Waking up to a dark room was a clear sign it was going to be a melancholy day. Lynn and I had planned to ride in the afternoon, depending on the weather. It was late November, but the air was still mild. They weather report predicted a sunny afternoon, but that appeared unlikely as I left work around 2 pm. The sky was slate gray. Clouds, swollen with moisture, stretched endlessly into the horizon, silver blending into darker hues of gray. A good breeze from the Northeast blew and as I inhaled the salty air, I noticed it felt slightly clammy against my face. It would not be a good day to ride the beach.

I stopped on the beach road between Avalon Pier and the Black Pelican to check out the surf and the tide. Low tide was the best time to ride, but today there was only about 10 to 15 foot feet of exposed sand which indicated we were around high tide. I convinced myself it could be receding, and the beach would be wider by the time we saddled up and rode over. Pulling up to the barn, I grabbed my riding clothes and headed for the barn. Lynn was already dressed to ride but we both felt the need to aid another layer to take the chill out of the air. The horses were feeling frisky, snorting and stomping the ground in their eagerness to be off. Britt flexed his muscles, and I knew I would have to be alert if I didn’t want to end up eating sand before the ride was over.

On the way to the beach, we took a detour into the dunes, a rolling series of sand hills and one of the last places to practice hairpin turns and sharp inclines. It was a great place to “hot dog” for the excellent reason if you did get dumped; at least the sand was soft and deep. I had been dumped there several times and the worst I had suffered was a mouth full of sand and a bruised ego. Britt and Sabra knew we usually rode this path at a fast pace and they pulled on their bits, anticipating freedom. We learned the hard way the dunes were best taken with only two riders, so you can maintain an illusion of control. Sabra led the way, kicking up sand spray as she raced up the first dune and quickly disappeared.

I trotted up and checked out the area from a high ridge. I liked to keep a good distance between the horses to avoid any nose-up-butt encounters. A few weeks back we had narrowly missed a 4 wheeler flying around a blind corner. The surrounding neighbors enjoyed watching the horses, but they had declared war on the 4 wheelers. They set up barbed wire barricades along various paths to discourage the use of the dunes by motorized vehicles. I sympathized with them, but the wire was dangerous, so we were especially careful in those areas. Britt felt great, cantering up the hills, sliding smoothly around the curves, and running up the sloping dune with a flourish. I loved it when he enjoyed himself.

We were having such a good time we decided to try the beach. It was bound to be wider and the breeze had certainly died down a bit. Arriving at the beach we found the wind was still damp and salty, and blowing a good 15 to 20 miles per hour. My glasses quickly brimmed up and the horses didn’t look too happy as they tried to wipe the sea foam from their faces. The four of us decided the dunes looked real good, turned our butts to wind and ocean and headed back to the sound side.

The horses were up for another quick run through the dunes and their pace quickened as they headed toward home. We walked them out into the sound and waded home through the cool, brackish waters. What seemed a depressing, overcast day had turned into an exhilarating afternoon. An air of relaxed contentment surrounded both horse and rider as we slowly meandered home. Even the gray skies seemed a blessing, for they had provided the luxury of aloneness, something seldom experienced on the Outer Banks. I knew I would remember this day and made a promise to try and get out more often on cool, cloudy days. Our spirits were lifted and a dull day was magically transformed. Another fine day in Kitty Hawk.

I arrived at the barn at 7:30 AM to ride with Debbie and her horse Owl-Be, Lynn and her horse Saber. We had free access to the beach most of the year, but from May 25th through Labor Day the beach was off limits from 10 AM till 6 PM. Riding early in the morning or late in the evening suited everyone, as the middle of the day was known as “frying time.” The horses were excited and chomping at their bits. We trotted through a short stretch of woods and down the power line to give the deer flies a work out. We lost most of our insect escort by the time we hit the residential road. It was already over 70 degrees with 90% humidity, but a steady southwest breeze kept the air stirred up and provided an illusion of relief.

June, July and August, were the top three months of tourist season and we were at maximum density levels, especially on the killer road known as the bypass. The town had installed a pedestrian crossing button at two intersections, Kitty Hawk Road and Eckner Road. Vehicles on the five lane by-pass whizzed by at 50 MPH. Only motorized vehicles should ever cross this road without a light. Brittain, Owl-Be and Saber were seasoned veterans with years of experience but this was not a ride for the feint hearted or nervous. We held our horses calmly until we got the green light, then double checked the turning lanes, and slow jogged across. We could smell the ocean and hear the pounding of the surf. Once we crossed the dunes, the horses headed straight for the surf.

We arrived at the best time possible, low tide, when the sand was firm and the beaches were wide. We passed an occasional early morning stroller, and a few sand crabs, and headed north at a brisk trot. Hugging the wave brake and searching out the firmest sand was Britain’s forte. His unshod feet struck the sand with a resounding clip-clop as he pranced through the waves. He appeared to be heading out to sea several times; the water felt so cool splashing against his legs and chest. When Britain and I first arrived on the Outer Banks, he was afraid of the waves and shied away from the noise and the ocean experience. Once he relaxed and let the cool waters splash around him, he loved it so much he would stick his face completely under and blow bubbles out his nose. Salt water sprayed us both as we charged through the breakers. A line of brown pelicans kept pace with us for several miles, their prehistoric bodies dipping and gliding with the air currents off the crest of incoming waves. Miles of wide open beach stretched in front of us. Owl-Be and Saber flipped their tales and were off racing for the Kitty Hawk Pier. Brittan maintained his steady, ground covering trot, choosing not to race with the other horses. I relaxed into the rhythm of the trot, breathed in the fresh air and enjoyed life. The strong, salty breeze was as refreshing as the cold ocean spray and suddenly nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning.

No horse is perfect and Britt is no exception. I am not the perfect owner, so we are almost even. I will never be able to inflict as much damage on him as he has on me. As a youngster, Britton secretly delighted in stepping on my foot and shifting all his weight to that leg. I would rush to the emergency room, fearing every bone in my foot was broken. They always sent me home with an ice pack and some Motrin. A word of advice; broken toes are your problem, so deal with it.

A scant 9 months after Britton and I joined up, we experienced our first painful accident. It occurred on a quite residential street Britton was a little worked up about going out alone and I naively thought it was “cute” when he kept calling for his horse buddies back at the barn. I didn’t make the connection this behavior would cause trouble. We trotted through a wet field, and emerged onto a deserted side street.

It was a peaceful Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny. I felt great. My horse was young and vigorous, and even though it had been ten years since I last rode, I was confident. They say it comes right back to you, like riding a bike. We came to a slope in the road and gravity and inexperience took over.

Britton slipped, and we performed a graceless nosedive enhanced by the downward
slope of the road. I did not correct in time, and he pitched forward breaking the fall with his chest. I catapulted over his head and broke the fall with my face.

I regained consciousness to find myself in a circle of concerned, blurry faces all debating what should be done with this “poor girl”. The street had been completely deserted, but when you make an ass of yourself, the place crowds up real quick. I was blessed with a wealth of advice, as they kindly lectured me on what I should have done. The ambulance took me away and Britton was lead home by a thoughtful bystander. I received a black eye, a slight concussion and an overdose of humiliation. As most horse people know, these stories usually end with, “but the horse was OK.” Britt was OK.

Our first fall, and what a lovely one it was. That shiner created colors I never knew existed, light blue, deepening to lovely lavender, deep purple, black, steel gray, and finally mellowing out to an unflattering mix of yellow, gray and black. I wore this badge of horsemanship for weeks.

While I was healing, I was continuously asked, “How did you get that black eye?” If I answered, “I fell off my horse,” laughter, closely followed by horse horror stories, was the most common response. If I responded, “I was in a car accident,” I received sympathy and the subject was dropped. I learned a valuable lesson; if silence is golden, then subterfuge is sterling silver.

I awoke to the sound of rain pounding the bedroom window and gusts of wind rattling the front door. Sleeping in the northeast corner of the house could have its drawbacks, for I knew what was in store for me. It was Monday morning and I had to meet with the new Ferrier for my horse’s routine hoof trimming. A horse hoof grows quickly and requires cutting about every 4 to 6 weeks. Finding a good Ferrier was essential to continuous riding, so despite the gloomy weather, I got dressed. I recalled the conversation a fellow barn mate had with Moe, the Ferrier, the night before. Moe had tried to bail out because he had heard we were in for a gale. “I’m supposed to be over to your place in the morning, but I hear there is a right good blow headed your way.” The curt response, “AND?” made the point quickly and after a short silence, Moe said he would see us in the morning.

Moe showed up 15 minutes late, or exactly on time according to Ferrier’s standards. He proceeded to pull the shoes off, measured the angle of the hoof, squared them up and trimmed them with a rasp and clippers. The entire time he was doing this, he was sweating as if it were 95 degrees with 100 percent humidity. The thermostat registered 55 degrees, but the wind whipping around us made it feel a lot cooler. True, it was raining hard, but we were dry in the aisle of the fly barn. Just when I thought no more moisture could possibly come off this man, he leaned forward about 20 degrees, covered one nostril and blew forcefully. A slimy projectile sailed through the air and landed three feet away. I was impressed; the man had not missed a beat in his conversation. He was obviously a master and had elevated nose blowing to a fine art. I watched my fellow barn mates to see what their reaction to this astonishing display would be. They just kept talking as if nothing had occurred. Surely they would look surprised, even if they were too embarrassed to say anything. I waited and soon Moe repeated his flawless operation. It landed at least four feet away, a full foot farther. I reasoned this display did not require comment, so I didn’t congratulate him on surpassing his previous distance.

He continued trimming, clipping, talking and blowing for the next hour. He finished up, we paid him and he slogged off to his truck, pausing now and again to clear his nasal passages. After all the horses had been put away and we were sweeping up the clippings, I mentioned the nose blowing display. “Oh that,” my barn mates said, “All the Ferriers round here do that to keep their hands free.”

There are winged black stallions on the Beach Road, horse mermaids in Duck, and mirror horses in Nags Head. Everywhere I have seen a winged horse, I have seen an appreciative audience. The winged Horses have brought many a smile to the faces of visitors and residents alike.

So who would hate horses or art so much to abuse, deface and severely damage these works of art? The horses are part of the 100 Year Celebration for the Wright Brothers. In December they will be sold at auction and all the proceeds will go to charity. Something this good should receive our overwhelming support. Unfortunately, someone has been attempting to steal or destroy the horses by pulling them from their stands and dragging them off. The latest incident occurred Monday, August 11th between 10 p.m. And 1 a.m. Tuesday morning. Thieves struck the winged horse in front of the Birthday Suits Store at Milepost 10 on the Bypass.

Heavy equipment was used to wrench it from its stand and drag it through the entire parking lot and around behind the building. The horse was spot-lighted and affixed to a heavy platform. The operation took some time, and something must have interrupted them because the horse was found the next morning severely scarred but intact. Anyone that was driving on the Bypass Monday August 11, between 10 pm and 1 am, could have witnessed the culprits in the act.

This is at least the second known attack that has occurred this year. It is extremely disheartening that someone living amongst us has so little respect for others' property, Greg and Jill Bennett purchased the horse for the benefit of the community and they are not giving up on their good intentions. The horse, affectionately called Pegasuits, will be cosmetically repaired and will soon be returning to his same spot on the highway, where he will continue to bring good vibes to those who pass.

The purpose of public art on display is to enrich our lives, inspire us, and encourage dialogue. Those who would viciously attack public art displays not only show their disrespect for creativity, but their ignorance. Let’s stop this criminal behavior in its tracks by keeping a vigilant eye on all the horses. Call the police if you see it happening. And if you have any information regarding the vandalism of the Birthday Suit Horse, Pegasuits, please call Greg and Jill Bennett at 441-5338.