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Why Oh Why? “Never?” “Uh-uh.” “Not once?” “Nope.” “Ah yes. Now how about today?” I smiled. Where I come from it’s taboo. It’s labeled as a counter-culture; a flower child, a hippie, a youth in the presence of a rebellious act. Those who do could easily be looked down upon, or they easily could not. But by any means, it is universally restricted with only a few designated, well fenced-off and signposted locales often deeply out of view over the edge of a cliff or down at the entrance of a wild gorge.

Nude Camping and The Stories of a Newfound Nudist

Camron Karsten
2006-10-07 13:21:15

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Why Oh Why?

“Never?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Not once?”
“Nope.”
“Ah yes. Now how about today?”
I smiled. Where I come from it’s taboo. It’s labeled as a counter-culture; a flower child, a hippie, a youth in the presence of a rebellious act. Those who do could easily be looked down upon, or they easily could not. But by any means, it is universally restricted with only a few designated, well fenced-off and signposted locales often deeply out of view over the edge of a cliff or down at the entrance of a wild gorge.
She smiled friskily when I spread mine broad and parted my lips in laughter. “That’s right,” she reflected. “Not many nude beaches in America.”

The Far Sentinel

Entering Plakias, I spent my first night at the Youth Hostel run by a calm-mannered yet quirky British chap. The place was comfortable; six bunks to a room with about a half dozen little concrete huts. Travelers were kind, young and old from the expanse of the European Union and at eight euros per night, hot water showers, toilets, communal fridge, shaded lounge, Internet access and fellow compatriots hidden from the main road in an old tangled olive
grove, who would look elsewhere?
Me. Yes, I—with tent and a knack for adventure disguised in the spontaneity of a Neal Cassidy on the road, literally.

I strolled down the beach. Wind gusted at the strength to get any three-masted ship at a steady fifteen-knot sail. The seas in Plakias Bay toppled and kicked up spray in a whirlwind sprinting across the surface as if I were lost in the cornfields of Kansas during tornado season. At the shore, sand exfoliated my legs and scraped the pores of my face and scalp. Leaning into the wind, with eyes shut, I was caught firm, my body at a seventy-degree angle.
At the easternmost end of the bay, during the last rays of daylight, I spotted a lone tent. In the foreground, some fifty meters before the single ...