In this guide
I've camped on beaches in weather I'd describe, generously, as memorable. The lesson that cost me the most was simple: never choose your campsite in the dark. I once arrived at a wide, empty bay at 11 p.m., pitched on the flattest sand I could feel with my feet, and woke at 4 a.m. to the sound of water moving through my kitchen gear. The tide had come in on schedule, exactly as the table said it would. I just hadn't been able to see the wrack line I was pitching below. Everything absorbent was soaked, and the walk back to the car at dawn was a slow, cold lesson in humility.
Arrive while the sun is still up
Rule one of beach camping is boring and non-negotiable: get there in daylight. You need to see three things before you unroll the tent. The wrack line — where last night's high tide left its ribbon of seaweed and flotsam. The shape of the beach at high water, which you can judge from that line and from the slope. And the wind: which way it's blowing, whether it's building, and where the sheltered side of the dunes or rocks sits.
After dark the beach becomes a flat, dark, sound-filled place where every dune looks the same and the tide is invisible. You can't make good site choices then. If you're running late, stop at the last safe car park and walk in with headlamps rather than guessing at midnight.
How high is high enough
Pitch above the wrack line, not on it and not below it. Then add a margin. The predicted high tide is the astronomical number; real water levels get pushed higher by onshore wind and low pressure, and on a spring tide the range is exaggerated on both ends. A common rule among coastal campers is to add roughly fifty percent to the predicted rise above the wrack line when judging your site — if the predicted high sits half a metre above the wrack line, treat it as close to a metre when you decide where the tent goes.
And cars: never park on the beach overnight unless you know the tide schedule and the parking window. The number of cars swallowed by an incoming tide is a running joke on coastal social media, and every one of them was someone's only car.
Permits and fires before you pitch
Most beaches do not allow overnight camping at all, and the ones that do usually require a permit, a designated zone and a fee. Check the land manager — national park, council, state trust — before you drive. Wild camping on a beach without permission is the fastest way to end up with a knock on the tent at 11 p.m. from a ranger, or worse, a fine.
Fires deserve their own warning. Campfires are banned on many beaches outright, especially in summer and on windy days, and the reason is obvious once you think about it: dry dune grass, no water pressure, and a whole coast of tinder. Where fires are allowed, they're usually in designated pits only. Bring a stove instead. If you are permitted a fire, keep it small, never leave it unattended, and drown it, stir it, and feel it cold with your hand before you sleep. Sand doesn't put a fire out — it just buries it, hot, for the next camper to step on.
Wind, stakes and the night sky
The wind is the thing that breaks beach tents, not the tide. Sand dunes funnel it, and a gentle breeze at the car park can be a steady gale two hundred metres down the beach. Use proper stakes — the thin wire ones that come with a light tent are useless in sand — and consider sand pegs or, failing that, buried stuff sacks half-full of sand as anchors. Guy lines out on every corner. A tent that's fine at 9 p.m. can be a sail by 3 a.m. when the sea breeze picks up.
Then the upside: the night sky. On an undeveloped beach there are no streetlights, and the Milky Way is the show you came for. Keep a headlamp with a red mode for moving around camp after dark — white light destroys night vision for half an hour, and red lets you see without blinding everyone else. Spare batteries live in the tent pocket, not in the bag in the car.
The visitors you can't see
Beach camps have nocturnal guests, and they're after one thing: your food. Raccoons, rats, foxes, crows and seagulls all learn where campers leave scraps. The rules are simple and strict: no food, no cooking smells, no toothpaste and no rubbish in the tent. Cook away from the tent, eat away from the tent, and stow everything edible in a sealed bag hung from a branch, locked in the car, or — where allowed — a bear box. A bag of crisps left on the picnic table is an open invitation, and raccoons will open zips.
Keep a respectful distance from seals and shorebirds at night too. A seal on the sand is usually resting, not stranded, and shining lights or approaching it stresses an animal that's already using precious energy. Watch from the tent, and let it be.
Waking to the tide
The morning after a well-chosen site is the whole point of the trip: the beach to yourself, the water flat, the coffee hot. Before you break camp, look at the tide table again. If your exit crosses sand or rocks, know the time the water comes back. And when you leave, take everything — including the apple core. On a beach, everything you leave is breakfast for tomorrow night's animals and litter for the next morning's walkers.
Our Beach Camping Safety Check walks through the high-water-line judgment, the permit and fire questions, and the food-stowage rules before you book anything. It's twenty minutes, and it replaces the midnight walk back to the car that I've done more times than I'd like to admit.
Safety first. Beach camping at night removes the visual cues that keep day campers safe. Never sleep below the predicted high tide line plus a real wind-and-storm margin, always check permits and fire rules, and carry a charged phone and a headlamp. If you wake to water at your doorstep, move — quietly, in the dark, is fine when you planned for it.