Full circle

The helm, literally -is an entirely different thing than a tiller, or a jog stick; though oftentimes being in control of a boat by any one of these things can be loosely referred to as, "being at the helm". But a true helm is a wheel complete with spokes and and hand pins, a Turks head knotted around the pin aligning mid ship rudder with keelson to this neutral helm position. These days, very few fuel powered boats have an actual wheel from which the craft is steered by; albeit traditionalists, small old fishing boats and cadet training ships do.
Standing at the helm of the retried racing yawl Figaro IV, a 51 ft Sparkman and Stephens, making the reaching across the pond from key west to Grand Abaco, on morning watch I mentioned to the skipper (and owner of the time) Jorry Squib the similarities I had suddenly found between steering a large boat and riding a horse.
Jorry not being one for small talk always found the time to either fully engage his wonderful intellect or give you fair warning that now was not the time. I was fortunate enough that morning to have picked a good moment in which to voice my epiphany. "How so" Jorry asked peering inquisitively at me for sailing was his life's blood and i was merely a recent high school graduate. He had not known me the 17 years prior - the years I had from age 4 until 16 immersed in horses in every which way however I could without the support of my parents.
I had had allot of time to think sailing a boat from Camden Maine to the crossing we were now on. I hadn't expected to find the same feelings I had known galloping down a 2 mile dyke aboard my Arab quarter horse, ginger, as I had experienced reaching off of block island in fresh breeze alone at the helm before dawn but there it was: the freedom of being engaged with the power of nature and the effort of force rewarded by blood flow, invigorating the mind to will itself onward a communion with living life. And onward went the miles underneath the keel full of fresh air, wonder and natural movement requiring courage, strength and heart. Without the horse or the boat I would have only know stagnation, frustration, self pity, un-worth.
And so I found word for these emotions which flew out of my mouth like the birds from the scudding cumulus clouds and I said,
"both are large and require confident, skilled, handling. Both respond to the minutiae of pressure-force signals; aides of touch. Both could throw their rider at any given moment if the rider lost touch with the present reality. And both offered up freely, willing a special relationship: a passage trough space and time on the back of a majestic- mythic even-"beast".
I cant say if Jorry made any particular comment, but I do recall his broad sincere smile-a grin that meant to me that he knew that I had gotten it.
Though sailing led me far away from horses in my daily life, it's journey which altered course into a career as a commercial fisherman, kept me in touch with them in strange ways. There were my cousins horses in North Carolina which I could always rely upon whenever I dropped in for a visit. Jeff never allowed just anyone to ride Katie, his prized mare, but I could drop down out of the sky from Alaska and be up a the barn tacking her up within the same hour of arriving "home". There were the wild Icelandic ponies of Chernofski sheep ranch on the western end of Unalaska island which I rode green in order to round up the islands sheep. There were stables to rent from and trail riding events. There were roadside muzzles to sniff while off on a bike riding adventure, there were horses that got looks which I could catch. There were dreams.
Eventually the fishing career soured and I turned to land lubbering; all the while Equis kept rearing up inside my pshcye, whinnying. Riding other people's horse helped to quench the yearning -a little-but then came the big FOUR-OH.
Suddenly there was the finish line of life staring me in the whites of my eyes and with it the grim reaper standing there in formal grand prix dressage costume saying, so Shannon, did you ever really learn how to ride?
Visions coveted since I was a pre- pubescent girl began to overpower my relatively calm mind. There were 17 hand warm bloods flying over oxers with legs curled beneath like wood shavings, the rider's face intent. There were prancing Welsh Cobs bred with Thoroughbreds and Trakaners executing perfect dressage in a dust -less outdoor arena surrounded by green mountains, the rider's coat tails levitating just over the horses powerful rear like the tail of a swallow coasting a river current at dusk. There was the sweaty galloping athletic rider guiding her sweating athletic steed up the steep bank of an amazingly frightening but awe inspiring water jump on a cross country course. There were trailers and braids and brushes and boots and white high collared blouses and exhausted legs and tired hands and I felt that I was being suffocated: I must ride a horse!
I thought this would go away with the camp horse my friend down the rode borrowed for the spring. Nico was a quarter horse mutt that stood maybe15 hands. He loaded well into the trailer-probably because he thought we were taking him away from there for good-although it was only while trying to load him back into the same trailer one and half months later that he all but refused-that we thought maybe his home was hell. Nico came without a history, or any tack. I used my snaffle bit and Margie's western saddle. I rode him bare back, but he was so sway backed and had such sharp whithers that I vowed never to do so again. He through Margie twice and her 6 year old son once. I rode him again after that with a pretty good responses, but the very next day he refused to come for the first time. naturally it was the day to load him and take him home. For Margie, this experience cured her horse cravings but I only wound up with the worst case of equine fever I have ever had.
That very afternoon i drove the 45 miles out to Fox Bay Farm stables to watch a lesson. I had called earlier to inquire into taking lessons there as the stables I had originally phoned up were no longer offering lessons to students without horses. Marg (the g is pronounced like the g in cog) Clumpner, the owner of Fox bay was recommended to me after I protested that there were no places in Whatcom county to learn equitation-only barrel racing and roping-"shes excellent"-the women said-"she teaches dressage and hunter class jumping". Marg and I had set up a time for me to come and watch a lesson and meet one another prior to me just showing up and winging it. Horses, riders and riding instructors form a triad upon which the seat of success cannot rest securely without there being an understanding first of some very important if not basic, relationship factors: professionalism, respect and trust.
After viewing the lesson from a dust soaked booth in the far corner of the short side of the indoor arena, I knew what I had been trying to subdue for over 24 years: I need to be around horses.
One week later I arrived at the stables for my first proper riding lesson since 1976. I was told which horse to catch and went out to the paddock Tully shared with Brio and instantly fell in love. Tully is by far the biggest horse I have ridden; close to 16 hands, he appears to be a cross between quarter horse and thoroughbred. He is a chestnut gelding with a white blaze and the kind, patient eyes. I tied him up to the cross ties under the long eaves running down along the stalls and groomed him blowing in his nose and talking gently. I put boots around his fetlocks and pastern and tacked him up and led him into the arena where Marg checked out my tacking job, and instructed me on how to mount using a mounting block (using stirrups puts undue stress on the withers of the horse, pulls the hairs of the back into pressure points underneath the saddle pad and causes wear on the saddle). The lesson began as naturaly as rain falls from the sky. Tully was ready and eager as was I. One of the barn cats wandered through the dusty arena on prowl. Marg's strong clear voice signaled my brain with her concise instructions, equitation theory was hammering its way into my soul. without expectations, frustration or dissapointment, in one hours time she had taught me how to turn my sloppy, saddle slapping post into a fluid post using Tully's momentum on the correct lead, looking straight down the arena in the direction in which we were to go.
I one point that may have lasted less than a minute, I noticed myself working so hard I was sweating-posting, Tully trotting down the long side of the arena, I felt elegant, strong, happy, fullfilled. I was riding a horse that would teach me how to be an excellent rider. A horse that could jump fences taller than me. Suddenly for the first time in my life I realised the commitment and the endeavor and the endurance it will take me to be able to even jump a 3 foot fence! Here I am, at last! And I thought all I had to do was sit on the back of a capable horse-hardly could I have been any further from the truth. A capable horse is crucial, but the horse will do nothing without capable guidance from the rider. The two brains need to work as one so that the two physical bodies can execute thoughts into accurate motions.
At the end of the day I went to schedule my next lesson with Marg. She told me I did very well-so matter of factly-not because she had to or because she felt she owed it to me but because she is a sincere person. I couldnt help but beam and grin andfor a second we just stood there smiling; sharing the heft and pith of this contractual commitment-me the student, she the teacher and the focal point; the horse.
"Riding a horse is allot like working on a boat" I said- reflecting on some of the theory of equitation which Marg had called out to me during our lesson (it gets allot easier the more you relax. The more you relax, the more work you can let the horse do)-feeling the theory setteling in upon my body and mind I finshed off my statement:
"The more you learn to trust yourself, the more you learn to use the role of the boat in the sea. The more you work with the boat the easier it is to get your job done. There are choices to make: fight the movement of the boat and wish for control or learn to work with the movement of the boat and harness control instead form the symbiotic bond your sharing"
Marg looked at me and said, "exactly"!
It was only later that night while talking to a friend about my my experience at Fox Bay that I used the term, full circle- having recognized the comaprison of the horse to the boat and the boat to the horse and all the water that has since passed beneath the keel. My friend, Lorena commanded me to write about it. "wrtie about it"she said over the phone.
But the fever still rages and can only be calmed by the presence of Tully whose flattering patient intelligence is more of an inspiration than a cure. There can never be a cure-only moments of absolute illumination-the nibanna -(nirvana) one will spend lifetimes trying to obtain by sitting silent meditation-constantlty eeks out of the horse's soul enveloping the human heart like an incoming tide a calm pool full of star fish and urchins and wonderful, peacefull, glittering light.