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I drove a minute diagonal across Antigua from southeast to the northwest and parked my rental just outside a guard shack at the entrance to the Hawksbill Beach resort. Pass the tennis court and go up the hill. I locked my camera and mobile phone in the car and started walking. I figured an unaccompanied male taking photos at a nude beach would be perceived as some kind of pervert, regardless of where his lens was pointing. Maybe the resort has seen better days, but I doubt it. The place was built ugly.
I passed rows of identical cottages, nearly windowless on three sides and painted white and beige. I passed a twisted chain link fence that enclosed a dingy tennis court. The road—really more like a path at this point—began to rise. At the crest were two white cinder block posts and a gate made of white lattice. I passed through and beheld a stunning view of the sea and a pristine beach. In the distance I saw a naked man, bronze all over, walking the shoreline.
There was no one else to be seen. I sat down on the edge of the first lounge chair I came to, pulled off my t-shirt, dropped my swimsuit, and went for a naked stroll. I found another lounge chair, dragged it beside a palm tree, and called it mine. The sea was a calm blue green. The swells were barely breaking. About hundred meters from shore was a large rock formation, thrust up from the sea floor. It looked like an arrowhead turned on its side — or if you prefer, a hawksbill.
There were a few small puffy clouds in the sky. A jet ski whizzed by. Then a catamaran. Then a helicopter. A couple sunned themselves at the other end of the beach. Bronze swam a bit and then left. Soon the couple disappeared and I had the whole meters of beach to myself. Well, not quite. After about an hour, I took a dip. The water was so clear I could see the bottom. It was warm but refreshing. I walked up to the hut, me full starkers and her dressed in crisp park ranger brown-and-tans.