Once, we used to visit a rocky bay on the Black Sea. Two friends and I discovered it in the early 1980s. It was situated in a recluse place, not far from a camping area in a forest on the sea. Then barefoot and with a guitar, we explored a row of little bays until we found ours.
The path we walked along followed the sinuous edge of an abrupt cliff above the sea. Several times, snakes crawled quickly near our feet. The sea blinked blue in green and white. The sun was at the zenith and few smooth little clouds sailed in the sky. Inland was hilly and covered by dense woods. Larks’ shrill cries broke the monotony of the waves’ and wind’s concerto.
We were attracted to two coves forming a bigger one where the water was enough deep to diving from the overhanging rocks. At mid-high of the encircling steep rock was perched a little cave sheltered from the wind that became our kitchen where we were cooking the mussels we picked up from the sea on a metal makeshift plate. 
The layout of big differently shaped rocks called to mind a giant’s living room. Enormous tables, stools, and sofas were at our disposal. Here and there, some naked bodies were gathering the sun’s energy with lazy perseverance. That was a nudist area and we initiated ourselves into this noble life-nature approach - we became naturists.