AANR Western Regional General Assembly 2024
August 9-11, 2024
Shangri La Ranch


AANR Western Regional Fall Board Meeting
November, 2024

Beachcomber's Haven

Eliot had carved out a life as a beachcomber, his days spent wandering the shorelines, searching for treasures cast aside by the sea. But today was different. Today, Eliot sought not what the ocean left behind, but rather what he could leave behind himself: the confinements of cloth and the constraints of a world shrouded in propriety. He was heading towards Beachcomber's Haven, a secluded strip revered among naturists for its serene privacy and welcoming embrace.

On the edge of this paradise, clothing was not shed—it was abandoned, a silent declaration of freedom. Eliot stepped out of his sandals, his toes instantly sinking into the warm embrace of the sand. The fabric of his shirt, shorts, and, undergarments followed each article a further release from the binds of his everyday life.

Standing bare under the sun's tender caress, he felt a rebirth. Here, where the expanse of the sea met the infinity of the sky, Eliot was just another creature of the earth, his humanity unadorned and honest.

With rejuvenated eyes, Eliot began his idyllic trek across the beach. At Beachcomber's Haven, the term 'beachcomber' was not just a title; it was a meditative practice. He walked with a conscious slowness, his strides deliberate, each step a symphony of sensations as the grains of sand exfoliated his soles and the sea breeze kissed his body.

As he strolled, Eliot discovered others like himself, fellow seekers of the Haven's solace. They exchanged silent nods and smiles, a diverse yet like-minded community united by their shared vulnerability and the peace it brought them.

The shore was generous today, offering an array of seashells, each a unique piece of oceanic art. Eliot collected them with a connoisseur's eye, his nakedness allowing him an unparalleled connection with the moment. He felt as if each shell was a secret the beach whispered into his hand.

Midway through his journey, the shoreline carved out a cove, a natural enclave bordered by high cliffs and adorned with the soft foliage of whispering seagrass. Here, Eliot paused. He had found the heart of the Haven, a place where time ceased to exist, where each wave's retreat whispered an invitation to reflect and be.

Settling beneath the afternoon sun, Eliot laid his collection before him. He admired their diversity—jagged conchs telling tales of turbulent voyages, smooth, pastel cowries whispering of the ocean's hidden depths, and tiny, iridescent fragments of what once were—each a testament to nature's relentless creativity.

As the day meandered towards evening, and the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in hues of burning oranges and tranquil purples, Eliot felt a profound sense of belonging. Here at Beachcomber's Haven, stripped of his societal layers, he was just another part of the vast, intricate puzzle of the universe.

The return to clothing felt odd, each layer a reminder of the world beyond the beach. Yet, as he redressed, Eliot carried with him the day's most precious find—a gem of spiritual clarity and the realization that beneath it all, his truest haven was the sanctuary within himself.

With a final glance back at the ocean, a silent promise was made. He would return to the modest enclave of naturism, to once again wander its sandy thresholds and harvest its bounties, both tangible and spiritual. Beachcomber's Haven had given him more than a place to seek treasures; it had offered him a glimpse of his own unvarnished essence.