Memoir: Caballo De Los Reyes
A Gallop Along the Southern Coast of Spain
My hair is a tangled, knotted mess, blown into a rat's nest by the howling wind. The salt in the air has made it sticky and stiff, and I dread the idea of having to tame it later. Deandra is much smarter, with her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. A few wisps escape to frame her face and flirt with the gale pulling at each strand.
The tan sands of the Costa de la Luz stretch out in front of us like a challenge, daring us to see how far they will go before melting back into grassy hills interspersed with yellow and brown brush that remind me of the golden California coast I grew up on. Despite it being mid-October, Tarifa is still stubbornly holding onto the tail end of summer. I embrace the warm Mediterranean air like an old friend, enjoying the sun overhead, the mild temperature, and the gentle breeze that's kicked into a flurry as I spur my horse faster and faster down the beach.
Deandra pulls her horse back to run alongside mine, sawing on the reins when the gelding shakes his head and gnaws on the bit instead, anxious to keep going. We have been racing up the coastline for nearly an hour now, breathless from both the untamed beauty of southern Spain and the effort of keeping our restless horses in line. It's clear the two animals aren't used to having riders who actually know what they're doing, more accustomed to hauling around inexperienced tourists than seasoned equestrians. While initially slow and confused when we first asked them to move faster than a walk, they quickly found their own joy in the hunt, chasing after the waves to what felt like the edge of the world. Now, it's almost as impossible to get them to stop as it is to want them to.
We ease our horses back as the sand turns dry and deep. Deandra's Paso Fino falls naturally into a corto - a quick, lateral gait somewhere between a trot and a canter, as if unsure which stride his rider really wants. I can feel Nevara shift beneath me, eager to spring back into a gallop herself. Nevara is a gorgeous young Andalucian mare, her coat the color of charcoal, with spots like snow dotting her flanks. As she gets older, that darkness will give way to the gray-white color that distinguishes her breed. Until then, she could not look any less like my own thoroughbred mare. Thick, muscular neck, short back, powerful haunches - Nevara was bred for battle and to bear the royalty of Spain on her back. As we fly across the sand and through the waves, her rocking-horse stride and strong hooves sending salty water splattering everywhere, I have no trouble understanding why Andalucians have been nicknamed the "Horse of Kings." She is pure strength and indulgence, descendant of seasoned warriors and the pride of the Andalucía province. It is an honor to knot my fingers through her long, wavy mane and let her conquer each stretch of sand she covers with her merciless pace.
The stride is strong and dominant, almost nobly so - yet another difference from my Holly, who galloped with all the grace of a sprinter, a thoroughbred designed for running young, fast, and hard. Thin and black, Holly was as streamlined as an arrow, made to pierce discreetly through the armor of her enemies rather than shatter them to bits like the charger beneath me now. The contrast does not bother me. In fact, I relish it. Only a few weeks before leaving for Spain I received word from home that Holly had passed away. An arrow loosed one last time, leaving me wounded with an ache that seemed to only be soothed on the battlefield of Tarifa's beach.
I sit back heavily in the saddle, using my seat to bring Nevara down to a walk as we reach the top of a sand bank. She shakes her head, mane flinging bits of sand and salt water everywhere, while Deandra practically has to use her entire body to convince her gelding to stop. For a moment the two of us just sit and breathe, Deandra dramatically falling forward to lie on her horse's neck with a great sigh. I inhale deeply through my nose, seizing the scent of salty air, leather, and horse, all so acutely familiar. They send a pang of nostalgia through me, like a shiver up my spine, as I picture a twelve-year-old me – all fizzy blonde hair and chubby cheeks – riding Holly at a hillside ranch in Malibu. Back then it had all been about structure, about precision and grace and pleasing the judges and being the best. But this...this is freedom, what I had denied myself for years in favor of form and finesse.
Deandra points down the opposite side of the sand bank, where the shore softens into grassy knolls, and says something that the wind rips from her lips and carries swiftly away. But I need no introduction. Pillars of worn stone rise up before us from a sea of aged and crumbling edifices - the remains of Baelo Claudia. Founded in the second century B.C. and abandoned six centuries later after being ravaged by earthquakes and pirates, the ancient Roman port city survived as a relic near the beaches of Bolonia, beautifully preserved despite what the wind and ocean had to say for seventeen hundred years. Carefully, we guide our panting horses closer to the scene, passing by the aqueducts and salting vats still stationed near the waves. Over the corroding city walls I can see the sunken pools that made up the Roman thermal baths and the towering columns erected for the Temple of Isis, Egyptian patroness of family and nature.
Straight ahead and across a short expanse of ocean sprinkled with white wave caps, I can see Isis's homeland and the northern coast of Africa through the weak autumn sunlight. The view is nearly obscured by the multi-colored array of kite-surfers enjoying the strong Mediterranean breeze being funneled through the Strait of Gibraltar, which sends the wind turbines in the distance spinning with joy. The surfers seem to be as much in denial of winter's approach as Tarifa is, but it's hard to worry about a cold, descending winter when the tropics still sing the song of summer.
"I'm sorry about Holly."
I don't respond to Deandra's sudden words, and I'm sure she doesn't expect me to. I guess she felt like it finally needed to be said, here and now as we stand on the precipice of something ancient and beautiful. Empty yet still, somehow, standing.
Deandra dismounts and pulls out her phone after handing me her horse's reins. The Paso Fino rubs against my leg, itching where the brow band of his bridal chafes against the base of his ears. Absentmindedly I reach down to help him, fingers coming away smeared with sweat and salt water. He leans into the touch, head rapidly moving up and down. Nevara pins her ears in agitation and tries to move away. I focus more intently than necessary on the way she shifts beneath me, closing my eyes and pressing my other hand against her shoulder, feeling her bones and muscles move like liquid beneath my fingers. I tune into the sound of waves crashing against the sand, of lazy beach-goers conversing in rapid Spanish, of the only other tourist couple at the ruins, who point at our horses in awe as if they've never seen a creature quite like them before.
Six thousand miles away there is an empty paddock with a blank and nameless stall card on its door. I'm sure if I squint I'll still be able to see the remains of her name - the two towers of the 'H', the swirling tail of the 'y' - lingering relics of her time with me.
Ten minutes later, Deandra is satisfied with her photos. She trudges back to me, boots sinking into the pliant sand, but before mounting up she passes over her phone. "I got a good one," is all she says.
And there I am. The photo is taken from the back so I can see how regally Nevara surveys the shore below and how the sun is slowly setting up ahead, casting a glowing, golden crown around my head.
