Elle Potter

The nude beach is no place for amateur fire-dancers.

“I’m going to Little Beach on Sunday night with my brothers.  Do you want to come?”

I had heard about the infamous Sunday nights at the smaller of two beaches in Makena, Maui.  Drum circles, dancing, impromptu yoga and fire dancing – all at the nude beach.

Of course I was not going to miss that.

Christian was my escort for the evening.  A friend of my friend, he had just graduated as a certified EMT and I spent some afternoons at his house where he made me smoothies with fresh fruit from his yard and played the theme to Requiem for a Dream on the harp.  For the record:  cute boys with harps in Maui are never bad company to keep.

He used to spin fire on these Sunday nights, he told me.  But it had been almost ten months since he had last been.  What, with school occupying most of his time, he just had not been able to get his fire dancing practice in.  Understandable.

Little Beach is separated from Big Beach by a big cliff that juts out, cutting between the two beaches.  To get to the naked side, one must climb up a crude stairway dug into the scratchy volcanic rock face.  (It’s not as dramatic as it sounds – but I am a writer and that is how I choose to describe it)  And then there it was.  Sunday night at Little Beach.

I had never been to a nude beach before.  I had also never seen naked adults kicking around a soccer ball, hula hooping or frolicking in the waves like over-sized children.  It was out of my comfort zone, fascinating – and absolutely beautiful.

It was too chilly to convince me out of my clothes (sixty-five is quite cold on Maui) but I enjoyed sitting quietly as others ran about.  I watched the waves breaking on naked bodies and considered the many possible reasons why men seemed to be much more comfortable wandering around naked than women.

The west-facing beach gave the perfect stage for the setting sun, and applause broke out as the sun finally slipped into the edge of the ocean.  If you have never applauded the setting sun before, I highly recommend it.  I don’t think the sun gets as much credit as it should for each of its stunning displays each night.

With the sun gone, the residual light faded quickly and everyone huddled in to supplement the original drum circle with an audience.  A circular arena was left open in the midst of the crowd, a someone set a pair of poi afire.

The first dancer was beautiful to watch and I was mildly hypnotized by the simple arcs of light.  As her fire went out, Christian next stepped into the ring with a long staff, each end lit.  It was incredible to watch, how controlled his movements were within the fluid expression he maintained.  When a man dances subtly while maintaining the utmost sacred masculinity – well.  Whether or not there’s fire involved, it’s simply hot.

He sat down, placing the staff in between his toes, shifting up into a shoulder stand and then winding his way onto his stomach.  His knees pulled up to balance on the back of his triceps and he slowly, with complete control, pressed up from bakasana (crow pose) into a handstand.  With a fire-stick stuck between his toes.  And came back down, releasing the grip of one foot and standing on it, removing the staff from between his toes and one again, spinning it in mesmerizing circles.

Been-ten-months-I’m-a-little-rusty, my ass.

I refuse to keep anything but fascinating company.

The next dancer had what I can only describe as nunchuks.  In retrospect, I am not sure whether it is because of the appearance of the things or just the way he spun them around.  Either way – Christian’s brother and I both took involuntary steps backwards from the edge of the circle when this guy started dancing.  He flailed and wielded his fiery nunchuks around, kicking and spinning himself in circles as well.  His pants were lit on fire three different times during his performance and the circle of onlookers subtly shifted back, making more surface area for him to hop around in.

But as half-terrifying as it was to watch him fling and flail about, no one walked away.  No one booed him.

One of my teachers has said, “When your life gets messy, the Kula (community) puts on its helmet.”  Meaning, when shit hits the fan, rather than leaving you, the people who love and support you the most will brace themselves in order to stand alongside you through the thick of it.  Playing with fire is no easy task.  It takes courage and certain curiosity.  And just like anything, when you begin to learn something new, there is a learning curve that is guaranteed to be a little messy.  When you begin to live your life with your heart set afire, parts of your life are sure to burn away in order to make space for the new.  People who are close to you are in danger of falling debris – but while they step back to give you space, your strongest support systems are the ones who still will not run away.

As we left that evening, Christian let me carry the torch to lead the way for our group and others across the darkened beach.  I had never been on a beach at nighttime before, nor had I ever carried a torch.  I felt like Indiana Jones.  Yet while I felt the power and prowess of the flame, I did not feel the draw to spin it, to disturb the simplicity of its warm glow.  Not yet – but perhaps soon.

I was, however, honored to illumine the way for someone whose fearlessness with their fire inspired me to consider playing with the light of my own.