Esalen

The young woman slipped past me as she entered the hot tub, her shapely right hip nearly grazing my shoulder.

The water was warm as she immersed her naked body and took a seat opposite me. I lowered my eyes and quickly glanced at her breasts hoping she wouldn’t notice, even though I was sure she was fully aware of my interest.

Esalen was founded in 1962 by two Stanford graduates who focused on alternative methods of exploring human potential including experiential sessions involving encounter groups, sensory awakening, gestalt awareness training, and related disciplines.

Named after an Indian tribe that inhabited the area, Esalen was sometimes described as “a hippie place where people go to smoke pot and get naked.” Pot smoking and other playtime drugs are now forbidden, but nakedness is encouraged as an option in the communal tubs warmed by natural hot springs.

Jackie speaks glowingly about Esalen, a place that she has often visited. My interest heightened; we booked a weekend that included a workshop whose description was a bit murky. I didn’t worry about the description since my primary motivation was to see the Esalen grounds situated on a hillside overlooking the Pacific. And maybe naked women.

Five hours from Ojai, the last hour is a beautiful stretch of Highway 1 running along the ocean. Only two lanes, the road can be intimidating as it commands one’s complete attention while negotiating the blind curves that slow your progress. Jackie drove like a pro while I enjoyed being a wide-eyed passenger.

We arrived at the center, checked in and found our cottage. One bedroom, a living room and bath, it had an ocean view from the patio that made the half-day trip worthwhile. With two hours to spare before dinner, we stripped and put on the complimentary robes for a ten-minute walk to the hot tubs.

I’ve had one other experience with nude bathing about two years ago at Ecotopia Hot Springs near Ojai. No tubs there, we had to settle for a comfortable rock surface in a watery stream. Shedding my towel and scanning the bathers, I was convinced that they were evaluating my penis which made me somewhat shy and inadequate until I slowly relaxed and went with the flow.

I’m convinced that evaluating private parts, much like dogs sniffing one another, is part of the nude bathing experience that never fully dissipates for both males and females. Ecotopia has been closed due to the drought or we might have made more visits.

A classier version of Ecotopia, Esalen offers several fashionable tubs accommodating just one or as many as six people. Selecting a tub involves a quick survey of the current occupants. I look for a nice mix of males and females, a good mix of ages and preferably no one wearing a bathing suit.

Most people immerse themselves in the hot water up to their shoulders. But there is no guarantee of anonymity since the water is crystal clear. Multiple conversations are common in the same tub, names are sometimes shared, and stories told that might otherwise be withheld if it were not for the nudity and communality.

The water temperature varies and is regulated by an ancient wooden plug inserted in a spout through which fresh hot water can enter the tub. Tub residents are careful to poll the other bathers before removing the plug or replacing it in the spout. Newcomers like me steer clear of the plug, allowing more seasoned bathers to wrestle with its occasional fickleness.

I tend to avoid long term immersion in warm water and usually finish my bath while others remain more durable. So it was only twenty minutes into my freshman reverie that I slowly exited the tub on all fours, careful to avoid a nasty spill that could have been chalked up to my vertigo or my advancing age. I made it safely, though without grace.

I searched for my colored towel among the others lying on the perimeter of the tub but quickly realized that I had forgotten which color was mine. Deciding that a fresh towel was needed, I marched uncovered to the spa entryway and walked up the steps to the opening.

I found myself surrounded by about a dozen bathers who were either leaving or coming to the tubs. All of them fully clothed. I initially felt out of place and on display. After what seemed like an eternity, I adjusted to my situation, straightened up, acted normal even though naked, asked for a towel, and walked back down the steps to the dressing area.

I decided to do it again tomorrow.

She is Woman

When I was a young man I took a photography course at UCLA. Part of that adventure involved the hiring of three lovely women who agreed to pose for us in the all-together. Stay with me, it gets better.

One of my classmates had a large home and an empty swimming pool that was then being decorated with a rather gaudy mural. Although other parts of his garden beckoned us, the pool became the favorite spot to photograph the models. A dozen of us, intent on producing lovely images of the young women, crowded into the pool and shoved each other out-of-the-way as we all tried to get the best view.

It was too early in the Earth’s history for digital cameras to be even a glimmer in one’s imagination. Kodak still ruled the day and we had what we thought was an ample supply of rolls of Ektachrome, Kodachrome and Verichrome each with a whopping thirty-six exposure payload.

We weren’t twenty minutes into the shoot when I had run through all six of my rolls of film. I was desperate to remain an active shooter rather than a voyeur. So I reloaded one of my spent film spools and proceeded to double expose the entire roll.

When I got home and developed the film, I was shocked by the crude photographs. More like stag film outtakes than elegant female figures, they screamed profanities at me. Visions of being the next Edward Weston, Alfred Stieglitz or Man Ray went up in smoke…until I looked at the double-exposed film. Beautiful I thought. Perfectly composed. Female figures intertwined in loving repose. Not a hint of crudeness. Really lovely. And then I stopped and realized that this was nothing but an accident caused by poor planning, a rush to judgment, and then maniacally executed without any real thought.

Could I do it again? Maybe, but we’ll never know for I have let the years pass without attempting a repeat performance. As evidence of my prowess with the camera, one of those double-exposed photos taken on that sunny day in the Hollywood Hills was good enough to be hung in a UCLA hallway where, some weeks later, it was stolen by some unknown admirer. Rather than being upset, I felt honored.

My appreciation of the difficulty in properly photographing the female body went up several notches after my experience in that empty swimming pool. Posing, lighting and the demeanor of both the photographer and the model are critical to the success of the adventure.

But something else stuck in my mind that day and since. The beauty of the female body and its transfer to either photographic paper, a painter’s canvas or a sculptor’s bronze is a gift that should not be wasted. And if one is not proficient enough to execute any of those art forms, the human eye is another option. One that I have made full use of as I approach my eightieth decade.

I find myself continually drawn to the beauty encapsulated in every woman. Looking but not leering. Appreciating but not lusting. Well, maybe a little.

I’m fortunate. The woman dear to me is lovely. Body proportions designed to complement each other. Petite but not tiny. A derriere that leaves you hoping it does not pass too quickly. Breasts that demand a second look. Legs that reach to heaven and beyond. And lips that say “kiss me…again.”

And she knows it. Her mind is constantly at work, planning and enticing. I sometimes think I’ve been drugged. So blissful that I want to remain in that state of euphoria forever. Reveling in her presence and sharing her essence. For she is truly woman, doubly exposed and beautiful.