Ten dark figures stand shadowed by the bonfire; a fellowship of wanderers, glasses in hand, gathered at the end of the world. Their laughter rises in the night and carries on the wind. As it ebbs, another melody picks up. Faint at first, then a frenzied whistling in branches. As one, they step away from the fire and into the dark.
Forward and down a steep escarpment, they go in a single file. A beach appears in the distance barely visible in the dark. The sound of the crashing waves raises spirits even higher. This is not a night for innocence and genteel morals. It is a night of freedom and abandon.
Bewitched. Come. Come. The fever is carried on the wind.
Over a hill, between boulders. They are guided by unseen forces until they reach the sand where the full moon is broken in the waves. A fog rises and the blue gum trees stand guard.
They seek the crashing waves, the salt in their hair and the nip of the ocean breeze.
They shed their clothes and, with every piece dropped, they shed their modesty and their shame. With souls and bodies bared, they transform into nymphs bathed in silver light.
They dance, sing and splash, like puppets dangling from strings. And they laugh. Oh, do they laugh; with glee and an indescribable manic energy all consuming and primal, as far from gentle as the raging storm of autumn is to the spring shower.
A soft but triumphant music reaches their ears, like a beating heart, as if the night itself is casting a spell. The ground thrums.
How did they come to be here on the soft sands? None will remember, but all that matters is that they are here now.
I was reading The Ocean at the End of the Lane when I wrote this, does it show?
While I did not partake in this bout of skinny dipping – I was too shy and stayed behind – I always did wonder how it would feel to be that free and that accepting of your body.
One last note, the picture was taken in Zadar, but this is not where the story took place. I did drop a hint, can you find it?