"I mean to take you in Ned, dead or alive. What'll it be?"

It’s funny when you put an old man on a horse. When you put an old man who use to ride, who could ride a horse, saddle a horse, and you take him down to a tropical island and give him--a horse. Today, Shan (without a w) finally came through with the horses we were supposed to ride Monday. Shan turned it over to Nick, who turned it over to Joseph who turned it over to---------------. A Rastafarian shrouded, barefoot man with at least six ‘I’s and two ‘Y’s in his name. I called him ‘Boss.’

There were five of us, two Americans, two from England, and Boss. Boss rode with his hair in a rasti head knitted cap of green and black and red stripes, a pair of Miami Heat shorts and barefoot.  The horses were not large, except one, a quarter horse named G-Man. The woman from England got him. The two from England were concerned about their rides, the man never wanting to do anything other than walk. He had never ridden a horse before today. He was a nice fellow. Quite content to walk the ninety minutes and talk about the Olympic Games. The Americans, well, we watch movies like True Grit, A Fist Full of Dollars, Silverado, Broken Trail, and a handful of others. The Americans were not east coasters either, nope. We were from the southwest where deer and antelope roam. Where you ride your pony around barrels or dare them to buck you off, or-and I say this with all seriousness, like you’re in front of the Light Brigade! Sure, I picked a British regiment and sure, all but two of the six hundred in that famous poem during the Boar War died. It’s a damn metaphor. Stay with me here.

My pony was named—Silver.

Yep. You can see it coming, can't you?

Boss takes us out and down two beaches, devoid of all life. No one on these beaches except us. You could land a plane and take off again on these things. The idea was to allow us to run. First, he turned to the proper Brit who was sitting properly with her arms out and back straight. Just like she would have on a fox hunt. Boss looked at the man who waived off the run and then he turned to the woman who properly began to cantor—just like a fox hunt, riding up and down in the saddle—arms out---proper.

Then it was my turn.

Every American boy I grew up with wanted to be a cowboy. Some did. Some pretended. Some adopted parts of that role, wove it into their lives and memory and tucked it away for, well­-days like today.

The reins were too short to tuck into my teeth-I tried, allowing me to reach for my pretend six-shooter in one hand and shotgun in the other as I rode towards the fictional bandits headed by Robert Duvall and his cronies. When Boss looked at me and waved his arm for me to go, I could feel Silver, aware of someone on his back who maybe had some brass and wanted to run. I am also sure my new friend thought he might get lucky and toss his rider. somewhere on this abandoned beach. Sorry, that is the dream of every trail horse.

With some heeled encouragement and a light spur of the reins and my best, guttural ‘Yeeaah’ Silver shot like a rocket out of the gate at Del Monte. The last words Boss said that I could hear before the two hundred yard, on the beach, in the surf run was finished was a weak ‘not so fast’.

He never heard my “High-O Silver, away!!!” Yep, you know I had to.

We got to the old fort, passed the houses on the beach, the burned out bar, and the apartment complex with no power. We looked out from the ramparts over the throat of the harbor of St. Johns and then turned the horses for home. You could take your hands off the reins and they would find their way back. Two hours of an hour and a half scheduled ride.  Island Time again. We dismounted and took some pictures, thanked and tipped Boss and then headed back to our prospective lodgings.  Before I left, I walked back to Silver, who was eating grass along the curb. He lifted his head and I scratched the bridge of his nose. Our brown eyes looked at each other, still measuring each. I thought for just a minute the horse, if he could, might have said.

“You, you still have some brass.” It made me smile.

I whispered in his ear, so no one but my horse could hear, “High-O Silver, away.”