A chill hung in the air that morning, beckoning a brisk sea mist to spin around the coastline like spider webs hoping to catch unwary prey. And the prey was caught. Breaking through the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the sand, frantic splashing and whinnies of panic pierced the air. A delicately built mare, nearly as pale as the cloud-hung sky, struggled to stay on top of the tide as she edged toward shore.
She didn’t know how long she had been swimming. She didn’t even know what time of day it was. She only knew her every muscle shuddered from either cold or exhaustion or both. But now, just when she thought the sweet salvation of the shoreline was within reach, the waves threatened to carry her back out again. The silt-like sand beneath her hooves gave her no grasping point, and every time she claimed a few desperate inches, the ocean claimed them back.
No, no, not now! She was so close. So close! Each breath made a sound of its own, rough and barking, perfectly timed with the kicking of her tired legs. With every grunt she thought that effort would be her last, that she wouldn’t be able to exert herself to another, but then the fear of what would happen if she gave up took over and her legs continued treading of their own accord.
Finally! Her front hooves hit a sandbar. A mind less tired might have paused to rest, but she didn’t. She scrambled to get solid ground beneath her, never mind how much energy it used. When her hocks were under her and she could stand on all fours, she stutter-stepped on those shaking legs to propel herself toward the beach. Her steps faltered in the dragging surf, but she didn’t care. She pushed through the hip-high water for the safety of land, disregarding every other concern but to be free of the threat of the waves – no matter what new threats might await her. Panic is not a clever master, but for now she was too relieved to be alive to care what might come next.