Hawaii, Oh no!
Was she concerned about my safety or about her embarrassment of my amateur riding ability?
I hate getting up early, but Sally is off to her job in New York in forty-five minutes and breakfast is the only time to talk.
I stumble to the kitchen, eyes still crusty from an allergy-filled sleep, dying for some strong French press coffee. Sally is already at the table, sipping out of her favorite cup, the one emblazoned with the words, “My body, my choice.”
“I want to go on a horseback riding week in Hawaii,” she says.
“Uhh. Good morning,” I groan. “Sounds like a good idea.”
I’m thinking she means next year. She loves exotic vacations, so I am not surprised. Hawaii is a lot better than some of her other fantasies. But horseback riding? She likes to ride, joined the local fox hunting club, but, as for me, I always liked cowboy movies, thought of owning a horse one day, but never had a chance to learn riding.
“I’ll make reservations today. Found a good website last night. It should be fun,” Sally says. “We can see sights not accessible by foot or car.
See you later. Gotta go,” Sally says, collecting her bags and rushing out the door.
I settle in for a quiet days work in my office over the garage, but good grief, we’re going to spend a week on horseback when I don’t know anything about riding. Visions of sore muscles and runaway horses cloud my brain.
“The next day finds me at the local horse stable after learning Sally made reservations for us to fly to Hawaii in two weeks.
“I need some horseback riding lessons starting today,” I say.
“How about at three this afternoon?” Joanna, the manager answers. “Brenda, one of our best instructors, can work with you. Have you ever ridden before?”
“Not much, but we’re going on a weeklong excursion in a few days and I’m desperate to learn.”
Brenda and I start our daily lessons at three, and every day, I’m on Rusty, a big brown, some sort of horse, following Brenda’s guidelines.
In our final lesson, I say to Brenda, “Let’s talk about all the ‘what-ifs,’ the horse bucks, runs away, bites — or whatever.”
Brenda walks me through a series of emergency procedures: how to dismount if needed, how to control an unruly animal, how to deal with a runaway, how to watch the horse’s ears when it detects danger. Now, at the end of our time together, my confidence about horses is better, but not great.
Arriving in Honolulu, we look for the small airline we’d booked to take us to Molokai, Hawii’s fifth largest island, which is just ten miles wide and thirty-eight miles long, The attendant asks us to wait a few minutes for the pilot to show up.
What? The pilot will be with us. What kind of airline is this?
“Good afternoon,” says a voice heading toward us.
I look around to see a thirty-something fellow with a baseball hat and a young boy, probably around eight or ten.
“So you’re the people going to Molokai?” the man asks.
“Yes,” Sally says, looking as puzzled as I feel.
“Well, we’re going to fly you and show you some of the most beautiful sights in the world. Follow me.”
Ugh, we will be flying with a thirty-year-old pilot and a ten-year-old co-pilot.
Soon, we are tucked in the back seats of a four-person Cessna and taxiing down the runway to fly the sixty miles of ocean to Molokai, with it’s seven thousand people.
“Thought I’d show you some of the sights on the way,” the pilot says as he moves to a lower altitude, flying next to cliffs, standing like monuments to the native gods of Hawaii, guarding the ocean..
Circling, he banks, taking us up a fjord-like valley covered by jungle foliage punctuated by a stream falling what seems like a thousand feet into the valley below. Wow, we could never have experienced this in a commercial airliner.
Turning to Sally, I ask, “Did you plan this?”
“No, it’s a complete surprise. I thought we were getting a commercial flight as part of the travel package. This is fantastic.”
Bright and early the following day, we are in our riding clothes, jeans, and L.L. Bean shirts. Our horseback riding guide meets us in the hotel lobby. She’s about four inches shorter than Sally, with hair she forgot to comb this morning, dressed in jeans, and a blue flannel shirt.
“Hi, I’m Susan. I’ll be your guide for the tour,” she says.
“How many other people are there going to be?” I ask, expecting six or eight.
“Just you two,” she says. “It will be just the three of us. We have some good horses for you.”
I don’t know whether to be scared or pleased. With a group, I could have faded in, perhaps hiding my amateurish riding abilities, but now there is no place to hide.
Every day, we trek out to terrain like I’ve never seen: along the cliffs overlooking the sea, which trigger my fears that the horse might not know better than to jump into the sea; slowly riding across a vast plain with grass up to our stirrups; up and down narrow trails overlooking rushing mountain streams.
On the fourth day, I feel comfortable in the saddle on a horse that seems to recognize me in the mornings. The sun is low in the eastern sky, and we are high in the island landscape, on a relatively flat gravel road, with a bank on the left and a rock wall on the right. I’m wondering who built the wall and why it is here. Sally and Susan are a few yards in front of me, horses walking slowly while we enjoy the vistas of Hawaii, the big island across the water. I, too, am relaxed, absorbing the tranquil views.
Boom. Suddenly, my horse kicks up his rear legs, throwing me forward. I drop the reins, wrapping my arms around the horse’s neck, desperate to hold on as we gallop past Sally and Susan at breakneck speed. My head is pounding against the horse’s neck in cadence with his strides. There is no room to dismount because of the rock wall and bank. What should I do? The island’s edge is ten miles away; will he finally stop there?
Remembering Brenda’s lessons, I reach out, finally grabbing one of the reins and tugging on it until the horse finally decides to stop. He’s panting, and I am panting harder.
Soon, Sally and Susan catch up.
“What happened?” asks Sally.
I take a few minutes to catch my breath. “I don’t know. He just bucked suddenly.”
“Probably a bee,” says Susan. “Sometimes happens.”
Thank goodness for Brenda.
We continue enjoying the scenery and tranquility of Molokai for the next three uneventful days. But the runaway horse will be my most compelling memory.
Yet, perhaps more than that, I’ll remember how puzzled I am about Sally’s reaction. Was she concerned about my safety or about her embarrassment by my amateur riding ability? No comments like “I’m glad you’re OK” or “I am worried about you.” I am just some amateur on a runaway horse. Should I be concerned? Is this another signal?
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