I had a very specific vision for how this was going to go. Me. A beautiful horse. A deserted beach in Mexico. Waves crashing beside us. Wind blowing through my hair as we galloped gracefully down the shoreline.Basically, a goddamn Hallmark commercial. I had even bought a sundress specifically for the occasion.
What I had not included in this vision were oversized gray overalls, flip-flops, a crossbody purse, a beer, an abandoned-looking beach shack, a random man on a scooter announcing he was our cameraman, and a horse named Diablo who, I would soon learn, liked to dance. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
One of my best friends Metta and I had booked a trip to Mexico, and looking back, it was exactly what I needed. What we both needed ( that story coming later )Cozumel has always felt like my home away from home. I love everything about it—the smell, the colors, the people, the fruit, the ocean, and of course, the scuba diving. Every time I step off the plane, something inside me relaxes. But there was one thing I had never done.I had never ridden a horse on the beach. And apparently, I had expectations.
After a forty-five-minute taxi ride, we pulled up to what looked less like a horseback riding operation and more like an abandoned beach shack. The driver dropped us off, promised to return in a few hours, and drove away. We climbed the creaky wooden steps and found a few swings hanging from the ceiling in front of a dusty bar that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. No one greeted us. No one acknowledged us. We just stood there looking around wondering if we’d been scammed.
Eventually, we spotted an older cowboy saddling what appeared to be every horse he owned—which, by my count, was three. We sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. A few minutes later, a man arrived on a scooter carrying a massive camera. He walked up smiling.“Hi! I’m your cameraman!” Apparently, we had our own paparazzi. Metta and I laughed and chatted with him while the cowboy continued working.
Finally, the cowboy approached. “Ready to ride?” he asked with a grin.“Hell yes,” I said. He asked if we’d ridden before. Metta immediately admitted she hadn’t been on a horse since childhood.“Nope” The cowboy pointed to a beautiful white mare.“You ride this one.” Then he looked at me. I proudly informed him that I rode all the time the last few years. The cowboy smirked. “You get Diablo.” He pointed toward a tall brown-and-white paint gelding standing nearby. One eye was so blue it almost looked white. The other was dark as coffee. His blond mane blew in the breeze. He was beautiful.
Then the cowboy added: “He likes to dance.” I should have paid more attention to that warning. Instead, I fell in love. ( figures )
We walked over to our horses, petting them and introducing ourselves because that’s what horse people do. For reasons I still can’t explain, I suddenly felt like I needed a beer. So I asked for a cerveza. The cowboy happily brought us one and gave us a wink.
A few minutes later, I found myself sitting on a horse in Mexico with a beer in one hand and the reins in the other. Life was good. We rode for about twenty minutes before reaching the beach. I was thrilled.
By this point, I had abandoned all dreams of wearing my cute sundress. Instead, I was wearing Metta’s oversized gray overalls, sweat was pouring from every pore of my body, and I had a purse hanging across my chest. After my Mexico shower come-to-Jesus moment a few days earlier, though, I didn’t care. ( another story for another time ) This ride wasn’t for pictures. It was for me. And honestly, considering the amount I was sweating, the overalls were probably the better choice anyway. My poor horse deserved better than a soaked sundress sticking to his saddle.
The first few steps onto the sand startled the horses when something large moved in the trees. Everyone jumped. Everyone survived. We continued on.
Then we rounded a corner. And suddenly the world opened up. The ocean stretched endlessly beside us. The waves crashed loudly against the shore. The beach was untouched. The wind carried the smell of salt and sea air. I felt tears fill my eyes. I had done it. I was finally riding a horse on a beach in Mexico. For months, I’d been carrying around a lot of shit in my head. Questions. Disappointment. Things I couldn’t change and things I still hadn’t quite figured out. Standing there with the ocean in front of me, none of it seemed quite so heavy.
For this moment in time, I wasn’t thinking about yesterday or tomorrow. I was thinking about exactly where I was.
The waves crashing beside me. The smell of the salt air. The warmth of the sun on my skin. One of my best friends smiling nearby. A beautiful horse beneath me. For the first time in a long time, I felt completely present. Metta looked peaceful. The cowboy smiled at us. Our paparazzi was snapping photos like we were starring in some luxury travel magazine.It was perfect.
Then I had a terrible idea.I wanted to run, I wanted to just haul ass! I asked the cowboy if I could.“Sí.” with a wink. Metta, the cowboy, and our photographer moved ahead while Diablo and I hung back. The farther they got, the less happy Diablo became. Apparently, separating him from his friends was offensive.
I pulled back gently.Then harder.Then harder still. Diablo had opinions. And his opinions were getting stronger by the second. Then suddenly…Mexican Beach Rodeo officially began! He reared. He bucked. He side-stepped. He danced. He launched into a full performance. My flip-flops were flopping. My purse was swinging. My fake eyelashes were one strong gust of wind away from becoming airborne. ( proof in the photo )
I distinctly remember thinking: Oh shit. Oh shit. OH SHIT.What do I do? I may die right now!
Then I remembered something. I dropped the reins down, gave him slack, leaned into the saddle, and told him to go! And go we did. I swear we covered the distance between us and the group in half a second.
The ride was incredible. My heart was racing. Adrenaline was pumping through every inch of my body. I couldn’t stop smiling if I tried. When we finally caught up, everyone stared at us in shock. The photographer was laughing.“I got some good pictures of that!” Metta looked concerned. “You okay?”
The cowboy just smiled. Then he shrugged.“Diablo likes to dance.” And just like that, I finally understood what he’d meant.
Apparently, “likes to dance” was Mexican cowboy language for: This horse may occasionally lose his fucking mind.
The funny thing is, I went to Mexico expecting this beautiful, picture-perfect horseback ride on the beach. Instead, I got sweaty gray overalls, flip-flops, a purse bouncing off my body, a beer, an unexpected rodeo, and one of the best rides of my life. It looked absolutely nothing like the version I’d pictured. It was better. And maybe that’s enough of a lesson right there. Life doesn’t have to go according to plan to become a great story.
