Seeing Red
Tom Zdraveski & Holly Blackmore
Over the summer we spent several afternoons baking on Red Bluff Beach, a mere minute away from the heavily-frequented Half Moon Bay. It came to be one of our favourite parts of the Victorian coast.
The Bluff was a hidden, crystalline gem amidst January’s overpopulated heat. It was also socially nudist – as opposed to legally – and there would always be bronzed bodies paddling out to the horizon, or sprawled wide upon the thin stretch of sand. Most often these figures were grey, wrinkled men.
It was enticing because it was almost ours to keep. We could count the number of beach-goers on our fingers. Nobody would bother us as we lounged upon a grassy knoll, eating whatever we had scavenged from the supermarket, perched above sea level. We could sleep and laugh and yell and suppose we were somewhere strange, somewhere exotic. A holiday for the hot, noontide hours. The cliff behind us was scattered with shrubs and disfeatured stones. The water was flat; an unbroken, green face.
From the very corner of the Bluff, we could observe Half Moon Bay and its renowned sunken HMVS Cerberus. Voyeurs to the mayhem, but exempt from any involvement. Instead of the crowds, we had the naked elderly. Instead of the noise, we had only faint music from our phones, hastily downloaded that morning. Instead of the familiar, we had formed a pretense of something foreign.