Playing Fair and Being Kind

HORSES AND BOATS

 I’ve had two experiences that feel the same. I’ve been out in the ocean alone riding through waves at night in a rubber raft with an outboard motor. I was riding up the waves that travelled toward me and under me and rushed on toward a distant shore. In between the waves I was in what is called the trough. That space between the tops of the waves where nothing beyond the water in front and in back can be seen. At the peak of the wave as it passes under, one can see far, maybe a mile or so but not down in the trough. Being in the trough is to be limited to only a few yards of vision because of the tons of water rising up ahead and behind. As the small boat rides up the slope of water ahead the surge of power in the wave can be felt underneath the bottom of the rubber raft and it is transmitted through the rubber up into the parts of me that are crouched and balanced under me. The power surges through the raft, my legs and thighs, and then up to my upper body and arms. It is a powerful sense, this energy passing from the earth and water up into myself. The attending wind is an added feature that lends a great amount of drama to the scenario. The wind is more at the tops than in the troughs. The wind carries the seawater in spray form and many times in more compact amounts such as wet bullets and buckets-full. A body can get wet in such conditions.

I spent about six hours in this scenario one night at sea off the coast of Mexico in the Sea of Cortez. We were trying to retrieve the deep submersible Sea Cliff with the mud boat Maxine D. It took us from just before midnight until 7 A.M. to get her aboard all the while the sea was doing its best to confound the operation. During the time I was in the rubber boat, riding in circles to fend off sharks and generally be available for whatever was needed, I was sensing the power of the sea’s energy being felt through that little craft and in my body. I felt this surging of power one other time and it was on dry land.

I had an opportunity to go riding horses while I lived in Southern California. I had a friend who lived out near Temecula near the Cleveland National Forest. She had a ranch with horses and she invited me to ride with her. The rolling countryside was covered with sagebrush and chaparral. I was happy to learn how rugged a pair of jeans are when a horse needs to push through the brush. Sitting in the saddle feeling the strength of the horse was a bit like sitting in the rubber raft feeling the waves rushing under me. The horse would encounter a narrow passage between large stands of vegetation and push with its weight and strength to continue moving along. The horse was accustomed to the terrain and barriers that come with it. It moved with a steady purpose and athleticism that was wonderful to be a part of. The motion of the animal was similar to riding in the raft during that night at sea. Unlike that night the surface conditions while riding was bright, sunny, and very warm.

The sense of power in both situations was comforting in that the energy was transferable emotionally. I felt the power in my body because I was firmly attached to the raft and the horse. The strength of the ocean through the raft and the horse’s powerful push against the desert floor charged my psyche with identifiable abilities, much like a superpower that existed only in metaphor. I felt completely in charge under both conditions. This is the power that is missing in men who have lost their identity with self-control during childhood. I believe the same energetic power is sensed while driving a well-built car over a curving road at high speed. I have felt the same physical power during judo matches when I was able to throw my opponent and control him on the mat. Throwing a baseball from the pitcher’s mound is similar in effect; power and control.

I’ve sensed that loss of energy and control with my male friends often but I don’t think I’ve been able to identify it as well as now. The times I’ve been with some of my close pals in private communication such as meeting for lunch or coffee there has been that period of time when we were just beginning to talk but had not hit our stride; that moment or two when neither of us were really open yet. I think that is when we were letting go of our day and transiting to the moment of recognizing we were able to talk frankly but not quite yet. I think that brief period was the loss of tether to what once had been the power that connected us to the earth and the sea and the mountains, the rivers, forests, hills. We felt adrift, out of touch, with no traction to anything, along for the ride but not knowing where we were headed. I’ve seen that in old pal Ben most of the time I knew him. Ben was an intellectual with a way of avoiding the work of being dependable or on time. He struggled with his self-image I know. He was attracted to beautiful young women but was never able to attract one enough to partner with him. Although women loved Ben none was his lover. Ben was thus unconnected to the earth and the sea and the mountains. He was adrift, walking through Boston in search of someone to ground him and let him feel the power of his body.

I’ve seen it in Rick too. His art shows it in the whimsical style that I sense was a creative move to revisit a place he felt safe and in control. When we would sit and talk I could hear his disappointment. I don’t know what it was that stirred in him that he couldn’t accomplish. He was seemingly just an arm’s length away from accomplishing a mission of his own imagination.

I too have that tragic sense of loss even though I have been in the arms of lovers of many forms. I’ve been on the playing fields, at sea, under the sea, across the country, in the woods, on the road, and in the bars. There is a bit of disappointment in my life as well. We have all lost our horse someplace along the way. We have all fallen out of the boat in the middle of the storm somewhere. I’m not sure when it happened but the sickening after-taste of falling and being knocked unconscious is there. The absence of the horse or the boat exists. The memory of the surge of the wave and of the horse on the move is as fresh as if it just left. The bitterness of the loss colors our present state of mind even as it drives our art, our beautiful imagination to create. The writing and thinking of writing gets me back into the boat and on the horse again, and again thankfully. For brief periods I become the man I always want to be. Maybe by the time I get to be one hundred and seven years old I will have eliminated the gaps and be constantly in touch with the power of the wave and the horse. I can only hope.

G. M. Goodwin
13 July 2018