Approaching the crisp clear water of Sydney Harbour on this sultry late summer afternoon, a naked gay brethren cluster in groups on the sand behind me. A thunderstorm is brewing but the mood on the beach is relaxed and jovial.
Mardi Gras is approaching and in a nod to imminent festivities, humidity is building like erotic tension and the sky is turning the colour of margaritas.
I savour the afternoon’s easy sensuality as I swim a few brisk lengths of Obelisk Beach, Sydney’s pre-eminent gay beach. A phalanx of naked sunbathers, arranged in formations of friendship groups, makes me think of a heroic army, ready to defend the values of freedom, pleasure and pride.
Obelisk, which sits within the Sydney Harbour National Park, is a beautiful place where all men, regardless of their age, ethnicity, body type or identity can meet and socialise without judgement or harassment.
Before homosexuality was decriminalised and gay men could legally meet in bars and night clubs, beaches had been clandestine meeting places or ‘beats’ for many years in Sydney.
Meeting at beaches was not without its dangers for gay men. Other than the convictions that frequently occurred until homosexuality was decriminalised in New South Wales in 1984, gay men were often subjected to abuse, violence and ‘poofter bashing’.
Up till the 1980s, s. Many of these crimes remain unsolved, suggesting, at best, a police reluctance to investigate and prosecute gay hate crimes.
The right to gather publicly without fear or intimidation is something that several past generations of gay men in Sydney were never able to enjoy, and the activists who lobbied for gay legal reform are true and brave heroes.
The value of places like Obelisk for gay men to meet openly, relax safely and socialise without victimisation or vilification cannot be underestimated. The right to gather publicly without fear or intimidation is something that several past generations of gay men in Sydney were never able to enjoy, and the activists who lobbied for gay legal reform are true and brave heroes.
Obelisk is a great place to meet and flirt. More importantly, however, spaces like Obelisk allow us to drop our guards as well as our kit. When one is in one’s birthday suit, there’s literally nowhere to hide.
I’ve found that when I’ve stripped bare on Obelisk, I’ve also entered into surprisingly open-hearted and revealing conversations. Perhaps being nude in a natural setting helps us to be more childlike and dispense with social prohibitions, or perhaps fully revealing our bodies helps us to more fully disclose our inner selves.
Wading back onto the beach after my swim, I notice that a sunbather is reading Haunt of the Black Masseur, Charles Sprawson’s sprawling celebration of the swimmer as hero. It seems marvellously apt for today.
From the classically besotted urananists of Victorian times to the jubilantly naked divers in David Hockney’s swimming pool paintings, gay men have been key figures in the nexus between swimming and heroic art.
Sprawson’s book gives an account of how swimming has meshed with literature and culture since the Classical Age, and argues that gay men have been central subjects in this narrative. From the classically besotted urananists of Victorian times to the jubilantly naked divers in David Hockney’s swimming pool paintings, gay men have been key figures in the nexus between swimming and heroic art.
I wander over to a friend to tell him about our neighbour’s book, and without any self-consciousness we’re suddenly discussing what it means to be ‘heroic’. For a delightful second, I ask myself if we would have had this conversation if we were fully-clothed?
Our conversation turns to the first Mardi Gras, which we both regard as a heroic act of civil disobedience. Since 1978, queer men and women have championed their rights to be heard, included and treated with equality and dignity. Often wrapping iron fists in sequined gloves, parade entrants have protested, marched, danced and shimmied for social change.
This year’s Covid-safe parade, a ticketed gathering which will turn the Sydney Cricket Ground into a queer Sambodrome, will be different and it may usher in a new kind of event.
Whatever the evolution of the parade, it’s my hope that it continues to champion the heart and conviction of the final float a few years back when marchers in Amnesty International’s ‘Rainbow Amnesty’ float held placards with beautiful faces and tragic captions: a gay youth murdered in Chechyna, a Greek man bashed to death, a Brazilian LGBTIQA+ activist executed. Hovering over these sad stories was a gigantic banner that read ‘Together we can all be brave’. The banner spoke of an authentic heroism, and of solidarity.
As I swim today in a safe gay space and anticipate the pride and pleasures of Mardi Gras, I acknowledge the efforts and sacrifices of our elder activists. To honour them, I reflect on some important and persistent questions.
Can we let go of tribalism and stereotypes? Can we strip away bigotry and homophobia? Can we embrace our trans brethren, our queer brothers and sisters of colour, and the overseas queer communities who seek liberation and acceptance? Can we be nakedly honest and brave? Can we be one with nature and be true to our own natures?
If we can be all these things, we can indeed be heroic.
Chris Baker is a freelance writer
The 2021 Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras live Saturday 6 March 6pm AEDT on SBS On Demand (geo-block removed for viewers internationally) or catch the full parade at 7:30pm on SBS and NITV.
Follow the conversation on SBS Australia socials #WeRiseFor #MardiGras2021 and via
