CTP, that's a pretty funny story and reminds me of a High Island trip my buddies and I took in college. This one isn't too creepy besides the perverts, but may be good for a laugh. TLDR warning.
I love to fish, and had therefore heard about the legendary runs of bull redfish that stage off the beaches of High Island every fall. My buddies are novice fishermen, but I manged to talk a couple of them into fishing with me and to camp for a night. So we piled up my Four Wheel Drive truck with all my fishing gear and of course a couple coolers full of cold keystone light (9.99 for 30 stones!) and made the drive from College Station. Now, we were living in the dorms so we were pretty limited on gear storage. I had my parents bring my surf rods in on a previous game day, but we were pretty light on camping gear. I figured we would just fish all night or sleep in the truck for a night and then drive back to College Station.
This was our first trip to High Island and I wasn't aware of the "interesting" folks that patrol the first couple miles of the beach at the time. We got there around mid morning and drove down the beach to a spot that had plenty of elbow room to set up my surf rods but was close enough to the road in case we had any problems with the sand or the tide that we could likely flag down some help. The surf was pretty rough, but I figured we were finally here, might as well give it a go. I proceed to cast net some mullet for bait and my buddies set up a few lawn chairs and dug some holes for the PVC pipe rod holders. I caught a couple horse mullet and cut them up and set out a few lines.
Throughout the day the crowd around us began to gather, but they were still a couple hundred yards away in either direction, so you could never get a good look. The fishing was amazingly slow, but around mid-afternoon I finally got a good run and reeled in a nice 47" Bull Red. I was pretty pumped to catch my first Bull, so even though the fishing was slow and the wind and surf were rough, I was determined to keep at it.
Not long after that, this old fat bearded dude in a beat up Bronco started driving by us extremely slowly and was just gawking at three college kids with their shirts off, drinking beer and trying to catch some fish. It continued sporadically all afternoon and finally got to the point that we all agreed we should confront this creepy guy on his next pass to figure out what the heck his intentions were before nightfall came. So sure enough around dusk here comes the bronco puttering past us at a crawl and just staring at us. We signal to him and kind of walk towards his bronco so we could talk to him. Well he stops all right and unfortunately opened the door to his bronco and stepped out in his full glory. That image has scarred us for life. This ole boy was rolling down the beach in his birthday suit all afternoon trolling for more than kingfish and thought we were flagging him down for his services, I guess. We all were all caught off guard at the display and he could tell by our reaction that his company was definitely not welcome. He quickly hops back in his bronco (fat rolls and other things flopping) without a word being said and hits the gas pretty good to get on down the beach quickly.
We all had a good laugh and a few conversations on if that just happened and if we were really on a beach in the middle of nowhere Texas. Well it was now starting to get towards dark and we decided we wanted no part in camping next to such a guy, and we had consumed way too many keystones to drive home, so the only option was to head further down the beach to get away from people. So we loaded up our gear, jumped in the truck and headed down the beach to find a quiet spot void from perverts where we could stay for the night. As we passed the groups, we soon saw that our Bronco friend was not an isolated perv. There were multiple banana hammocks and birthday suits surrounding where we had spent our whole afternoon. No wonder ole boy thought we were open for business. The craziest scene was this old dude all by himself (no vehicle or person within hundreds of yards) complety buck naked simply standing up on this Texas beach around dusk just staring into a fire. We sure didn't count on seeing that scenery when we made the drive to High Island that morning.
Well we finally got away from the first couple miles of high island beach and went well past the last group we saw. We finally thought we had an adequate buffer zone and decided this would be home for the night. We were done fishing at that point, but still had plenty of keystones to kill so we decided drinking away the terrors we had seen that evening would be an appropriate end to a day we wished we could forget. For the next few hours, we put a dent in our beer stash and had a few good laughs at the days events. We had a fire going and were just thowing our beer cans in a big pile next to the fire to pick up the next morning before we left. Finally, we had consumed enough beer to possibly sleep. Now sleeping on the beach is a miserable experience, sleeping on the beach in a truck cab is an even more miserable experience and sleeping on the beach in a truck cab with fears of perverts dancing around the truck naked basically leads to a sleepless night. Somewhere through the night, without us knowing, one of my buddies decides the truck isn't working so he literally throws his sleeping bag under the truck on the sand and goes to sleep. I wake up the next morning to some clinking of metal. Windows are completly fogged up from the humidity, sea breeze, and dudes sleeping in a truck cab all night. I look around and only one of my friends is in the vehicle. My first thought was that bronco boy is doing unspeakable acts and lord knows what to my friend leading to the clinking. So I pile out of the truck not knowing what the heck I am about to encounter on this God-forsaken stretch of beach called High Island. My buddy rolls out from under the truck and we both stare as we see a FULLY CLOTHED PERSON all by himself hammering a sign directly in the sand in front of our huge pile of keystone light cans that reads: "High Island Beach Clean-up Day".
We brought out our trash bag, quickly cleaned up our cans, and explained to the clean-up dude we were going to get the cans in the morning which is why we had them in a pile. He wasn't too friendly about it, but we weren't looking for friendly on that beach anymore. We piled into the truck and with one heck of a hangover and one hell of a story, we got the hell off High Island and high-tailed it back to safe confines of beautiful College Station.