The bus route to Bondi roller-coasts through a suburban vista of small restaurants and boutiques before swinging around the periphery of a parched golf links and groaning downhill towards a stretch of Pacific sand that has long been a cultural icon.

Bondi beach is so globally renowned, is such a totem pole for hedonism and sun worship and distant escape that it seems jarring that the place should be so accessible. Leo Di Caprio went swimming on the wrong beach. A dollar forty on the bus from downtown Sydney and you're splashing in the big blue before you know it. But on this day, a bitter Aussie winter morning of 26 degrees Celsius, there are few bodies to be found in the so-so swell. Although up to 60,000 bathers regularly oil themselves on the white stretch, the shoreline is deserted. There is, of course, a reason. Smack in the middle of the beach sits "The Beast of Bondi".

The Olympic beach volleyball stadium is a multi-coloured and frankly ugly amphitheatre lying smack in the middle of the beach. Its construction does not rest well with some Sydney folk, for whom Bondi is of near sacred import. In the 1830s, swimming was banned in the city between the hours of 6 a.m. and 8 p.m. in an effort to prevent masses of convicts using the water to wash. The censure lasted until 1902, when William Gocher, a local news editor, wearing his finest frock coat, marched boldly into the waters of Manley. He created a trend in lifestyle if not swimwear.

Since then, Sydney folk have been running, swimming, stripping, jumping, drowning, drinking, loving, sunning, singing, snoring, smoking and, of course, surfing with a passion which has set them apart. So the imposition of a hulking circle of metal and bleachers did not rest well with the beach traditionalists. Some protesters argue that the stadium - which will be removed after the Olympics - could cause ecological damage to the beach. Others reckon it's just a pain, pure and simple.

But on the first day of beach volleyball, 10,000 people show up to watch. The competitors are female. The crowd is mostly male. It doesn't take a much to figure out the appeal behind beach volleyball. On this morning, the crowd is in party mode. A gang of Aussie blokes sit near the front, festooned in Wallabies gear and beer guzzling. They are loud and friendly and clearly in heaven.

Elsewhere, an absolutely enormous Brazilian gent - think Michelin man - is dancing in several aisles, clearly revelling in his girth. On the sand the Czech Republic are playing against the American pair of Holly McPeak and Misty May. Misty and her friend are, in true USA fashion, kickin' butt in front of a jingoistic support reminiscent of the Ryder Cup.

But here, nobody cares. In this venue, you are encouraged to jump, yell, swear, whatever. This is perhaps the one sports show on earth where people sit in the sun and happily participate in a Mexican wave to sound of the Duelling Banjos theme from Deliverance. Music is a central feature in beach volleyball.

Whenever there is a lull in play, the speakers throb with anything from Bruce Springsteen to Karl Orff. When the athletes are introduced, the bleachers creak as the volume reaches fever pitch. Each player seems to have several different fan clubs. A quick wave is greeted with uproar.

Beach volleyball has had its share of sneers, particularly the women's discipline. It has been dismissed as sport porn and the well publicised stipulations on the exact length of Olympic uniforms did not lessen that perception.

And it is, try as you might, impossible not to notice that the competitors here are, to a woman, unfailingly pretty. They wear two-piece-swimsuits and have perfect tans. This tournament will never be mistaken for the world darts championship.

What with the cameras and the incredible ham-acting of the public announcer, the scene does brush uncomfortably close to Baywatch territory. But that's where the sugary emptiness ends. These competitors are as serious about winning as any of the other athletes in the various venues dotted around Sydney.

"It was unbelievable. I have played in a lot of volleyball matches around the world but never in front of a crowd like that before," says Tania Gooley, who was the first Australian competitor out on sand along with her partner, Pauline Manser.

"It wasn't something we thought about until yesterday, playing as the first Australian team of the games. But it was actually a very special moment. We didn't get to march in opening ceremony because of the match the following morning, but to be the first Australian team and to walk out in front of the Sydney crowd . . . it was huge."

The Australians have three teams in the women's event and are strong medal contenders along with Brazil and the USA. Every day for the next eight days, over 20,000 people will flock to the Beast of Bondi, a mix of hardcore fans and the mildly curious. The game is slower than indoor volleyball and the sand, while restricting leaping, offers unlimited scope for point-saving flashy drives. A sustained rally normally prompts a crowd frenzy and an unforgivable amount of high-fiving.

But given that games are first to 15 and can last up to an hour, they make for gruelling sport. It is probably the most selfless sport of the entire Games; players exert most of their efforts simply covering for their partner's errors.

And it is an unforgiving environment, with the court set deep like a pit and the spectator's gallery tight above it.

Although protests were expected for the opening day, none materialised. Word is that come the finals, local residents will be encouraged to place mirrors on their window sills to blind the television cameras.

Whatever happens, the party will continue. For the duration of the Olympics, the heart of Bondi pulses within the Beast.