I was around 15 and on a rare family holiday up the coast. We had been doing what everyone else wanted to do when I came across a sign advertising horse riding on the beach. I had a deep love of horses, but the promised beast had never eventuated. Begging to be allowed to go, I could barely sleep, waiting for the next morning.
Up early, jeans to reduce the pinches from the stirrups, closed in shoes as the ad had said. We saddled up our horses, mine a big, beautiful black gelding, his flesh quivering in the early morning sunshine. A slow amble down the dusty road, the clip-clop a melodious lullaby to the senses. The mist wafting up from the road surface, the promise of a warm and sunny day ahead.
We road the horses down the lane ways to the local ferry, loading them on and taking them the half hour trip across the water. On the other side, the sand shone white, the water glistering like emeralds caught in a flash of sunlight. Trotting, cantering, galloping, the wind in my hair, the freedom in my soul. Up and down sand dunes, racing along the water's edge, riding like the wind until the great breast was heaving below me, his muscles spent. Finally, taking off saddles (and clothes!), we crashed into the gentle waves, floating on beasts, the water lapping. The sea spray in my hair, the water droplets running down the beast's neck, the salty taste in my mouth. Cooled and spent, we re-saddled, making the slow journey home. Paradise!
