THE WATERHOLE

My body glided effortlessly through the green-tinged water, my legs floating over the back of my golden horse, Penny Boy. His ivory white mane drifted alongside his neck, and I grasped a handful of the soft strands so as not to float away and be left behind. I could feel the movement of each of his legs as they rhythmically propelled us across the swimming hole. I looked back over my shoulder just enough to see his white tail streaming behind us, rippling water marking our progress.

It was the closest thing to feeling weightless, to stopping time, not having to think about anything—just feel peace, and relish the trust and companionship between me and Penny Boy, and tell him how much I loved him.

All too soon, the water became shallow and hooves met sand. My hips and legs settled back into place on Penny Boy’s back as we emerged, water streaming down our shoulders, sides and legs, and dripping from Penny Boy’s mane and tail. I knew my cut-off shorts and t-shirt would smell like pollywogs once I got home, but I hardly cared.

Looking back now, I’m amazed that Penny Boy never stopped to shake the water off his body. It’s hard enough to stay on with a saddle when a horse shakes, but bareback—well, maybe I would have stayed on. But no matter. Those were the days when I could mount up Indian-style, grabbing a handful of mane and swinging my leg over Penny Boy’s back, pulling myself into place while he stood patiently.

And now, after all these years, I can still close my eyes and—I’m back at the swimming hole, floating weightlessly and carefree above Penny Boy’s back, a fistful of soft wet mane in my hands, pollywog smell tickling my nose, and whispering to Penny Boy how much I love him.