Gallopingintofortyph

Galloping into Forty Three days before my fortieth birthday, my boyfriend of six years took me out to dinner. Over a glass of our favorite pinot noir, he said, "When you get home tonight, pack your bags. I'm flying you to Amelia Island." Richard knew I was less than thrilled about officially entering middle age. He also knew there were two things I dreamed of that I 'd not yet attained: riding a horse on the beach, and becoming a published author. There was little he could do about the latter, but as a computer nerd and pilot, he had the skills to research the few

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beaches that still allowed horseback riding and fly us there in a rented single-engine Cessna. At last, I would have the chance to fulfill a long-held fantasy of riding the most glorious creature on land along the very edge of the earth. Thirty years ago, as a horse-crazy kid, I'd been shocked when my mother got a horse for her fortieth birthday. I'd been collecting Breyer horse statues and decorating my rooms with horse posters and drawings for years. "But I'm the one who loves horses!" I cried. "Why does Mom get one?" My father explained in calm even tones that my mother didn't collect posters and models, but she had loved horses all her life and this was what she wanted more than anything. He also explained that if I was nice instead of jealous, I might even get to share in the care of this big buckskin addition to the family. After months of proving that I was serious--and more than willing to help with even the most mundane aspects of horse care--my mother enlisted the help of a horsewoman who could give me riding lessons. I rode every chance I had until the day I went away to college. It had been a long time since then, and I was not sure I could still ride like I had in my teens. I'd outgrown the posters and statues, but was still as in love with horses as my mother had

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probably been when she was facing forty. ### After a little turbulence and lots of scenery, Richard landed our little plane on the narrow runway in the middle of the island and we took a cab to Elizabeth Pointe, a spiffy Bed & Breakfast on Amelia Island. On the top floor, we walked into a bright, breezy room with a canopy bed and fluttering linen curtains whispering with ocean breezes. We rode bicycles around the island the first day, then slow, plodding horses along a trail to the beach the second day. It was a horseback ride to be sure--and Richard was a trouper to come along--but he knew this was not the ride I'd hoped and longed for all these years. On the third day, we walked around the historic district and dug around flea markets and looked at antiques. The evening before we left, Richard found a local woman who owned thoroughbred racehorses and talked her into taking me out for a real ride. The plan was that she would trailer her horses to meet us on a deserted stretch of beach, then afterward, drop me off at the airport runway to give Richard time to perform his pre-flight on the Cessna. ### The morning I turned forty, we woke at dawn and had

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breakfast on the rocking chair porch, watching the interplay between waves and seagulls. We left to meet Debbie, who was right where she said she'd be, unloading two stunning and lively horses. She turned to greet me, gloved hand outstretched. "So, Kim, you ready for the ride of a lifetime?" Debbie was tall, lanky and blonde, with a sort of sideways rough-and-ready-for-anything smile. She introduced me to Sandman, her tall white thoroughbred, and then the younger of the two, a sleek, leggy chestnut with a white stripe down his nose. "This is Taco," she said. "And other than carrots, the thing he loves most in life is a full-out gallop. Think you can you handle him?" I looked out at the waves, my hair whipping in the wind. "I'd sure like to try," I said. She nodded and handed me a slim English saddle. "Let me see you up on him," she said with a wink. "A rider's seat tells me all I need to know." I held out the back of my hand for Taco to sniff, and he took a deep heavy breath, then threw his head twice in greeting. Once I had settled the light saddle onto his back and guided the gentle snaffle bit into his mouth, Debbie offered me a leg-up, and there I

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sat, my head in the trade winds, 1,200 pound of glorious horse beneath me. "Nice," said Debbie. "Deep in the saddle, heels down, head up. You're good to go." We started off slow, Taco in front at a brisk walk, his mane swinging in rhythm, the hum of the surf in my ears. The friendly nod of Taco's chiseled head made me smile in recognition: we were moving in time with the tides, and all the earth made sense from horseback. The view framed between his alert pricked ears made the grey and green of the beach all the more beautiful. It was as if he was telling me look, here--out there--this is the world. Behind me, I heard Debbie shout something, but the rush and roar of the ocean carried it away as Taco picked up speed—a bouncing trot followed by the rocking magic of a canter. There was a swooshing of the sand and surf, then a moment later, those thoroughbred muscles kicked in and the clouds began to blur, the earth echoing under his thundering pace. At a full, all-out gallop now, Taco was pedal-to-the-metal and my heart was racing. When he swerved to miss some foam riding in on a big wave, I lost a stirrup and thought I was a goner. How was I ever going to get it back at this speed? I looked back at Debbie--she was a good 50 feet behind us, smiling and laughing. I glanced down at my flailing stirrup and his

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blur of legs against the sand and wondered if I should attempt the "emergency dismount" I 'd learned from my riding teacher at 14. Could I dive past those sharp hooves and roll on such hard sand? Moments later, I was thanking the good heavens and gods of horseflesh because Taco finally slowed and pulled up, allowing Sandman to catch up with us. "This is where we turn around," said Debbie, breathing hard. "Race you back?" ### Richard had made my 40th birthday a very happy one indeed. I'd eaten a Captain Van's shrimp burger perched in the branches of a giant oak, pedaled a bike all over the island, walked the beach alone one morning, sitting surrounded by seagulls, standing in the surf regaining my bearings with the earth, feeling gravity’s pull. There was that moment of turning in my saddle to see a smiling Rich on Eddy, the slow brown pony at the end of the line--and then that last taste of salty ocean air on my face while tearing through the surf on a leggy chestnut steed. So few events in this life measure up to the gems of dreams we hold and turn over in our minds. The more we long for a moment, a thing, a chance at that fleeting image, the less likely the reality has of coming close to our vision. This was one day in my life that was absolutely beyond the

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fantasy--echelons above, and miles beyond the small romantic notion I’d had of clopping along the beach on a horse "one day." This had been a race with the earth, an awakening of my heart. This was holding my life up for an ageless glimmering instant of joy. Yes, I still turned forty, but that day on the beach, I was sure that on Taco the racehorse, I could outrun time and the wind eternal. ### While waiting for Rich to pre-flight the plane, I took an arm's-length picture of myself before that bold, glowing grin could wear off. I wanted to remember this moment of deep and total happiness. I'll always cherish that picture of me the day I galloped into forty on horseback. When we returned home, I found a letter from a literary magazine asking for permission to publish a story I'd submitted months earlier. It was the most delicious icing possible on top of the very best of birthday cakes.

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