Black face and the buoyancy of breasts

Skinny dipping in the wild is one more reason to be thankful. Thankful for the wonderful women that come from afar, and share in epicurean exuberance, women who aren't afraid to get mud on their hands, and jeans, and... faces.

This was not a new discovery, the hot springs nearby, but I. insisted that the fine, sulphurous mud would do wonders for our skin, and out souls. Indeed. We managed to muster the gumption to soak after indulgence, (yes, us, indulgent) in a picnic overlooking the ocean, of pancetta, beet and mustard greens, an orange and beet salad, wheatberry, cranberry and fresh mint and parsley salad (left from a prior meal, with the wheatberries cooked in a deliciously intense stock, and the mint from my front garden, and parsley from K.'s backyard) blue gouda, fig chevre, what was left of the taleggio, mascarpone, hummus and pita, and fresh apple and persimmon.

Celebrating the bounty of the earth, the season and the sisterhood. There is something. There is. After the Japanese tourists made there way back down the hill, we slipped nakedly into the hot water, made plans for future travel (France, Virgin Islands, Mexico), revelled in the joy of the moment, and rubbed silky silt in black beards, (exploring multiple gender personalities) and then covered our entire faces, and the milky white skin that floated to the top, slimy with bubbles, and soft to the touch, before standing in the cold clay, in the waning sunlight, and finally parting.

It was spectacular, and I can't wait to do it again. I. cried because the only family she has near her is me. I didn't cry because the glow of female companionship lingers. I'll cry another day, but not now.