Hurricane Sandy Was a Bitch

Surya and I have been improving our jump work in leaps and bounds (literally by leaping and bounding, ha). We are also putting in some very consistent and productive dressage sessions. This is good, because our third show is a week from today! I don’t have plans to go off the farm until the spring, so this show is still at the barn. However, this time we are going to do the Starter Rider Dressage class, Starter Horse Dressage Class, and Clear Round Jumping class! Excitement will be had by all.

Not that additional thrills are needed. This week already produced plenty of drama when Hurricane Sandy passed directly over the barn. Thankfully, my trainers are well-prepared, responsible, knowledgeable barn-owners and horse-caretakers, and the horses and property made it through the storm without a hay bale out of place. Even so, all the horses, even Surya, were very full of themselves during the deluge.

I don’t blame Surya for her wildness. I felt like running myself. Last year I moved to the East Coast a few weeks before Hurricane Irene. The day the hurricane hit the city, I went for a run half an hour before the rain started. The air felt unbelievably heavy, muggy, and hot, and I was pretty sure I was breathing in water instead of oxygen. This year, the hours before it started raining were scarier. As I was returning Surya to her field for her last few hours outside on Sunday, the barometric pressure dropped until I was gasping, and the lack of atmosphere pressing on my torso gave me space to leap and spin and buck and run. The roiling clouds were steel blue, and the air was cold. A very faint but steady wind blew from the east, belied only by reluctantly-shifting dried leaves and a barely-heard whistle. Surya snorted and flagged her tail, and we trotted circles around each other. The few birds in the woods around the farm that had not already migrated south were silent, and I felt like holding my breath. Later, driving over the river back to home, I watched the stalwart city skyline with some trepidation.

The wind started that night and then rain within the gusts. I worked from home the following day and stayed inside. By Monday night, the 20-foot trees outside my apartment were bowed and maelstroms of autumn leaves partially obscured the torrential rain. Across the river, the horses spent Monday night in the barn with the storm doors closed. Surya is spooky at sounds; she was not happy with the noise and threw hay around her stall. Tuesday dawned calmer, though still rainy, and all of the horses were turned out. They ran all day in the wind. When the rain finally stopped, most of New Jersey and the barn were left without power and with overwhelming destruction. In the city, thankfully, there were no power outages and no irreparable damage. But the storm did shift our civilized reality to a baser state. I emerged from my apartment Tuesday evening to puddles of water in every depression in the pavement, and tree branches blocking the one-way streets. Hesitant people bundled in coats against the chilly air cleared debris from the sidewalks. While my neighborhood usually lives up to the description of the City of Brotherly Love, people were especially friendly as I ran down the leaf-coated cobblestones. The reminder that we do not live in an artificial bubble, that water, and food, and heat are one gust of wind from gone, was also a reminder that society’s basest function is mutual support. The next day at work the first question we all asked our colleagues in the office and on the phone was “How did you fare in the storm? Is there any way I can help?” I am grateful my family, my friends, my horse, and I are all okay.

I finally made it back across the bridge Wednesday after work. It was evening when I got to the barn, but still light from the full moon and the orange glow of the city to the west. After a brief ride, I took Surya outside to graze on the drenched, browning grass. The fields stretched away into the dark, and it was very quiet. On the horizon, there were thin strips of dark blue clouds, like stacked layers of ragged silk. The Little Dipper was oddly prominent in the clear sky. Surya and I were both somewhat…languorous. The air felt like it had a long, hard cry, or sex – drained, calm, and a little bit smug.

After a while, she lifted her head, and we just stood for a long time, breathing puffs of frosty air. My dressage-educated mustang can still act feral when the mood strikes. At least in New Jersey, it’s going to take a little while to return to normal. Hurricane Sandy was a bit of a bitch.