But I stayed in the saddle.
I’ve bailed out once right before a horse failed to take a good-sized jump. Yes. For a while, I rode English. Lips pursed. Reins in both hands, pinkies out, holding a cup of tea and saucer. Every once in a while, I’d let out a “Jolly good.”
A few Fourths of July ago, I got out of a sick bed to lead out the parade and probably shouldn’t have. About 45 seconds before the beginning of the parade, I dude-ranched it. In attempting to make sure I had enough oomph to get my right leg up and over that saddle, I gave it a little too much gas and sailed completely over the horsey. Knocked the wind out of me. A kind sheriff’s deputy helped me out. Gentleman he was, he showed only a polite smile and didn’t guffaw.
I got back up.
A good friend of mine got stuck in a bog up to his horse’s ears and took a couple of hours to swim to safety and pull his mount out behind him. It happened on the outskirts of town and you wonder why they don’t call the place Quicksand Canyon instead of just plain Sand Canyon.
Another friend had her horse run away and they got hit by a car while crossing another canyon road. Had another saddlepal disappear right when I was talking to them, as if the Earth itself sucked him up. His horse fell asleep while walking. It just fell asleep, collapsed to its knees, shook its head and quickly got up in embarrassment as if nothing had happened or the horse had actually meant to do that. Of course, the pony came up riderless and that’s always a dead giveaway something’s wrong.
One of the toppers of B.H.E. (Bad Horse Experiences) comes from a pal of mine. It had happened years ago down in Mexico and why is it so many bad stories involve the phrase, “…while I was down in Mexico?”
This friend of mine was no Larry Mahan and in fact, she’s not what you’d call athletic. I think she’d have trouble riding Amtrak.
I was taking her back to the airport this week and we got to talking about horses and she simply said, “You mean you never heard my horse story?”
She had that somber tone of voice, the kind people have when they say, “You mean you don’t know that house is haunted?” The fact that several people died horrible, prolonged deaths inside the property is implied.
“I was down in Mexico, below Enseñada, maybe 20 years back,” she said. The windshield wipers in the truck offered a soothing rhythm. “A bunch of us, my friends, we went down for a short vacation. You know. Have a few drinks, laugh, carouse.”
There are exceptions to every rule, but if you’re going to the beach south of the border to ride horses, it’s because you’re some combination of being young, dumb, in love or shooting a commercial for a major health insurance provider. Health insurance companies like to use TV spots featuring people riding horses on the beach because they feel it promotes an image of health and Lord knows that particular branch of organized crime is going to cough up any money toward anyone feeling healthy.
Anyway.
My amiga saddles up. She and her posse of friends, in their early 20s, moseys out of town onto a sandy trail and they are now actually riding on the beach. My friend is on a horse that has somberly matched the pace of the John F. Kennedy funeral procession and she wants a little more hi-ho Silver and away for her money.
Thing is, my friend is not a cowgirl. She won’t give him any spur. Or, in her case, heel of tennis shoe. She just kind of bounces up and down on his back, which, in Monty Roberts/Horsewhisperer talk means, “Let’s you and I get into a fistfight.”
My friend gets her wish. The horse takes off like it’s shot out of a cannon. Down the beach, toward Tierra del Fuego, it sprints. I mentioned my pal doesn’t know doodly about things equine so instead of pulling back on the reins (“I didn’t want to hurt the horsey’s mouth!”) she drops the reins.
Dropping the reins on a runaway horse is like giving your gun to a teen-age Taliban and saying, “Here. I’m going to lie down and take a nap. You’re on the honor system not to shoot anything.”
My friend tries pulling on the horse’s mane, figuring, and I quote: “That maybe if I could pull its hair and hurt it just a little, it would stop and look up at me.”
How The West Was NOT Won.
The horse bolts down the beach, then makes an abrupt turn toward Acapulco. It’s actually heading back to the stables, as ill-mannered rental horses do so well. Before it can get to the stables, it has to cross that little stretch of Highway 1.
Or, the Mexican freeway.
The horse is running the wrong way against traffic, and, of course, this now being pavement instead of relatively soft sand and sea water, my friend picks this particular spot to get thrown.
It gets worse.
She only gets partially thrown. Her foot is caught in the stirrup. She’s semi-conscious, being dragged, on the freeway, in the wrong direction, against oncoming traffic, leaving a trail of blood and credit cards.
Some gentlemen slammed on their brakes, got out of their cars and corralled the horse. They tend to her best as they can until the ambulance arrives and she’s mumbling, in the proper Spanish vernacular, “¿Donde esta mi amigos? ¿Donde esta mi amigos?”
Well. They were no esta aqui.
My friend (she’s a doctor now so I’m not going to use her name) was rushed to the hospital, treated for about 6,000 contusions, a mild concussion, given a few X-rays and lots of nice visits from the doctors and nurses while she waited several hours for her friends to show.
Finally, they do.
My friend is a little more than blinky, but she wants to know why it took so darn long for them all to show up.
I found the answer rather startling.
Her best friend at the time said the owner of the rental stable said to show there was no hard feelings on either side, gave the group two extra hours of free riding.
It just startles you, doesn’t it?
I think it started her asking, “Just what in the hell did I do to deserve friends who would pick a free pony ride over seeing if I was alive or dead?”
Bonus, her pals were all from her church group.
Sometimes, Protestantism just doesn’t stick.
I will probably not get over that story for many years.
I know I would be haunted not so much by the horse accident, but rather, why her alleged best friend just plain left her.
Suppose also, I’d be tempted to go back to Mexico, rent the same horse and just walk him back and forth in front of the Ensenada Skippy Dog Food factory for an afternoon.
John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net