We took a tour bus a little further north from Los Cabos, into the Mexican desert, where there was a stable. At the stable, our guide already had six horses saddled. Aside from me, my mom, and my grandma, there was a mom and a son who wanted to ride as well. Our guide spoke in broken english, and was a true vaquero. He had some decorated chaps, a dark handlebar mustache, some white curled-point cowboy boots, a traditional (and very colorful) poncho sweater, and an even more decorative sombrero. My mom and grandma were even more nervous when they saw him, because they knew we’d be going on a legitimate ride, and not just some slow-going wander on the beach. But I was even more excited, because I wanted nothing more than a good ride. I was saddled on a huge bay gelding. He was taller than everyone else’s horse, and once everyone was on a horse, the vaquero led us out into the Mexican desert.
He wanted everyone to trot their horses, but no one except me seemed to be brave enough. He’d ride his horse around us like a circling shark, chanting “Rapido, rapido, rapido!” over and over again. The mom and her son just nervously smiled and said “no thank you.”, and my grandma had nothing but fear behind her sunglasses, but our guide persisted until finally everyone was going at a slow trot.
15 minutes into the ride, we made it to the beach. We stopped in the shade of some huge seaside boulders, where our guide helped each of us get off our horse. I was the only one who got off on my own, while everyone else was too afraid to dismount alone because of how tall those horses were.
On the beach, we were allowed to stretch our legs and stand in the warm beach water, though none of us ventured further into the ocean than ankle-deep. I’m not sure how much time passed before the vaquero was calling us to get back to our horses. My grandma was excited that we were heading back.
I got back into my saddle without assistance, while everyone waited for the vaquero’s help to get on. Once everyone was in the saddle and walking again, he turned back and began to ask who wanted to “go very rapido”. I was the only one who volunteered, so he motioned me to hold back my reins while he led everyone a little further off. I stood in the stirrups and waited as the guide brought everyone a good quarter mile away. As he did this, I heard the sound of a distant motor. I looked behind me, and on a sandy ridge was a guy on an ATV. This whole time, he was following us to take pictures that'd we'd end up buying after the ride, and was also there to make sure no one fell off their horse or got lost. He rode down the sandy bluff and waited near me.
“You’re very brave, girl!” he said to me in a standard American accent, “When he says he wants to go fast, he means it!”
I recognized his voice and his build. He was one of the guys who checked us in at the tour bus stop, and was actually born and raised in the States, though most of his family was Mexican. I gave him a small smile, but said nothing. I just stared forward again, squinted to see the horses through the heat waves emanating off the sandy beach, and took in a deep breath as the vaquero trotted back to me. I had no fear, only excitement.
The vaquero stopped his horse beside me, and through hand gestures and broken english, challenged me to a race. If I beat him to the rest of the group, I’d earn bragging rights, but if he beat me, he was allowed to call me “lento” the rest of the ride, which is “slow” in Spanish. I nodded my head and accepted the challenge. He tightened his sombrero’s chin strap, stood up in the stirrups, and after counting down from “tres”, he kicked his horse to go.
Instinctively, my horse took off too, and with one hand on the reins and the other holding onto the saddle horn, I silently rode forward. Kicking and shouting at a horse in a gallop just distracts them and makes them slower, and my horse already knew what to do. Pretty soon, I was stirrup-to-stirrup with the vaquero, and neither of our horses wanted to give up their place. When we made it to everyone else, we were tied. I didn’t get bragging rights, and the vaquero couldn’t call me lento. It was a win-win in my book.
