Beach Day

Bodies, stretch and reach for the sun. Dash into the ocean waves and are lost to clear blue.

Tan skin, pale with freckles, sun burned, or sagged with age, find barren rock to perch and rest.

All types, all kinds, seek fresh air hidden by cliffs from view. I clutch snorkel in hand, unused to such fanfare.

No tans lines here, no pasty bums. Bits out to the world, and eyes polite enough to not look.

Not that many would want to look. Stripped of youth, most are, and void of anyone to impress.

The old men lay along the beach like the last of an extinct breed, and the younger clutch shaded ledges or secret corners.

A few topless ladies let collapsed empires no longer define them. Freedom, expression, something. It must be nice to no longer be ogled.

An old man boasts of nothing as he approaches me. I pluck up a piece of sea glass and flit away. I wish not to converse, even on days of coverage.

I have never liked swimming without contacts. The whole world blurs above the water. Faces, people, melt.

Yet, today, I rejoice, grateful no trunks are defined. Everywhere I glance, there is a naked man, standing, talking. Unbothered.

Good for them, I suppose. It's unusual for me, but my problem is not theirs. They, leave me alone, and I ignore them.

A sprinkle of women are fully committed to the chore. Each clings to a man's arm as if to seek no disturbances.

They are braver than me. My suit is a shield from prying eyes and putrid thoughts. From the glass lenses in pockets.

The rule is not to stare, most follow it. But I see a vulture watching the contours of a youthful lady basking.

I leave the shore, to cool water. Waves dance. Rocky coves boast underwater worlds of sea grass and fish.

Time rushes by in a blink of breaths and shimmer of scales. Dismissed with fatigue, I rest and dry.

The ocean glitters in the sun. A generation that has learned bodies are just bodies breathes in and out with the waves.

I envy the boldness, the peace, the lack of care. Why should we be defined by skin? By flesh that warps with the stories of our lives.

Unjudged, unbothered, unabashed. It seems easier for men to find, and I wonder what we have taught women.

The answers are not there in the rock and sand. Dry, dusted with salt, I pack and start the trek back through the park.