13-038
Quick!
Sand!
A month of
riding lessons had seen me bitten, thrown, whinnied at, and snorted on. I even
had a Golden Delicious spat in my face. Truly, the instructor’s behavior was
insufferable.
Surprisingly, the
horse community treated me just as badly. Our equine friends can sense a good
disposition, and I’m often described as a warm person, in that my body
temperature rarely falls below 98.6° F.
The gentlest
cantering session, when I showed up, transformed into a Wild West rodeo. Eventually,
I learned how to vault a fence, albeit pursued by a horse.
My wife, on the
other hand, can talk to the animals. Yet even with the Horse Whisperess alongside
me for a beach ride, an incident occurred that caused my popularity amongst rental
nags to plummet to a record low.
With my
unerring sense of direction, I led us through a twinkling foreshore stream,
under which lurked that old enemy of humanity, quicksand[1]. My trusty steed
and untrusty me were pulled under. We started to disappear from view, incrementally,
like a foolish man pretending to walk downstairs behind a couch. Barely had I
time to remind my wife to turn off the upstairs lights during winter when –
SLURP! – we were gone.
To our astonishment,
my mount and me were squeezed out into an underground cave. A few bats
fluttered around us. As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, their number
increased dramatically. ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ I said.
My horse, whose
name I learned was Clyde, shrugged, ‘What’s your thinking on this?’
‘There’s
nothing else for it,’ I said. ‘I must create a cave painting from your dung
called Bats on Horse. It won’t be easy: if you think sketching hands is hard,
try bat wings. On completion of the work, I will instruct the bats to deliver advertising
flyers for my exhibition. A local gallery owner will show up. He’ll not only
buy the painting, but commission a whole caveful. After which, we will have enough
money to buy a digging machine of some description.’
‘Or,’ intimated
Clyde, ‘we could leave by the cave entrance over there.’
Above ground, we
found my wife staring forlornly at the quicksand.
'You couldn't
leave?' I said.
'No, you’ve got
the car keys.'
Clyde’s paddock
pals never forgave me for his ordeal. Thankfully coastal experts knew that the
real responsibility lay with changing erosion patterns. They had formed the
quicksand. Of course, to this day not a single erosion pattern has served time
in prison.
Let that be a
‘lesson’ to you all.
*
[1] Octogenarian readers will remember that the
first half of the 20th Century was defined by war. Therefore the chief
antagonist in every single Hollywood movie was a few feet of watery silt. In
the Seventies, a decade of sleaze and corruption at the highest levels of public
office, the American people put away their childish fear of quicksand to
instead watch anything with zombies.