The moon was full and the sky was warm and cloudy. Not many stars twinkled in the night sky. Lee and I sat under the drifting clouds at the Cool and Calm Cafe across from the beach at the end of the road. Cool and Calm is in a little town that is accessible only by one long, straight road that runs through an old chocolate plantation and it really is the end of the road. When you drive through town, the road turns to sand. It runs along the beach until it comes to the mouth of a little river. There, on the near side of the river bank, is an old hand-painted sign that reads, "The end of the road." Get out of your car and cross the river and you will find yourself hiking through the rain forest and into Panama.
The witches were out.
OK, maybe you fancy yourself a witch, and if you do I mean no offense. If you are a witch, perhaps you will understand the odd feeling of that evening better than I.
We were hanging out at the tiny café which was owned by our good friend Andy. Andy, a Rasta, lost a leg in an earthquake accident back in the 90s. The earthquake was so powerful that it sunk an island just over the border in Panama. We'd been at the cafe most of the afternoon and into the evening. Our lobster was history and we were sipping cocktails and listening to real calypso played on a small guitar, a set of hand drums, and a bass made from a long stick, an equally long string, and an upside-down barrel. I wish I could have recorded the slinging harmonies and earthy sound. It was a gift to me.
About 9:00 pm the women rode in. There were nine of them.
They rode up from the surf and through the palms on horses. Andy told us that they came every full moon, stayed for a drink, and rode off again. They tied their mounts to the palm trees surrounding a cement picnic-table sitting in the sand and then swarmed the small restaurant in a quiet fashion, talking gingerly among themselves. They sat at several of the small wooden tables and ordered drinks.
Lee and I vacated our space, drinks still in hand. Normally we would have stayed and chatted, but it appeared these women did not want any interruption and the energy of the place radically changed. We walked across the street and found ourselves gravitating toward the horses.
They were so still.
I cautiously approached an older chestnut and she did not whinny or shift her hooves or even flick her ears. In my experience, horses are never really still and they are almost always nervous when strangers approach. The behavior of this creature completely baffled me. Lee approached a taller, younger grey. Same thing, not a twitch.
It was as if a spell had been cast over the animals that almost prevented them from being aware of us at all.
We settled ourselves at the table in the center of the horse ring and talked quietly while the ladies sipped their cocktails across the street. They weren't long, maybe a half-hour, and the energy changed again as they rose from their tables, fiddled with their checks, and said goodbye to Andy. As they moved out of the cafe and back toward the horses, we moved further out onto the dark beach. Scattered moonlight played among the waves turning the surf to a glow-in-the-dark white.
Without much ado, the women swung onto their unearthly mounts, rode past us into the moonlit waves, and galloped down the beach, wind whipping hair and clothing and churning hooves throwing up spray. They galloped away from town, away from the last vestiges of civilization, and toward miles of deserted beach into the night.