On a crowded beach, modesty is a reflex. But here, on the wild eastern shore, where the sand stretches for kilometers without a single sunbed or vendor selling corn, the rules feel different. There were no yachts, no jet skis. Just the distant speck of a fisherman casting for mullet and the lazy tilt of a seagull.
Shallow waters near the Spit of Dolgaya, Krasnodar Krai
The water is famously shallow, so it warms all the way through. There is no cold shock to make you gasp. Consequently, there is no shame. When you take your clothes off in the Black Sea, you feel brave. When you take them off in the Azov, you feel sensible. Why would you wear a wet rag in a lukewarm soup?
I realized I wasn't naked anymore. I was just in the sea. The concept of "naked" requires a society to see you. Out here, there was no society. There was only the salt on my lips, the silt under my nails, and the gentle lapping of the smallest sea in the world against my skin.
After wading out about 100 meters, the water was still only up to my navel. I looked back. The shore was a thin line. Looking down through the turbid, plankton-rich water, I could see the sandy bottom. I could see my own feet, and the shadow of the rest of me rippling on the floor of this ancient sea.
Swimming nude in the Azov is not an erotic experience. It is a pediatric one. It reminds you what it felt like to be three years old in a bathtub.
Then I dropped.
Take off your suit. Walk into the shallows.
On a crowded beach, modesty is a reflex. But here, on the wild eastern shore, where the sand stretches for kilometers without a single sunbed or vendor selling corn, the rules feel different. There were no yachts, no jet skis. Just the distant speck of a fisherman casting for mullet and the lazy tilt of a seagull.
Shallow waters near the Spit of Dolgaya, Krasnodar Krai
The water is famously shallow, so it warms all the way through. There is no cold shock to make you gasp. Consequently, there is no shame. When you take your clothes off in the Black Sea, you feel brave. When you take them off in the Azov, you feel sensible. Why would you wear a wet rag in a lukewarm soup? naked in the azov sea
I realized I wasn't naked anymore. I was just in the sea. The concept of "naked" requires a society to see you. Out here, there was no society. There was only the salt on my lips, the silt under my nails, and the gentle lapping of the smallest sea in the world against my skin.
After wading out about 100 meters, the water was still only up to my navel. I looked back. The shore was a thin line. Looking down through the turbid, plankton-rich water, I could see the sandy bottom. I could see my own feet, and the shadow of the rest of me rippling on the floor of this ancient sea. On a crowded beach, modesty is a reflex
Swimming nude in the Azov is not an erotic experience. It is a pediatric one. It reminds you what it felt like to be three years old in a bathtub.
Then I dropped.
Take off your suit. Walk into the shallows.