Literature
hidden by the trees. Shamara got out
and gathered up our lunch supplies.
She huffed her way across the sand,
juggling her load. When she neared
the rest of the group, she propped
up a striped umbrella and settled
into a beach chair.
I stood next to my horse near one of
the guides. He was a Rasta, and he
seemed to be enjoying the day.
“They’re having so much fun,” I said,
watching the circus of activities.
“It be very nice. What you’re doing
for them.” His well-worn chaps hung
low on his hips, and he held a strand
of grass between his teeth.
“They’ve given me so much more than
what I have given them.” It sounded
corny when I said it out loud, but it
was true.
“Ya, but it still be very nice. Maybe
I show you something.” He started
to unbuckle his chaps.
“Have you ever flown before?”
“Only on an airplane. What about
you?” I couldn’t tell if he was flirting
with me, stoned out of his mind,
or both.
“When Jah is within, all things
are possible.”
“Show me,” I said, accepting
the challenge.
The guide shed his chaps and
mounted his horse. Following his
lead, I put a foot in my stirrup and
climbed astride my horse, ready to
be enlightened by a Rasta wrangler.
With a flick of his reins, the guide
let out a shout. “Irie!”
Together, our horses galloped toward
the sea. I waited for the guide to
change direction, but he headed
straight into the surf. As the waves
broke around us, the horses surged
forward, part running, part
swimming, and the Rasta was
right. It felt just like flying. For
a moment, I was Pegasus.
Shamara had spread out the
sandwiches and salads we’d brought
along, and we all picnicked on the
beach. After lunch, the girls and
I built elaborate sand castles,
bolstered by turrets and surrounded
by moats. Shamara had the
misfortune of falling asleep in the
sun, and some of the girls buried
her arms in the sand. When she woke,
Shamara pretended to be annoyed
but couldn’t help but laugh. With my
permission, Monique used my camera
to capture our day on the beach.
I knew the girls had Internet access
through the school’s computer, so
I promised to share the photos
with them online.
“Do you want to try?” I could
understand her trepidation. Monique
chewed her bottom lip and looked
from me to the other girls and back
again. “Yes, ma’am. I want to try,
but I’m scared.”
I took both of our horses and led
them toward the water, tying
Monique’s horse to a large piece
of driftwood on the beach. Eager
to experience the rush again,
I got on my horse and demonstrated
for Monique before I took her
into the water.
“It’s really quite easy.” I dismounted
when I returned to shore. “You don’t
have to do anything except trust
your horse.”
Emboldened, she came over to the
horse. I gave her a leg up, and she
hopped astride. Her small hands
gripped the reins and clenched
the saddle horn. Taking hold of the
lead rope tied to her horse’s halter,
I mounted my own horse, leaving
a slack loop between us. I started
toward the water and looked back
as Monique closed her eyes. Her
well-trained mare followed mine
out into the water. As we ventured
a little deeper, the horses lifted
off the ocean floor, buoyed by the
salt water.
Monique flicked her eyes open and
looked down into the frothy water.
“We’re flying, Miss Barbara!
We’re flying!”
She laughed and tentatively lifted
one hand off the saddle horn just long
enough to wave. I waved back. By the
time we returned to shore, I was so
hungry my stomach could have eaten
itself. I hadn’t realized how much
energy it took to supervise a group
of inexperienced girls, especially
those starved for attention.
The girls on the shore shouted and
cheered, clamoring to take a turn.
I looked to Shamara for approval,
and she nodded with a smile.
They traveled in pairs, each guide
escorting a willing girl into the
froth. I could hear shrieks of joy
and laughter when their horses took
“flight,” galloping through the waves.
Not every girl was brave enough to fly.
Monique hung back from the others.
109
Salty streaks of ocean water dried
on the girls’ dark skin and turned
their arms and legs an ashen gray.
On the ride back to Windsor, the
girls chattered incessantly about
their “magic day.” By the time we
arrived at the gate, the sun had
started its plunge below the horizon
and gentle gusts of evening wind
moved over the island.
Barbara McNally is the founder
of Mother Lover Fighter Sage,
a foundation dedicated to providing
women with opportunities for
growth and self-discovery, and the
author of Unbridled: A Memoir. To
learn more, visit her website at:
UnbridledFreedom.com.