeared to be gathered around a couple in the middle.
From a distance, we couldn’t tell what was happening.
Maybe they were talking. Maybe it was some kind of social group. Maybe everyone had simply found a particularly interesting patch of water.
We continued walking along the beach.
Then we saw another circle.
And another.
Eventually, we got close enough to understand what was happening.
It wasn’t a beach discussion group.
Megan looked at me. I looked at Megan. Neither of us needed to say anything.
We have no issue with what consenting adults choose to do privately. Lifestyle resorts, clubs and events exist for people who actively want those experiences.
But naturism and “the lifestyle” aren’t automatically the same thing.
That distinction matters.
Naturism is meant to allow people to be naked without every interaction becoming sexual. It gives families, couples, solo visitors and first-timers a space where the naked body isn’t automatically treated as an invitation.
Public sexual activity changes that completely. It turns everyone nearby into an audience, whether they agreed to participate or not.
We weren’t shocked that adult activity existed somewhere within Cap d’Agde. Its reputation is hardly a secret. What surprised us was how openly it spilled onto the main beach and how difficult it was to separate the naturist side from the sexual side.
For experienced naturists, it was uncomfortable. For a nervous first-timer who had finally worked up the courage to visit a nude beach, it could be enough to put them off naturism forever.
Cap d’Agde remains iconic, and plenty of people genuinely love it. Perhaps we visited the wrong section, or perhaps we arrived with the wrong expectations.
But the laid-back naturist beach day we had imagined never really appeared.
We went looking for one of the world’s most famous naturist villages. We found something slightly different.
The men who couldn’t leave themselves alone in France
Plage de la Batterie is a stunning naturist beach near Golfe-Juan, along the coast from Nice. It is the kind of place that looks almost impossibly French Riviera: clear water, rocky coastline and beautiful views across the Mediterranean.
We met loads of locals during our visit, and everyone was welcoming. People chatted to us, told us about the beach and made us feel completely comfortable.
For most of the day, it was exactly what a community naturist beach should be.
Then several newcomers appeared on the rocks.
There were three or four men, and they simply could not leave a certain part of their bodies alone.
At first, we tried to ignore it. People adjust themselves at nude beaches. That is normal. When you aren’t wearing clothes, there are occasionally practical matters to deal with.
This was not that.
These men were repeatedly and aggressively pulling at 'it' while walking around on the rocks. But like weirdly not in a sexual way.
Not once.
Not briefly.
Constantly.
It looked like they were trying to start a lawnmower that hadn’t run since 1987.
Megan noticed them. I noticed them. Then we both tried to pretend we hadn’t noticed them.
The problem was that once you see behaviour like that, it becomes almost impossible not to see it. We would start talking about something else, look back toward the water and realise they were still doing it.
We shifted position slightly.
Still visible.
We turned our towels.
Still visible.
At one point, I remember thinking that whatever they were trying to accomplish, it genuinely looked painful and wasn't acheving anything.
They were far enough away from the main beach that most people didn’t seem to notice. Unfortunately, they remained directly in our line of sight.
It is surprisingly difficult to enjoy a peaceful afternoon on the French Riviera when several men in the distance appear to be very aggressively trying to start a lawn mower in the ocean.
We considered saying something.
My French is useful for ordering food, asking for directions and explaining that I don’t understand French. It does not extend naturally to confronting several naked men on coastal rocks.
Would “Arrêtez!” have been enough?
Should I have pointed?
Would pointing have made the situation worse?
These are not questions you expect to consider during a beach holiday.
We eventually decided against approaching them. Maybe they were nervous, showing off or believed pulling at themselves would make them appear larger.
Regardless of the reason, it wasn’t okay.
Naturism depends on people understanding that their behaviour affects everyone around them. This newbie tips 101. Briefly adjusting yourself is human. Repeatedly handling yourself in full view of other beachgoers is something entirely different.
The frustrating part was that Plage de la Batterie itself was beautiful, and the established local naturists were incredibly friendly. A handful of people managed to turn an otherwise perfect afternoon into one of our strangest.
The scenery was beautiful - provided you looked in exactly the right direction.
The “nude beach” where nobody else was nude in Romania
Sometimes the worst beach experiences aren’t frightening or dramatic.
Sometimes everything simply feels off.
Vama Veche had been described to us as a grungy, bohemian paradise near Romania’s border with Bulgaria. We had heard stories of hippies, alternative travellers, beach parties and people casually enjoying the coast without clothes.
It sounded exactly like the kind of place we wanted to experience.
The reality we found was quite different.
To access the section of beach we had been directed toward, we were told we needed to pay for a lounger and buy a minimum number of drinks from the attached bar.
That might have seemed reasonable if the place had been busy.
It wasn’t.
Nobody else appeared to be using the bar. Nobody else appeared to be using the loungers.
Most importantly, nobody else was naked.
Megan and I stood there looking at each other, trying to work out whether we had come to the wrong place.
Being naked around hundreds of other naked people feels completely normal. Being the only two naked people at an empty beach bar feels considerably more noticeable.
We sat down anyway.
The staff repeatedly encouraged us to order drinks, everything felt overpriced and the whole experience had the energy of a nightclub before opening time.
There was also a small beach library, which sounded brilliant. A free collection of books beside the sea seemed perfectly suited to the bohemian atmosphere we had expected.
Then we discovered that accessing the “free” library appeared to involve another payment.
What?
Meanwhile, loud EDM blasted across the nearly empty beach. There is something uniquely bleak about aggressive dance music playing to absolutely nobody.
The staff kept checking whether we wanted more drinks. We kept wondering whether we should simply give up and leave.
At no point did the place feel like a relaxed nude beach. It felt as though we had accidentally wandered into a beach bar attempting to manufacture an edgy reputation that wasn’t actually present that day.
Maybe Vama Veche is completely different on a busy weekend. Maybe the atmosphere changes during festivals or at the height of summer. Maybe we simply arrived at the wrong time.
But on the day we visited, it felt awkward, expensive and strangely performative.
That was particularly disappointing because nearby Bulgaria has so many relaxed and genuinely enjoyable naturist beaches. We left feeling as though we had been promised a free-spirited nude beach and received an empty bar with loud speakers and compulsory drinks.
The music was ready for a party. The beach was not.
The world’s most awkward sunscreen request in Australia
Little Diggers Beach is a small, secluded beach near Coffs Harbour on the Mid North Coast of New South Wales.
It is well known to local naturists but easy for tourists to miss. You don’t generally stumble across it by accident.
We had visited before and always had good experiences. On this particular weekday, however, the beach was extremely quiet.
Megan and I were lying on the sand when we noticed a man walking toward us from around 100 metres away. There were very few other people around, so it became obvious fairly quickly that he was coming specifically to speak to us.
The conversation started innocently enough.
“Nice day.”
“Beautiful weather.”
“Where are you from?”
All normal beach conversation.
Then he mentioned that he was running out of sunscreen.
Did we have any he could use?
Immediately, the entire interaction felt different.
Maybe he genuinely needed sunscreen. Maybe we were being suspicious. But he had walked a considerable distance across a quiet beach to ask the only naked couple for something that often involves another person applying it to your body.
Megan and I exchanged a look.
Beside us was a very full bottle of sunscreen.
While continuing the conversation, I quietly pushed it underneath our backpack.
“Nope,” I said. “Sorry, we’re out.”
The bottle had gone from ordinary beach equipment to classified information.
Unfortunately, telling him we had no sunscreen did not end the conversation.
He kept talking.
We gave shorter answers.
He kept talking.
We became increasingly uninteresting.
He kept talking.
Eventually, I told him we were going back into the water. The message was clear enough, and he finally moved on.
Was he simply awkward?
Possibly.
Was his next question going to be, “Can you rub some on my back?”
Also possibly.
We decided we did not need to find out.
On a regular beach, asking someone for sunscreen might be completely harmless. On a quiet nude beach, after walking 100 metres to approach the only couple, it lands a little differently.
The encounter didn’t ruin our day, but it reminded us that you don’t always need to establish exactly what another person intends. Sometimes you can trust the feeling that an interaction is becoming uncomfortable.
You don’t need to be rude or create a confrontation. Sometimes you simply hide the sunscreen, become incredibly boring and announce that you are going for a swim.
The sunscreen survived. So did the beach day.
Bottom line
Not every nude beach visit is going to be perfect.
Sometimes your belongings get stolen. Sometimes a wild boar tries to eat your lunch. Sometimes you accidentally find yourself watching activities you never agreed to watch.
Sometimes several men spend an afternoon doing things that make everyone else uncomfortable. And sometimes a stranger walks the entire length of a beach to ask about your sunscreen.
These experiences don’t necessarily define the beaches themselves.
We still love New Caledonia. Playa de las Alberquillas remains a beautiful stretch of Spanish coastline. Plage de la Batterie had one of the friendliest local naturist communities we’ve encountered, and Little Diggers has been relaxing on every other occasion we’ve visited.
Even Cap d’Agde and Vama Veche will have visitors who experienced something completely different from us.
But these particular days stand out for all the wrong reasons.
The theft in New Caledonia was easily the most consequential. The wild boar was probably the most frightening in the moment. Cap d’Agde was the most eye-opening.
And the sunscreen conversation?
That may have been the most awkward.
What is your worst - or simply strangest - nude beach experience?
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