Fall 2009 Issue

It’s 6:45 a.m. when I first see the naked people. I am pajama-clad on a ledge outside my cabana in Tulum, Mexico, watching the tangerine sun rise over the Caribbean Sea. On the beach, a fleshy figure catches my eye, and I crane my neck to get a better look.  A man with grey curls, fully naked, strides through the sand, and then suddenly stops to face the sea.  His shoulders and back are the color of baked clay. He lifts his arms over his head in one swift motion and begins to bend and twist in a sequence that might be tai chi. I watch, captivated by his total lack of self consciousness as his skin sags and dangles with the flow of his movements. When he drops down into the splits, I look away.

A nude couple strolls into view. They are short with round bellies and thin legs. Pink goggles hang from the woman’s neck. They wade into the sea holding hands, and with one loud yelp they bound through the surf and dive into the waves.

I blink. The scene is a shot of espresso in the lazy light of the morning, and I turn and peek through the full-length screened windows of our cabana.  Chris, my husband, is still asleep sprawled out on the white sheets of the bed.  I want to run in and jump on him and squeal, “There are naked people out there!”

But I refrain. We arrived from Denver late last night, and this is one of the few times we’ve been away from our son since he was born over a year ago. We’re here for sleep and romance, in no particular order. My exclamation would offer neither. Plus, the lodge’s web site does state that the beach is “clothing optional,” an amenity that is listed quietly next to “sea view” and” jungle setting.” I was caught up in the excitement of traveling sans child and visiting an eco lodge for the first time. I hadn’t really thought about the nude beach.

It’s not that I don’t like being naked. When we go backpacking, we choose a secluded camp spot where I can shed my clothes and soak in the sunshine. It makes me feel free and closer to nature. But public nudity is different, especially after having a baby.  Last winter we visited a hot springs in Colorado that was clothing optional at night, and as we soaked in the pool among dozens of beer-guzzling nude guests, I wanted more than anything to embrace the healing water. But instead I felt like I was on a spring break trip, painfully conscious of my body, worrying that people were judging my flabby belly and dimpled butt. Here in Mexico, savoring much-needed alone time with Chris, I wonder if I can bid my insecurities adios and join the carefree nudists.
Still in my pajamas (why not?), I stroll around the property. It seems that everything exudes raw sensuality. The cabanas are palm-thatched, blending into the deep hues of the jungle foliage. Coconut trees, tall and lithe, dance to a sultry rhythm.  Fine sand slips like silk through my toes. The spa, which offers traditional Mayan body treatments and an indigenous sweat lodge ritual called Temazcal, is open-air, decorated with dark wood furniture.

Near the spa, a white mattress hangs from wooden posts. I sit down on the edge, staring up at the sapphire sky. This place is stripped-down, emanating pure rustic romance. As I lean back on my elbows, arching my back in one long breath, I suddenly feel soft and sexy, more like a Mayan goddess than an American mother.

I walk down the stairs to the beach and wander along the shoreline. Already the sun is hot on my back. The beach is scattered with eager guests, and I hear people talking in French and German. There are Americans, too, and a few locals.  Some couples are clothed, wearing bikinis and board shorts. Others are naked. Many women are topless. A nude family of four sits in a circle, building a sandcastle.

At the edge of the beach, I see Chris reclined in a chair staring at the sea. “Morning,” he says.
I kiss him on the cheek. “What do you think?”
He smiles.
I perch on his lap. “Should we swim?”
He wraps his arms around my waist.
We go back to our cabana to get towels. Although we thought we might feel guilty about leaving our child for five days, instead we are like giddy new lovers. As Chris pulls on his swim trunks, I toss my bikini around in my hands.
“Should I wear this?”
Chris looks amused. “Absolutely not.”
I laugh. “I don’t know.”
I slide on my bottom, tightening the strings. And then I fasten the top, too.
“Maybe I’ll ditch it tomorrow,” I say.
Chris looks jokingly disappointed.

Back down on the beach, we find a quiet spot near some rock outcroppings for our belongings. I look around. The man who was practicing tai chi is now stacking rocks into intricate towers, wearing only a baseball cap.  A tattooed guy in red board shorts sips coffee from a mug. Next to him, a woman sunbathes topless in a chaise lounge chair, her arms draped over her head. There are two dozen others on the beach. Everyone is coupled off, sitting silently, reading or chatting quietly. Unlike the hot springs, there is a general feeling of peace and privacy.

Chris grabs my hand and pulls me toward the water. Digging my toes into the sand, I pull back. With a mischievous smile, I loosen the strings of my bikini top and toss it to the ground. Chris beams and pulls me close.  He takes off toward the water, and I follow behind.
As we float in the sea, I embrace the feeling of the water lapping my shoulders, no strings tugging at my neck. The deep water offers the seclusion of a campsite, which evokes familiar feelings of freedom. Chris uses the word “paradise” several times to describe the first day of our vacation, and although I cringe at the cliché, I have to agree.

Later, as I walk on the beach in a sundress before dinner, I see a wooden sign staked into the sand at the edge of the property. The words “Please Not Nudism Forbidden” are carved into the loose grain. I smile. The person who thrust the sign into the ground probably intended to make a clear point, but they negated their own rule. Tracing the letters with the tips of my fingers, I consider smearing the “Not” with wet sand to correct it. But as I step back and read it again, I decide I prefer the sign at face value.

Carrie Visintainer is a Colorado-based freelance writer. Her essays have appeared or are forthcoming in the Travelers’ Tales “The Best Women’s Travel Writing 2008″ anthology, Cahoots Magazine, Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, and Melusine. She lives on the edge of town (and life) with her husband and two-year-old son.