Sea horse
Check out kitastrophe’s exquisite photos of The Swimming of the Horses off of the Connemara Coast.
To swim on a horse's back through a clear and beautiful stream of water, your conception of passionate bliss will be swiftly realized. ~ Gustavus Hindman Miller , What's in a Dream?—A Scientific and Practical Interpretation of Dreams, 1901.
Even though I'm not big on water sports, I’ve always dreamed about swimming with my horse in the ocean. So I was kind of disappointed when I woke up in the middle of this one the other night—
I am treading water in a cerulean sea beneath an azure sky. There’s a sandy shore way off in the distance. I tell myself I'm OK. I'm OK. The masts of the red and black Spanish galleon spiral up into the palette of blue. I can't touch bottom, gulp some salt water trying. They groan and creak as the ship rocks gently back and forth on the glass-like surface. I am dizzy just looking at them, and wonder what in the world am I doing here?
I paddle a little harder, fighting back the first pangs of panic, because I suddenly remember that I don’t really like the water. But I am buoyed up when I see that my husband and kids are right next to me, bobbing like corks. It appears that we can’t sink. Kind of like swimming in the Dead Sea, I suppose. I stop struggling so hard.
Dennis and the kids are smiling. We all are.
Three ropes dangle from the galleon down into the sea, pierce the boundary between what’s above and what’s below, which makes me consider the possibility of sharks.
But that's when my percheron horse Toby comes paddling right by us. We stare incredulous, mouths agape, at his long legs arcing gracefully through the water. His neck is a swan’s. His hooves are fins. Back rounded, muscles fluid, his ebony tail fans out behind him like seaweed. The black horse’s wake radiates out from his churning hindquarters until it laps against our chins and our mouths, and we are coughing.
I spit salt water, turn to my husband and say, “I didn’t know he could swim.” The horse splashes his way to the horizon while I watch, worried about how I’m going to get him back up onto that big boat. It has something to do with pulleys, ropes, and chains—I’m certain. Then he stands up to his full 17 hands in the shallows and casts a long look back at us before he simply … disappears.
“Where’d he go,” I cry, as we dog-paddle towards the ship and push the kids up the ropes ahead of us, climbing aboard the galleon.
I am suddenly clinging to the bowsprit, then to the orante figurehead just below, scanning the horizon for my runaway percheron. The white sails are filled, and the galleon is eating up the waves. Dennis and the kids must be sailing her, I think, although it makes absolutely no sense. We meet a three-masted barque. Play chicken for a few heart rending moments then leave her in our wake. I hang on for dear life, my arms around the unflinching wooden neck of the carved horse, his mouth open in a ferocious neigh to ward off evil spirits.
The salt spew stings my eyes until they are overflowing with tears, but I can't wipe them away or I might tumble into the white foam. The ship bucks and jumps. I bite my swollen, sun-burned lips. Gather up my courage. Lift one hand in silent salute.
(and then the alarm goes off ...)
