Want to Love Your Body? Try Swimming Naked.

Forty minutes or so later, the landscape grew thicker and greener, everything fattened by proximity to water. The air tasted as if it had been finished with Maldon. Bursts of color appeared. Walls of hot pink bougainvillea, white and purple trumpet flowers. As if summoned, a wedge of blue appeared. The sea. Everyone started clapping.

After throwing my bags in my room, I ran to the beach. I hadn’t looked at any photos of Zipolite before arriving and didn’t know what to expect. Pushing my way through trees and brambles, I came around a bend and caught the breathtaking vista of a wide, flat beach, dotted with mountainous outcroppings that perforated the blues of the sky and the blues of the water. I spread out my blanket and flopped down, taking it in. It was Sunday, and the vibe felt languid, luxury fed by the surplus of hours left in the day.

All around me, people were strolling hand in hand, reading books, playing volleyball, eating — completely naked. In planning my trip, I’d thought more about the queer aspect of the beach than the nude element, and I hesitated before joining in. The only times I’ve gotten naked in public, I’ve been busted, or harassed: on a rugged lake in Austin, Texas, where I felt so leered at by older men that I re-robed as quickly as I disrobed; and in the dunes of Provincetown, Mass., where a girlfriend and I tried covertly to have sex, several times, only to have a park ranger chase us away, several times, with the increasing exasperation of someone trying to clear a road of errant livestock. This was different, but I’d also arrived in Mexico with my winter body, which mere weeks before I described to a friend as loose mashed potatoes tied up in a burlap sack.

I decided to start slowly. After a few minutes, I stood up and pulled my sports bra over my head and tossed it to the sand. The flicker of heads turning toward me gave me a boost. I started jogging toward the water, gold chains bouncing on my bare chest, enjoying the attention. Along this particular stretch of coastline, the tide takes its time undulating onto the sand. Walking into the water cannot be rushed: the perfect stage for cruising. I made my way out there and dunked under the waves a few times. An earth song, a body song, as Langston Hughes wrote.

Satisfied, I sprawled on my beach towel to bake. Serotonin coursed through me, sparked by the delight at arriving in a new place, drunk on sun and sand and beauty. As my skin began to heat back up, I leaned back on my elbows and surveyed the scene.