For as long as I’ve been able to drive, I’ve pulled a trailer and rounded up horse-obsessed kids and their ponies to ride in fun places. When I was a teen, if there was a way to bring my horse along to wherever my family was traveling, my dad made it happen. Instilled with that sense of adventure, road tripping with my horse gave me a sense that anything was possible. In turn, getting to share opportunities for adventure with young riders has always given me deep and profound joy. It’s what my dad did for me.
In mid-July of 2013 while living at home in Northeast North Carolina, I took my 12 year old sister and two of her 11 year old friends—all riding students—to the Outer Banks. I was 21, engaged to be married the following week, and had high hopes of giving these kids a day they’d never forget. Behind my truck, I hauled my family’s 3 horse trailer with two off-the-track Thoroughbreds and one Arabian pony. We left before dawn with strict instructions to be home before the afternoon for help with summer camp and wedding preparation.
Halfway to the beach my patience with the chattering children was wearing thin. I stopped for a second cup of coffee. The 11 year old who was visiting town from Georgia went inside. Said child spent all $30 of the cash she had brought for the outing on donuts. She returned to the truck triumphantly with two giant plastic bags of donuts. I laughed in horror, then continued our journey to Oregon Inlet. We would park at a fishing center and carefully walk our crew across a two-lane highway, and then—I prayed—enjoy an amazing morning of beach riding.
We made it onto the beach. The sky was dark blue with patches of clouds and intermittent showers. A rainbow formed over the sand dunes and we all secured pictures under the rainbow with the horses. I galloped my thoroughbred and horse-of-a-lifetime, Bomber, bareback with a halter and lead top at Mach 5 down the beach, barefoot and in a bathing suit. We raced a fishing boat just offshore with ears perked, as happy as a horse and girl could be. He lived to gallop and I was always honored when he carried me along.
Shamir, my childhood pony, happily obliged to all that the girls asked. Swimming into the surf, riding double, cantering down the beach, he did it all with no complaint. He loved to roll in the sand and the girls giggled in delight at his antics.
Our third horse on the trip was Mosby, a young thoroughbred I sold to one of the 11 year olds the summer before. Mosby was a phenom, and usually quite agreeable. On this day however, he was not the best version of himself.
One of the sugar high children led rowdy Mosby into the surf when he pulled away from her and she dropped the reins. Mosby then stepped on his reins and broke his bridle. Mosby was loose, but fortunately did not want to leave his friends. We managed to catch him. I converted Bomber’s leadline into a halter and gave Bomber’s halter to Mosby. We snagged a rein from the broken bridle and attached it to the halter and breathed a big sigh of relief as Mosby was contained.
It was time to go home, to convince the girls that they had all the pictures the needed. Towels and clothes and shoes and cameras were scattered about like a post-game locker room. A quick search for the broken bridle revealed that the ocean had swallowed it. The scene was a picture of salty, sandy, disorganization, messy-haired girls, hoof prints, and horse poop.
Somehow in the cluster of packing up three children, three horses, and their belongings, Bomber’s line was dropped. I was battling sand in my shoe when I looked up to see that all three children were present but only two held horses. I looked up. Bomber had dismissed himself. Always an independent soul, he showed no interest in coming back to his friends.
Trying to disguise my panic, I instructed the children: “STAY here with Mosby.” With my camera and leadrope over my shoulder, I swung onto Shamir’s back and paced anxiously toward Bomber.
Bomber marched purposefully down the beach, the sun hitting his blood bay coat, his black tail swinging rhythmically.
I knew speeding up to catch him would prove fruitless. Running would only send him away faster, as Bomber always insisted on being the leader.
I pushed Shamir’s 13.3 hand choppy-as-heck Arabian walk as big as it would go, but Bomber still outpaced us.
“Maybe he’ll go straight down the beach, instead of turning toward the trailer,” I thought. “Maybe a fisherman on the beach could lure his attention with a bucket. As long as...” ... I caught my breath, thinking about the highway.
Between Bomber and the trailer was a horrific two-lane highway. We had to cross it to get from our parking area to the beach; it was always the hairiest part of our beach trips. We’d always dismount and hand walk our horses cautiously across.
My heart went to my throat as Bomber approached the fork and chose his route. He turned his back to the ocean and walked toward the sandy access road, toward the trailer.
Seagulls cawed and the salt wind whipped. Whenever Bomber looked distracted I’d try to steal a few steps of trot to get closer. I tried hard to stay calm, but inwardly I was tied in knots. I called softly to Bomber, asking him to whoah. He acknowledged my calls with the flick of an ear, but refused to change course.
Maybe a car would come down the access road and block him? Maybe they’d have a peppermint on hand. But there was not a car on the access road to be seen. Only cars on the highway. And simply no way to alert them of the oncoming horse.
Armed with my leadrope, my camera, and not a single other option, I prayed.
“Jesus.... PLEASE... stop him...!
“Lord,” I whispered, “turn him around... Jesus, please help; I’m out of ideas... please STOP HIM.”
I repeated my frantic prayers over and over.
For a moment, nothing happened. My next prayer was going to be hoping to God that there would be no cars for the moment that my loose horse would make his run across the highway.
Then, Shamir’s ears twitched and the sky suddenly grew dark. The wind picked up. A new sound struck my ear: rain hitting sand. I looked up.
A wall of wind and water descended in front of Bomber. The wind blew in his face. Bomber squinted and turned his head to the side. Then the rain hit: glorious, beautiful rain. The rain swept into Bomber head on.
Pelted by wind and rain, Bomber reversed. He turned and faced me with his head down, licking and chewing with a hind leg cocked. The mist hit my face and Shamir’s gray whiskers. I walked cautiously to Bomber, dismounted, and carefully put the leadrope around his neck. I was trembling, but flooded with relief.
I shielded my nice camera by placing it behind my back, thinking surely it would be doomed in the coming onslaught of rain.
But my camera never got wet. And neither did I. The wall of water and wind stopped at Bomber’s tail, holding him still, planting him. I stood between Bomber and Shamir with weak knees, perfectly dry while rain poured down behind Bomber. I muttered a flabbergasted “thank you,” then went to get the girls.
We all made it home.
Before the next beach trip, we discovered a different access point that didn’t require crossing a road. We’ll never go anywhere else.
But: I’ll never forget God’s grace to me that day at the beach, when I was 21 and “invincible” with ‘my’ three kids, three horses, a truck & a horse trailer. 💙