Gather three to six friends and travel to five coastal destinations over three weeks—Patagonia’s wild shores, the Aegean’s white cliffs, Bali’s black sand beaches, Iceland’s volcanic coasts, New Zealand’s luminous bays. Spend each day exploring freely: swimming, hiking coastal paths, wandering fishing villages, discovering hidden coves. But as dusk approaches, make your way to a predetermined stretch of moonlit beach.

Arrive carrying nothing but luxurious blankets—thick wool, soft cashmere, whatever feels like comfort against bare skin. Remove your clothes at the edge of the sand. Walk naked to where the group gathers in a loose circle, close enough to hear whispers over waves. Wrap yourselves in blankets against the night air. Sit facing the ocean under whatever moon hangs above you—full or crescent, rising or high.

Then write. Bring notebooks, pens, whatever captures words. Write poetry—clumsy or elegant, raw or polished, it doesn’t matter. Write about what you discovered today: the fisherman’s story, the way light moved across water, the fear you felt diving from rocks, the conversation that cracked you open. Write about the moonlight on your friends’ faces, the vulnerability of sitting naked under stars, the sound of waves as rhythm and breath. Write about beauty that has no other language but poetry—experiences too profound for regular speech.

When someone finishes, they read aloud. The ocean becomes witness. Your friends become congregation. Each poem is an offering, a prayer, a way of saying: This is what it meant to be alive today. Others listen with the attention that nakedness demands—no performance, no pretense, just truth spoken into salt air.

Some nights you’ll write individually, each voice distinct. Other nights you’ll write collaboratively, passing notebooks, building verses together, discovering what emerges when multiple souls try to capture one shared beauty. You’ll find that poetry becomes the only adequate response to days lived this intensely, this openly.

By journey’s end, you’ll have notebooks full of verses written under different moons, on different shores, by bodies that learned to be undefended. You’ll carry those poems as evidence of who you became when you stripped away everything but truth, beauty, and the courage to name what you witnessed.