We’re in Zipolite, Oaxaca, Mexico.
DF and I spend the early afternoon in our quarters, sleeping and listening to the pound of the waves on the beach. After siesta, we take care of our bills and slip on some light clothing, she a thin dress and me a sarong. We plan to have a snack and walk nude on the beach for sunset.
We stop at a familiar restaurant. It is still too early to open. We’ll come back later. A block up the street there is another place that we know. We have a torta filled with baked veggies together.
We snap a few pictures along the way and then take the first alley to the beach, stopping at the end to disrobe. It is liberation to drop all and wander out onto the public beach. We pass a few kindred souls. Dogs play, frisbees are passed and soccer balls bounce. Everyone has an activity.
The ocean sneaks up on us a couple of times and recedes, leaving the bubbling tiny holes of crabs. We take opportunities to capture photos of the sunset and our joy.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. We’ll know when we get there. As far as we can, I guess.”
The sentiment is returned. We stroll off free ranging naked hand in hand.
We pass plenty of people and arrive at the east end of the beach. A woman walks by with a stick in hand. It is a huge insect, a walking stick. It bobs in the wind. I have never seen one so big. It’s features mimic a branch perfectly. She tells us that she found it earlier, stashed it and has just come to retrieve it. “I like to collect dead things,” She confesses. I snap a photo.
We continue up the concrete stair steps toward Love Beach, which lead to the building perched upon the peak of the hill. We enter the building through the massive opening and further stairs bring us into a lobby-like bar, under one of those large thatched roofs. DF had already expressed a desire to see what is here. There appears to be a look out point, which is a great place to watch sunsets.
The bartender seems a bit surprised by us. Perhaps it is the casual demeanor that we have, as we strut in to his establishment barefoot all over. I half expect him to ask us to dress, but instead, he waves his hand in response to my expressions, communicating the desire to walk through and explore.
We discover a divine promenade to a patio. The beach of Zipolite stretches before us, with lights coming on in town and down by the beach.
The sun dips behind cloud cover. The surf reflects the sunset colors of orange, black and blue.
Behind us and far below, is love Beach.
It is populated by the gay community gathering. A troop of nude bodies stand transfixed on the enormous spectacle before them.
Two comfortable chairs and a table await us.
We take the opportunity for comfort and just sit, photograph and smile.
The sun pops out from under the clouds and begins to dip into the ocean. We listen to the surf below.
“It don’t get better than this.” DF sighs.
I contemplate that. It isn’t just a mundane remark. She may be exactly correct.
Great, wonderful, remarkable, incredible! Peaceful, tranquil and soothing.
We watch magnificence unfold, making the most of every second.
Eventually we wander back into the bar.
The bartender looks totally bored, his head is lying on the counter. I smell fish cooking. I ask if there is a menu. No, but he can serve us something. He has some notes and the price is right. The ambience is romantic as dusk begins to settle and he sets us up with an open air table and drinks. With only rails for walls, fresh sea air flows around our bare bodies and into our nostrils.
In a candle’s dim light, we share a garlic filet, papas, and some kind of sweet arroz. There is sauce, a glass of wine and the second part of the sunset as the sunlight shoots up into the clouds. We dine nude. It is just romantic, wonderful, and pleasant. We enjoy our private little corner with its rail and thatched ceiling, all just for us.
Just as we leave, a couple comes up from Love Beach with a flashlight. The timing is perfect. The steps would be dark, until we reach the beach below.
The lights bring color to the receding waters in deep pastel reflections. We make our way along the sands for a mile, back into the main street. We want to see if anyone will celebrate Madi Gras, on a Fat Tuesday. Nothing going, no beads.
We stroll to our room, climb the steep staircase and shower off the sand. We listen to surf pounding, feel the breezes through the open windows, as we again, lie about nude.
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