Turbulence

Are you superstitious? I’ve never thought of myself as a particularly superstitious person. I don’t have a meltdown if I come face to face with a black cat, or a crow, or if I have to do something important on the 13th day of the month. I’d classify myself as “superstitiously aware”. For instance, I wouldn’t purposely tempt fate by walking under a ladder if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and maybe I’d experience a nanosecond of doubt and hesitation should I rope myself into doing something major on a Friday the 13th. But I never throw salt over my shoulder, and can't recall spitting on my chest three times. Nor do I hang garlic to ward off vampires, not because I’m particularly impressed by Robert Pattinson (although I do think that Damien in “The Vampire Diaries” is rather yummy!), but simply because I’d rather cook with it.

How about the old adage of bad things happening in series? Do you believe in that? As far as I know, there’s no scientific evidence of crap thwarting people in multiples of three, but when I look around or think back to my own experiences, it sure seems to be the case. For instance, for the past few weeks I’ve definitely been experiencing a bout of turbulence. During the first week of November, in the space of four days, I moved Qrac, my Lusitano stallion, to two new stables, each diametrically opposed to my house (for all the woeful details about the first stable moved him to, see my last blog, “The Giant Pickle”). I’m happy to report that,after almost three weeks in his brand new stable, Qrac is doing better than ever and that I’m loving the fabulous indoor arena, loving having my trainer, Marie-Valentine, come twice a week, loving interacting with people in a friendly atmosphere, loving the compliments constantly being sprinkled on my horse! I’m not particularly enamored with the 45 minute trek out there, but the facilities make it worth it. Besides, Michael Buble’s new album has been injecting the journey with plenty of Christmas cheer.

However, last Friday, after the “law of series” blasted me with two major bummers in the space of two hours, even Michael Buble couldn’t cheer me up. Bummer number one (which really counts as bummer number two in the proverbial sequence of three, seeing as the original bummer was finding myself in a damp and dismal riding stables) hit around 11.45, when I handed my orthopedic surgeon three freshly developed x-rays of my right ankle. He wrinkled his nose. I knew it wasn’t good.

My right ankle has been bothering me for about two years now. The pain probably stems from a double fracture I sustained just over a decade ago, following which my surgeon had to insert titanium rods into my lower leg, with pins placed just below my knee, as well as into the inside of my ankle. The rods and pins were removed about twelve months later and all was well until I fell down the stairs carrying the laundry basket three years ago and tore the ligaments in the same ankle. I rested my foot, did physiotherapy, but from then on my ankle never has felt completely right. In the past year, it’s gradually got worse, to the point where I’m not comfortable walking anywhere in anything other than good trainers, or sturdy hiking boots. Heels? Forget it! And as much as I love my Ugg boots, I don’t feel like they offer enough support. I’ve been meaning to go and have an x-ray since the spring, but there have always been far more important or pleasant things to do, and the pain has been more or less bearable. On bad days I found different ways of putting my foot down when I walked, and I carried on with my life, hoping to wake up one day all shiny and new. Well, it didn’t happen. Lately, night after night, I’ve been stinking out the bedroom, slathering my ankle in anti-inflammatory gel, until last week I finally caved and made an appointment for an x-ray at the hospital. I thought the x-rays would reveal a little arthritis which could be resolved by some cortisone infiltrations.

Turns out I have a massive cyst on the outside of my ankle which needs to be surgically removed. Not only does it need to be removed, the ankle needs refurbishing with good bone, which my surgeon will probably take from my hip. Furthermore, to ensure the pain I’m experiencing isn’t also linked to ligament issues, my surgeon has scheduled an MRI this Friday morning. I’ve a sneaky feeling my ligaments might be a bit dodgy, in which case the operation will be more complicated. Either way, according to my surgeon, I’ll be out of equestrian action for between four and six weeks, potentially more, which totally sucks.

But this wasn’t the worst news I received last Friday. After I left the hospital, I headed up to my old stables, where my now-retired and mega-beloved Kwintus lives in peace and happiness with his also retired best-friend-forever, Coconut. Coconut belongs to S., who owns the stables and who promised me when I first moved Kwintus to her place almost two years ago that, once retired, my horse would be able to spend the rest of his life there. I retired Kwint last autumn, when the arthritis in his 5th and 6th vertebra really started bothering him. He’s spent most of the year out in his field, super-glued to Coconut. Separate them for a couple of minutes for one reason or another and they holler their heads off. They’re in love.

Last Friday, at approximately 12.30, S. calmly finished eating a banana, looked at me across her kitchen table and told me I had to find another home for Kwintus.

My stomach filled with ice water. I couldn’t believe my ears. Why? For what reason? It’s not as though she has no space for him; most of her stables are empty, Kwintus is the only horse on the premises who doesn’t belong to her. Recently she’d been complaining about everyone having left because she hadn’t been able to get her indoor arena built before the winter, and, consequently, of no longer having any income. I still paid her pretty good money every month for Kwint’s retirement. Sure, it wasn’t as much as I used to pay her for Qrac, but considering Kwint spent from mid-May to the end of October living in the field, his upkeep hasn’t exactly been labor intensive.

With tears in my eyes, I asked her why she was kicking him out. Her answer? “It doesn’t fit the concept”.

Frankly, I could pick holes the size of the Grand Canyon in her aforementioned “concept” but have too much integrity to do so on a public blog.


I offered her more money. With tears in my eyes, I begged her not to separate Kwint and Coconut. I asked her to imagine what it would to them. “They’re only horses,” she replied. “They’ll get over it.” Yes, I suppose they will, but it seems so pointless, so unnecessary. But it’s her place, and it’s her decision, and there’s nothing I can do to change her mind, so I went home and immediately started making phone calls to try to find other possibilities for Kwintus.

Later this morning I’ll be driving to a village outside the town of Cluny, in Burgundy, to look at a place that comes highly recommended by Maya, an old friend of mine who owns a tack shop close to where I live. Maya recently retired her daughter’s horse there, has known the lady who runs the place for many years, and tells me wonderful things about it. Burgundy is much further away than I’d like, but it’s difficult to find nice places to retire horses in my area. I live in a beautiful part of the world, in the countryside just outside Geneva, Switzerland, but we’re stuck in a narrow stretch between the lake and the mountains and, consequently, land is exorbitant, which makes keeping horses exorbitant, too. There is one very nice place near me that caters to retired horses, but not only is it full, it’s also crazy expensive, costing almost as much per month as I pay for Qrac. Most local places seem to be small, sad, depressing dumps, and after everything Kwintus has given, whether it’s to me, to my daughter Olivia, or to his previous owners, he deserves so much better.

If I like the place in Burgundy, I’ll be hitching up my trailer and hauling him there this weekend. Just writing about separating him from Coconut makes my eyes tear up, so I dread to think of how I’ll be feeling as we drive away on Saturday or Sunday morning. I keep telling myself that he’ll soon make friends with other horses, and live a wonderful life in acres and acres of rolling fields in another
beautiful part of the world. If he goes there, Kwint will be just over two hours away, a distance that rules out weekly visits, but seeing as the facilities also offer guest accommodation (it’s a registered “chambre d’hôtes”, a small rural hotel), it would be nice to visit him once in a while at weekends, particularly in the warmer months. Of course, I really wish I didn’t have to uproot to my wonderful old horse, but crap happens, people disappoint, and what choice do we have other than to make the best out of bad situations?

I’m really hoping this place in Burgundy will be perfect for Kwintus, that I’ll get a good feeling from the lady who runs it, and that I’ll be able to trust her to take good care of Kwintus during his golden years. His welfare is the only “concept” that matters to me, to the point where I’m actually more upset about separating him from Coconut than I am about needing surgery on my messed-up ankle. Hopefully, finding Kwintus a nice new home will end this current cycle of gloom, and I’ll be able to start New Year with a lighter heart.

What about you? Have you had any runs of bad luck recently? And, more importantly, what is your experience with uprooting retired horses?

Sad

by Laura Crum

I’m very sad today. My horse partner made the decision yesterday (with my agreement) to put down our two pasture pets who have been going downhill for the past year. ET was 31 and Rebby was 27. Despite our best efforts at feed and care these two would not maintain their weight—ET could not see or hear much any more. With the winter storms coming and both Wally and I completely maxed out on the expense and time involved in trying to keep these horses in borderline OK shape, he finally decided it was time. We both felt terrible, but I couldn’t really argue with him. He very kindly agreed to hold them while they were euthanised—I don’t think I could have done it. I took care of these horses for over ten years and tried very hard to give them a good quality of life in the pasture. Neither was ever my personal horse, but I did train Reb (who belonged to Wally). It is so hard to draw an arbitrary line like this. Neither horse had an acute failure going on. They were just skinny old horses who were slowly failing, despite the fact that we were putting out about $500 a month in supplemental feed to try to help them. ET had a constant mildly snotty nose. Both horses looked pretty rough. Nothing was going to get any better. I don't think we were wrong. It's just very sad.

Staying true to the goal.

After spending my last several blogs gushing (and hopefully not boring everyone) about my trip to Africa I decided to shift back to my seemingly endless journey as a writer. After reading Alison's great post about the book fair and the challenges of promoting her book, I found myself re-energized in my quest to publish my first full length novel.

In addition to teaching and training horses full time, as well as my own competitive career in Dressage, I have spent much of my writing career producing non-fiction articles (usually horse-related) and promotional materials for other companies. It has done a good job of paying the bills but distracts from my own personal quest to publish a novel. In past blogs I have solicited and received great advice on how to be more disciplined in the time I measure out to write "my stuff" and input on keeping the plot organized when having to take breaks from writing in order to make a living.

Like it seems for all of us, life and finding quiet time to write is an ongoing juggling act. I get that, but for me it also comes down to setting the right priorities. I am very guilty of being too available to my clients some times and not defining clear enough boundaries. I tend to spin my wheels trying to be all things to everyone rather than simply saying no once in a while. Well, today I started a new trend. I turned off my phone, locked my doors, turned on my head phones and wrote for 3 hours nearly uninterrupted; if you don't count the cat trying to sleep on my computer keys a couple of times. And I feel great for it!!!! For a long while now I have felt the need to make changes in my perspective. Maybe it is menopausal 50's or maybe just me finally growing up, but I have been feeling a sense or urgency to do the things, like Africa, and accomplish the goals, like my book and my new horse, that have been a part of my consciousness for so long.

Well I am turning the page (pun intended). I am not abandoning my job as a teacher and trainer, (I love it too much), and I am not going to completely stop my non-fiction pursuits, (bills have to get paid), but I am going to scale back significantly. Right or wrong, I put much of my personal life experiences and characters in my real life into my writing. One of my horse characters is very similar to a "problem-child colt" I had in training a few years ago and the adolescent girl in the story has a little bit of every teenage girl I have taught over the years. So becoming a hermit to just write would not work for me anyway and I think I would go a little stir crazy.

I have though, set out a schedule for myself of milestones I want to reach over the next 6 months. Do you think this is a good idea? What works for all of you to keep yourself on some sort of a deadline? I have always worked best under pressure which is really just a way of enabling my tendency to procrastinate. So, I am open to any and all suggestions.

On a separate note, this past weekend I took a big step toward to another big goal on my "bucket list" of sorts - compete at the FEI level in Dressage. Well Uiver, my new horse, and I competed Prix St. George (the first rung of FEI) this past weekend. We, or I should say I, made mistakes on my tempi changes, but we were fairly competitive in a big open class. I will have photos and more details on my next blog. In the meantime any words of advice to keep me on my schedule would be greatly appreciated!

Beyond Writing

I meet many writers who have a story in their heart that they are dying to publish. Most have written the novel, short story or article, queried, sent them out, been rejected . . . You get the picture. Publishing is a tough business if you want to break in to the big name markets, which is why most writers I meet are also venturing into eBooks, small press and self-publishing. However, no matter how your book is published or in what format, you--the author--will need to promote it-unless you are J.K.Rowling. (My daughter informed me that every 30 seconds someone opens a Harry Potter book.) This is the work that goes beyond writing, and for me, it can take up much of my time and effort.

Last week I drove to Kentucky for five days of book promotion. I did two school visits, spoke at The National Middle School conference, and spoke and signed books at the Kentucky Book Fair. Before leaving, I filled book orders, answered fifty student emails (from the eager sixth grade readers I would be visiting)and planned five different talks on top of finishing up teaching responsibilities, packing and getting the 'house' and animals settled so my husband's caretaking job would be easy.

The trip was a success. I didn't get lost, technology worked, books were sold and signed, and students were lots of fun. One school visit was especially rewarding: the sixth graders had read Gabriel's Horses in their class.

They'd written reviews, emailed me, and were totally engaged with the book. They were excited to meet a real author, and I was peppered with questions about Gabriel's story as well as the writing process. The best thing about school visits is getting kids who do not usually go to the library, a book fair or bookstore pumped about reading and writing, and it's a chance for me to interact with real readers.

Because I teach, I keep my away-from-home time to a minimum. Most serious authors spend days and weeks traveling to school visits, book fairs and conferences. Loretta Ellsworth, my tablemate at the Kentucky Book Fair in Frankfort and author of YA (her newest book is Unforgettable, a great teen read)travels over a week every month, but she knows authors who travel to promote half the year. I was exhausted after five days, and I am embarrassed to say that I have not caught up at home and school--I still have books and bags in the trunk of my car! Of course, one of the things that is fun about book fairs is schmoozing with other authors. Loretta and I shared online promotional tips and discussed what worked and didn't work. Both of us agreed that no matter how much and how hard we promote, there is no guarantee that a book will be a success.

Promotion is tough and it's hard to tell what works to sell books. But watching a young reader's eyes light up when she saw one of my American Girl books or hearing a reluctant reader tell me he couldn't put Gabriel's Horses down were huge rewards.

What works for you? What questions do you have about promoting? I'd love to hear from you.

The Cowboy Way

by Laura Crum

How do we choose the background/setting of our novels? I was asked that question the other day, in the course of a class I’m teaching at the local community college about “How to Write and Publish a Mystery.” Of course, I can’t answer how other authors make their choice. But for me, it was easy. I wanted to write about horses, specifically western horses, because horses have been my life. Horses and the cowboy way.

I was raised (in the horse biz, anyway) by a bunch of team roping cowboys, and their particular mindset really shaped me. I notice this quite a bit when I interact with folks that don’t come from that world. There often seems to be a sort of disconnect between us. I was thinking about this the other day and wondering why, and I had a light bulb moment. Its all about the cowboy way.

The cowboy way isn’t something you can learn from a book. Its something you have to live. Its easy to say that its about horses and cattle, and that’s true, as far as it goes. But it really amounts to a lot more than that.

Defining the cowboy way isn’t easy, but I’ll try. It has to do with being willing to get the job done, not whining about cold fingers or mud or dust or heat (or all the rest of the weather that Mother Nature can throw at you). It has to do with a sort of matter of fact physical courage and team spirit as well as an ability to read livestock accurately. Cowboys aren’t usually too chatty (until they’ve had a drink) and they are often pretty blunt. They have both a sense of pride and a sense of respect. They stand out when you put them somewhere in the modern world. They draw the eye. They don’t look much like suburban office workers, even if they choose to wear chinos and T-shirts and sneakers. There is an air of dignity about them.

In truth, a description like this doesn’t make much sense, which is why I spent a good deal of time in my first five novels trying to portray the cowboy way. The old “show not tell” approach. My desire to paint a portrait of the cowboy life as I have known it is a lot of what motivated me to write my mystery novels in the first place.

You might wonder what mysteries have to do with cowboys, and other than the fact that mysteries can be set in pretty much any venue, the answer is quite simple. My favorite mystery author was Dick Francis—not least because of the authentic horse lore that was so often woven into his stories. His jump jockies resembled, in many ways, the cowboys I grew up with and worked with and for-- practical, tough, understated guys who could both take a hit and loved working with horses. When I was thirty years old, I decided to try to write a mystery novel based on my background in the horse biz, in flagrant imitation of Dick Francis (who by the way corresponded with me for years—I sent him my books and he never failed to write back with both praise and helpful suggestions).

Having grown up with the cowboy way, I tend to admire folks like this. I’m also disconcerted by those who wear pristine white sneakers that are several years old. Sneakers that have never stepped on anything dirtier than a sidewalk. These folks are dismayed at the thought of walking through horse poop, or God forbid, cow poop, and the notion of wading through such muck to toss some alfalfa hay at the livestock gives them palpitations. Let alone the idea of climbing aboard a horse that might want to buck you off. They can’t imagine why anybody would want to do that.

Since all of my shoes probably have a little dried dung of some sort adhering to them somewhere, and I wade through the dust and/or mud every single day to feed my horses (not to mention I’ve been bucked off more than once in my life), I am in a pretty different space, and my conversations with these folks tend to veer off into mild incomprehension. (I think all you fellow horse people, cowboy oriented or not, will understand this.) As in sitting in a room that is perhaps mildly cool, the well dressed lady to the left of me fusses endlessly about the need to turn the heater up, and bundles herself up in her fancy coat and scarf. She looks at me, wearing a light (and very unfancy) sweater and asks, “Aren’t you cold?”

I think about it. I just can’t get my mind around the idea that she thinks this ever so slightly cool room is something to bother about. “Not really,” I say, “it was a lot colder when I was feeding the horses this morning in the rain and wind.” And the thought that goes through my mind is that she needs to try gathering cattle on a blustery day if she wants to know what uncomfortably cold feels like.

I realize that the well dressed ladies of the world probably think I look quite rough and uncouth and they no doubt imagine that I am envious of them, with their high heels, manicured finger nails, shiny little sports cars…etc. But nothing could be farther than the truth. That tidy suburban world holds no allure for me. I like my rough and messy life, full of animals and plants.

As a homeschooling mom, I’ve made many choices concerning what I want my son to learn. I want him to learn to read and write and do math, of course. I want him to learn how the world works. I want him to be able to get along with people…and understand the natural world. I want him to be kind. And I’ve thought a lot about how best to teach him these things.

Currently my son and I go twice a week to a practice roping at my uncle’s small ranch. Here we help gather the cattle out of the pasture and drive them through the chutes. We haze and chase cattle and help the ropers—a group of men ranging from 30 years old to 82. I’ve known these men all my life and used to rope with them, until I gave it up when I got pregnant in my 40’s. But they still treat me like part of the gang.

I don’t agree with them about everything—in fact I disagree with them about lots of things—I would not even bother to discuss politics with them, as we have rather opposite points of view. But I want my son to learn something these men can teach, and most kids don’t get a chance to learn it. To put it simply, I don’t want my son to learn pushy, unkind kid manners from the local suburban soccer team as they play on artificial turf; I want him to learn to be a man among other men. Men who know how to handle horses and cattle, who are in touch with the natural world.

I watch as my boy meets the 82 year old cowboy’s eyes and greets him politely and confidently, “Hey, Burt, how are you?” (And you should see trim, still athletic Burt rope a steer—at 82.) I watch as my child gathers the cattle as part of the team of adults, riding across the big meadow in the sunshine. I watch as he answers promptly, “Yep, I’m ready,” when asked if he’d chase a steer down to the pen for the men. And then he gets the job done. I watch him ride his horse effectively and get a friendly word of praise from 30 year old Mark, who is a handy horse trainer. I watch my kid smile quietly and say “thank you.” My son is learning the cowboy way.

And I believe I am giving him a gift.

Below you see us headed out to gather the cattle. My son, on his horse, Henry, is following 79 year old Wally, riding Twister.

And here is my kid bringing the cattle up the alley on Henry. Next to him on the black horse is our friend Mark, riding Coal. Sorry the photos are blurry. I have a hard time taking good photos from my horse’s back.

PS--My "new" computer has failed a couple of times lately, so if I don't respond to comments or email, or fail to post on my regular Weds schedule, that's why.

A New Book - and a Giveaway!

I'm pleased to announce the release of my newest book, THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES, which just came out from Musa Publishing. It's available right now as an e-Book, and hopefully next year in print. I am giving away two copies - with details at the bottom of this post!

Of all the manuscripts I’ve written, THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES is probably dearest to my heart. I’ve always been passionate about horses, and this is a story about the bond between horses and humans. But it’s also a story about culture and society, and how easily we could lose important knowledge from the past. Could the world really forget the ancient bond between humans and horses? Could one girl’s dreams make people remember? Here’s a summary of the story:

Several generations into the future, Sahara travels with her clan in a barren environment where recyclables are bartered for sustenance, and few remember horses or their connection to humans. But Sahara has recurring visions of riding astride on magnificent animals that run like the wind.

With the help of Evan, a young herder from the Gardener’s Camp, Sahara discovers a crumbling book containing pictures of humans riding horses and learns her visions are real. Confronting a group of hunters led by hot-headed Dojo, Sahara rescues a wounded horse, but the animal escapes before it can be tamed.

Sahara is labeled a foolish dreamer and almost gives up her quest. Following horse tracks into a remote ravine, she finds wild dogs attacking a dying mare, and must drive them off in order to save the foal. Now she must attempt to raise the young animal, finally convince her clan of the ancient bond between horses and humans, and learn the secret of her true identity.

I searched through my journals recently, and found the exact spot where I got the seed of inspiration for this story. It was six years ago, right after Hurricane Katrina, when I believe all of us were realizing how easily nature, or some other catastrophic event, could wipe out almost everything about the world as we know it. At the same time, as a horseperson, I was aware of the dire fate of many horses in this country. As fewer people seem to have the knowledge or economic situation to own a horse, many are being shipped to slaughter, and reports of horses actually being turned lose to fend for themselves are common. Also, a few years prior, I had done a college research project on Women and their Passion for Horses – and more specifically, where this passion comes from. All of these factors triggered a story in my head – What if people actually lost all of their knowledge about horses? What then?

After living with this story for so many years, (and a very long journey towards publication involving some near misses and almost happens) I was thrilled when Musa Publication picked it up for one of their earliest releases from their brand new YA imprint called Euterpe. It’s a story perfectly suited not only to young adults, but horse lovers everywhere, as well as those who enjoy adventure stories set in an imagined future. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES is available now, ready to gallop into your e-readers!

It's available for $4.99 at the Musa website (in formats for all e-readers) on Amazon.com, Smashwords, OmniLit, BookStrand, and it should be available on Barnes and Noble soon.

And now for the contest - If you'd like to win a copy of THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES - and I'm giving away two copies - simply leave a comment below to enter. It's great for readers from ages 9 to 99, and available in many formats. I can send you a PDF version to read on your computer, or PRC, mobi, or ePub if you have an e-reader.

Contest is open internationally, and I'll pick the winners on December 1, 2011.

And please check out the facebook page for THE GIRL WHO REMEMBERED HORSES, where I also post lots of cool horse links: https://www.facebook.com/Girl.Remembered.Horses.LindaBenson

 Good luck to all who enter! Hope you enjoy this great horse story set in the future!

Thar be Whales--Three Times Blessed

I promised this post months ago, and ending up posting other items. While this doesn't have much to do with horses, I'm hoping you'll enjoy it just the same.

Orca Whales (also known as Killer Whales) have long resided in the Puget Sound area. Right now there are three resident pods of whales (a pod being a family and resident meaning they don't migrate elsewhere). Unfortunately, their numbers are dwindling each year for various reasons, such as a decreasing food source and pollution.

As a one-time boater, my former husband and I made many trips to the San Juan Islands. Each time we were fortunate enough to see whales. Usually, we didn't look for them, they seemed to find us. Sometimes, we'd see huge groups of whale-watching and personal boats off in the distance searching for whales, while we'd be sitting in the middle of a large group of them as they cavorted and played around us.

This summer, my husband and I took a trip to the San Juans with some friends on their 43-foot Tollycraft yacht. Both my husband and the wife of our friend had never seen whales in the wild. We hoped to see them, but as responsible boaters we were also aware of the effects of crowds of people in boats harassing the whales and the current laws requiring that a boat stay 200-yards away from the whales if at all possible.

With that in mind, we came out of Mosquito Pass and headed out into the Straits of Juan De Fuca and down the side of San Juan Island. A whale-watching boat passed us and headed toward the middle of the Straits, while the other boats hugged the edge of the island. Since the whale-watching boat's behavior was a little unusual, we figured he knew something we didn't. We followed the whale-watching boat on the off-chance they knew where they were going. They did.

We saw the huge fins of whales in the distance and shut down our engines, binoculars ready, and well over 200 yards away. At first. The entire pod headed straight for us.

An hour later, we were still surrounded by whales. Every time we'd start our engines another group would swim by and we'd shut down again. After two hours of being entertained, we finally powered up and went on our way. A week later on our way home, we happened upon the whales again. Then a few weeks later on a family trip to the San Juans, we went on a whale-watching tour with my stepdaughter and her boyfriend. Again, more whales. All in all, it was a good year for whales. And an incredible year for those of us privileged to witness them.

I started to write a passage about how the whales affected me and all those fortunate to see them in person. Instead, I grabbed a passage from one of my first books, The Dance. In this passage, Rico is a cynical celebrity dragged along on a whale-watching expedition against his will. How Rico feels about these magnificent creatures, pretty much sums it up.



From The Dance

Rico slouched against the stainless steel rail, observing the whales with disinterest. Several Orcas of differing sizes circled the boat, moving closer with each pass. They frolicked in the water, giving Rico and Mariah a private show. Eva must have sent them—the guardians of his soul. Sure. What crap.

One of them leapt out of the water with amazing ease and grace, coming down so close to them that he backed up a step for fear of getting wet.

He had to admit that the huge black and white suckers were impressive.

In spite of his perceived boredom, he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Their lives seemed so simple and pure, his was so complicated and messy. They probably worried about catching their next salmon and keeping their babies safe. It’s not like he’d know. He wasn’t a whale researcher. How the heck did whales do it, anyway?

Another large Orca surfaced within twenty feet of the yacht. The animal’s fin appeared to be as tall as he was. The huge beast rolled on its side and stared straight at him with one large eye. Rico leaned over the rail for a closer look. He stared, mesmerized.

Nothing made sense, yet everything made sense. He felt disembodied, as if he observed everything from a remote position, as that large sea-going mammal worked its magic. It called to him, spoke to his soul. All those things that troubled him so deeply seemed so insignificant. In one profound moment, he realized that nothing mattered as much as moments like this.

Rico held his breath, afraid to break the spell. A delicate thread connected him to the world around him. He clung to it, like a dying man clings to his last breath. In a flash of insight, he understood the simple complexity of life and the delicate balance that held it together. Peace and contentment he’d never known filled him, surrounded him, cradled him. He floated free of his human burdens.

It was too much. The depth of his feelings frightened him. He looked away, breaking the contact. Shaken, he gripped the railing. The intensity of the experience seemed surreal.

The Orca launched out of the water with amazing dexterity and grace. It landed with a huge splash, sending salt water flying everywhere, including on his face. Rico swore the damn thing laughed as it dove under the boat and breached on the opposite side. He’d never forget the sound it made as it blew spray into the air. He swiped at the water on his face.

The large Orca gathered his pod together and swam away from them. Their fins glistened in the evening sun. Water lapped at the hull of the boat.

Rico wiped a tear from his face as whales cavorted in the distance.

Mariah dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Rodrigo, Aren’t they awesome?”

Her unrestrained enthusiasm was contagious. “Yeah, they are, baby. Breathtakingly awesome.” This time he meant it.

They moved him in ways he couldn’t put in words. The whales had penetrated his cynical armor and left him humbled.