Playa Naturista
We’re brave, but we’re not that brave
so we go in the morning, arrive by 8:30,
when any self-respecting vacationing Spaniard
would still be in bed sleeping. I take off
my bathing-suit top first and my breasts
are surprised by the sun which they haven’t seen
since they were seven or eight
when they were just nipples and seeds.
They blush pink on the empty beach
and I quickly turn over onto my stomach,
planning to stay there forever,
or at least until sundown. My husband
is in his swimming trunks, contemplating
how to get out of them—while standing up
or lying down. I look around,
suspiciously, wondering if all the other tourists
will have had implants, but it’s still no one but us
and the occasional Mediterranean gull.
I close my eyes and listen to the ocean sounds—
sloshing, blood and heart, pulses,
stomach rumbles, whispering of lungs,
muscle flex, cold beer gulp, pumping,
pumping—the inside noises any body makes.
My husband nudges me and points.
The sun on the waves is a million
diamond rings. “Look,” he says
as the grandma jogs by, in white sneakers
and a white visor, and nothing else.
Her breasts flop happily, her buttocks
jiggle like cove ripples. “Hola!”
she hollers, out of breath, all wrinkles
and sweat. She is the goddess
of nude bathing we’ve prayed to.
She says all bodies are beautiful
and made of water and love the sea.
My husband and I slip out of our bottoms
and run like Adam and Eve, if
Adam smoked Dunhills and Eve
wore Ray-Bans. Suddenly we’re in the
water
like brother and sister, like Adam and Eve
technically were. My breasts bob
like white apples, like I’m wearing a push-up bra
made of salt water. My husband
is swimming out further, at peace
with his shrinking penis which he forgets
all about because now we are dolphins
and the pleasure of water is everywhere,
swirling around each toe and pubic hair
with the same cool-womb delight.
We swim through each other’s legs,
watch for fish which flash like silver
bracelets you can buy in the market.
Our fingernails are as white
as bleached bone or the stone buildings
of Mojácar. Our lips are salty and soft
and prickly as anchovies.
Our skin tightens around our bodies
as the sun moves higher in the sky.
We’re having too much fun to notice.
Our watches are with our beach mats
and towels and umbrella.
When we finally look back
to the shore, we see families,
nude ones, with curly hair
and plastic pails and shovels
and Fanta Limón coolers.
We think we see a naked Jesus walk by,
the tanned hippy version
we grew up with. We see pot bellies
and stretch marks and scars.
We only hesitate a moment
before we rise out of the water, holding
each other’s arms, tiptoeing on rough pebbles,
trying to keep our footing.
And we face them, all of them,
our bodies and theirs now
perfect and elegant. We are dripping
wet and full of wet tendrils,
my husband wearing only
his seaweed tie and I, a boa of kelp.
from
Queen for a Day (University of Pittsburgh Press,
2001).