Flying on
Horseback
in Jamaica
By Barbara McNally
I
n Unbridled: A Memoir, Barbara
McNally chronicles her journey
from stifled, dependent housewife
to independent, joyous and
authentic living. She starts by
tracing her roots in Ireland, and
when her ex-husband gets remarried
and goes on his honeymoon, Barbara
decides to take a solo vacation to
Hedonism, a clothing-optional resort
in Jamaica. On her way to the beach
to ride horses, her taxi breaks down
in front of an orphanage for abused
teenage girls. She decides to stay
overnight to learn more about these
girls, and how she can help, which
ultimately leads Barbara to create
her foundation, Mother Lover
Fighter Sage, which fundraises to
fight sex trafficking. While staying
with the girls, she treats them to
a horseback ride—a first for most
of them.
Although I’d only met the girls the
day before and didn’t know them
very well, I knew horses. They were
loyal, sociable, and eminently
capable. A horse would keep a secret,
no matter how awful it was. I could
only imagine a fraction of what
these girls had been through, but
by introducing them to horses,
I was sharing what I considered
to be a little bit of heaven on earth.
On a more tangible level, I thought
that if I could help them overcome
their fear of horses, perhaps they
could overcome other obstacles
on their own.
Once we had all mounted up, we rode
single file down a path through the
trees. The dense forest was cool,
even in the heat of the afternoon.
Palm fronds rustled in the breeze,
and soft ferns uncurled on the damp
jungle floor. We passed waterfalls
that splashed across the trail, and
I watched many of the girls reach
out to run their fingers through
the gushing water, delighted by
the cool splatter against their
hands. I encouraged Monique to
do the same, and as her hand made
contact with the water, she
giggled and pulled it back.
“Go ahead, try it again,” I said,
reining my horse to a stop.
She shot her hand back into the
waterfall and let the cool cascade
sluice through her fingers.
“That feels good,” she said, smiling
though missing teeth.
I grinned at her. We caught up with the
rest of the group and headed toward
the beach. When we arrived, we all
dismounted. Several of the girls had
flung their shoes into the wet sand as
they ran straight for the water, fully
clothed, with dreadlocks flying behind
them like flags in the wind.
The water slid off their bodies, and
their skin glistened in the sun. I was
surprised to discover that, even
though these girls had been raised
on an island, many of them didn’t
know how to swim. They waded into
the surf and splashed each other
108
with the salty froth, playing with
the abandon of youth. Some dolphins
cruised by, and a few of the
swimmers imitated their easy sail
through the water. For several hours,
the girls bounced about in the water,
their cares and worries temporarily
forgotten.
I thought of how these free-spirited
girls were more appreciative than
many women I knew back in the
States, who took their blessings
for granted yet were trapped by
fear and inertia within their own
mental prisons. These girls were
real victims, and they put things
in perspective for me.
Naomi lobbed a clump of white sand
at an unsuspecting Marsha, who gave
chase. Monique stood nearby,
watching the action on the beach
with a huge smile on her face.
Shading my eyes with my hands, I
looked back toward the shore and
saw the van from the stable emerge
on a gravel road that had been