This ran in the paper today:
I sat on the sturdy dun gelding and looked out over the waves, out to where boats trawled for shrimp. A mass of shadowed birds circled the pale vessels. The overcast skies waned all colors, except for fleeting turquoise in the steel gray sea.
Make no mistake: this was not the hunter pace in the Piedmont I was scheduled to attend. No, the salt and sand at the edge of the Atlantic was not part of the plan, but we were there.
The horse jigged then jogged when I gave him his head to catch up with the three other riders down the beach at Emerald Isle. This was not the time to sit and reflect on the day, but to move forward with the adventure.
The day began at 2:30 a.m. But preparations for the day’s scheduled hunter pace began about a week out: clipping legs, ears and throatlatches that had fuzzed in the cool snaps; pulling manes, long from lack of showing; and meticulous cleaning of mud-caked coats from the wet pastures. By Sunday, I hopped out of bed ready. Clothes neatly laid out for the long haul to Raleigh, truck packed in a semblance of organization and snacks ready for consumption, just grab the bag out of the refrigerator and toss in the ice packs. (I had received a shipment of hoof medication a few days prior, and the insulating package and ice packs were reused for the occasion.)
It took 20 minutes to drive to the Beaufort barn from my home in Newport, and the truck yawned and heaved through tight turns on Old Winberry Road.
Dim yellow lights from the small, six-stall barn, aptly named Six Star Stables, barely put a dent in the morning, and the full moon had turned the surrounding landscape into a black-and-white picture.
When I arrived, the two other riders already had their horses in the cross ties, shaking out shavings and wrapping legs against unforeseen damage from a long trailer ride. Our instructor and my riding partner for the pace, Kim Safrit, had already been at the barn, evident by a pot of coffee, one mug shy of being full.
The morning was not brisk, despite it being the first week of November, but rather muggy and warm. I readied the foundation quarter horse I would ride for the day. His name is Trax and his legs are shorter than our partner’s thoroughbred. But for the pace, he’d set a steady gear and lead by example for the younger horse.
After loading the horses and tack, we left the barn by quarter after 4 a.m. Raleigh, due west by way of Highway 70. For nearly three and a half hours, I sat in an ever-lightening cab with another rider from the barn, and Mrs. Safrit and the other rider rode in the truck ahead of us with a fellow barn member who had agreed to haul them.
During the drive, intermittent showers required vigilance at the windshield wipers’ controls – on too long, too fast and they’d burp resistance against the glass, on too short, too slow and they’d fail to do their job. My passenger and I talked about this and that until skylight overtook the fluorescent green of the dashboard and we arrived at Raleigh.
At about 7:30 a.m., I got a call from Mrs. Safrit.
“Hello?”
“Hey, you’re never going to believe this.”
“What?”
“I called the hotline for the hunter pace, and it’s been canceled.”
“They canceled it?”
“Yep. We’re going to pull over and talk game plan.”
The soft, sporadic rains had canceled the hunter pace. At a gas station, we called them wimps and were obviously irritated. Three out of five of us (not including me) got gas station hot dogs, some with slaw, cheese and chili.
All this way for some gas station grease, I lamented.
Although frustration was perched, ready to overtake anyone of us, none willingly submitted to it. We decided to go riding at Emerald Isle – three and a half hours due east, and only 40 minutes from the barn. We all put on jolly faces and tried to laugh at the circumstances.
“The beach will be so worth the seven hour drive!” and “If you know of a faster way to get to the beach than to go through Raleigh, then you navigate next time!” became forced mottos of the failed adventure. Jokes at our own expense became the groupthink to help overcome the obvious irritation.
The façade of goodwill and cheer continued until we had reached the parking lot at Emerald Isle Parks and Recreation. We parked the trailers parallel to each other in the empty parking lot.
This wasn’t my first time riding at Emerald Isle; I rode earlier this year solo on my own horse. Riders can park at the parks and recreation parking lot, walk their horses down Emerald Isle Drive and take a right on Black Skimmer Road to ride out onto the beach. The only condition? Pick up after your horse and you can only ride during the “off” season.
We tacked the horses and donned our riding gear. I had to slide on my brand new show boots and complained that the sand would scratch them. I nearly goose-stepped as I walked around the parking lot, trying to prevent any scuffs on the shiny, new leather toes.
The funny walk continued as we got onto the sidewalk to walk over to Black Skimmer Road. We hand-walked the horses to err on the side of caution in case of unwary motorists.
As we turned toward the beach, the salt air began to lift our travel-weary spirits. Halloween decorations still cluttered beach houses and lawns, contrasting the less-than-fall colors of evergreen cedar and oak trees.
The street dead-ends into a beach access for motorists, who must apply for a permit to drive on the beach. The soft sand that heralds the approach to the beach caused my cumbersome walk to protect my new boots, intended for a competition instead of a casual ride, to be near impossible. As I looked down to witness sand being kicked up onto my boots, I nearly missed the moment.
Glancing up to see where I was going, there was the beach. The long travel, the frustrations and problems melted away into true cheer, and every one of us gave a broad, child-like smile.
We no longer had to convince ourselves that the beach was “so” worth the seven-hour drive. It was worth it. And it was “so much better” than the hunter pace, we all exclaimed, truly meaning it this time.
We mounted up and rode east toward Atlantic Beach.
The horses, excited but not unruly, marched down the beach, and with the coastal winds drowning our conversations and the salt and sand lightly coating my boots, I couldn’t force my mind to imagine how the day would have turned out if everything had gone according to plan. It certainly couldn’t have compared to our impromptu excursion, taking advantage of the county’s opportunity.
Miles of Bogue Banks lay in front of us. We could have ridden down from Emerald Isle, through Salter Path and Indian Beach, and grabbed a sandwich at Molly’s at the Sheraton in Atlantic Beach. But as those of us familiar with beaches know, distances are deceptive and going a very long way on the beach usually turns into just a little way.
We walked about a half hour down the beach, passing surf fishermen and trucks lumbering through the sand. Mrs. Safrit mused about what residents of Emerald Isle think about seeing the horses from their beachfront windows. We all agreed we must make a pretty cool sight to see (just as long as we don’t make a nuisance out of ourselves).
On the way back to the beach access point, we introduced the horses to the water. All four had cross still water before, but loud, fast-moving white surf can be unnerving for most horses.
With some gentle prodding and coaxing, Trax became the first of the four to enter the roiling surf. As the water pulled away into another wave, I could feel his hooves sink down into the sand as the ocean drew some sand with it. I looked down, only to become slightly seasick at the sight of fast moving ocean and no reference point.
Soon, the three other riders and their horses joined us. We didn’t get in much further than the horse’s knees, but it was enough for us to display those goofy smiles again.
Sometimes, your adventure is in your own backyard. You don’t have to drive seven hours to get there – well, you can, I just don’t recommend it.
For more information on riding horses on the beach at Emerald Isle, call parks and recreation, 354-6350.
The photo album from the day:
 |
| Beach - Emerald Isle |
