Forgive me in advance, ‘cause for this column I’m taking you guys to UBC (kind of). Wreck Beach isn’t technically a part of UBC’s campus, but you do have to go through it to get there.

Once you’ve found the sign demarcating the beach, you have to descend a fair number of steps through some really beautiful rainforest-y surroundings to get to the actual waterfront. Once you hit sand, the view is pretty damn breathtaking: you can turn in a complete circle and you’ll see nothing but ocean, mountains and forest. Well . . . you may see some other stuff as well, as this beach is clothing-optional.

In May, after being in Vancouver just over a month, a friend suggested a day at Wreck. I love the beach (duh) and was totally enthused until she casually said, “Oh, it’s a nude beach, by the way.”

I’m from a pretty conservative household and even if I wasn’t, public nudity isn’t really a thing in suburban Michigan. But, never one to shy away from an adventure, I played it cool and said I was up for anything. And, I’ll admit, I was curious.

It’s funny, the way that nakedness makes us panic. In theory, we’re all mature and confident enough to be unphased by the human body in all its exposed glory; in reality, that kind of vulnerability is scary as shit. It’s not so bad in a sexual context: you’re in the moment, you’re caught up in the sensations, you’re seeing without really seeing, responding to an animal-like urge. But, nakedness outside of sex, existing unabashedly in a social context? That’s a different story.

It’s funny, the way that nakedness makes us panic.

That messes with our sense of civilization, of normalcy. It’s the animal edging into the societal, and it makes us uncomfortable. But Wreck Beach celebrates naturism or nudism — a political and/or social movement defending social nudity.

Nudism is tough for a lot of us to take seriously. There are plenty of stories, movies, etc. where nudism is the punch line of a joke, which might explain my childish reaction upon arrival at Wreck: an outburst of giggling.

But after about an hour, I couldn’t help but notice how comfortable people were. I know that’s not a groundbreaking statement — “nudists are comfortable in their own skin” — but I’d never seen that kind of self-confidence in real life. I’m not about to advocate naturism in everyday life, but in a safe, isolated spot like Wreck, it was kind of awesome.

Sagging breasts, flat butts, thighs marked with cellulite, the human body and all of its flaws on display without shame . . . there’s some kind of magic associated with that kind of liberated space.

The first time I went to a life drawing class, I sketched a naked woman in her 40s. I remember being struck by her grace and beauty. It was an imperfect beauty to be sure, but, looking at my friends’ drawings, it was clear to me that the flaws held the most interest, the most mystery, the most beauty.

It sounds cliché: beauty is in the eye of the beholder and whatnot; but in the midst of all the perfect images we’re bombarded by daily, I was completely dumbfounded to realize that I, myself, saw her blemishes as beautiful.

Wreck is an isolated space, tucked in the folds of nature, offering a momentary respite from society’s judgmental eye. I guarantee people beachcomb there for varied reasons but, for my part, it was a relief to see people strutting instead of hiding. An eye-opener and no mistake.