Hector, Tamer of Horses

        Out on the ocean, feeling the ripple of the sea's sinew beneath his body Hector, tamer of horses, lays waiting; knowing the sun is burning his back, but just waiting, like other furthers to his right, for a wave, not a perfect wave at all, but rather just one that will hold him aloft, as though for a few minutes he is king of the sea. Hector has never been of anything for more than a few minutes, but he has also never had to work for anything his whole life, as if he were a prince of some country he has never set foot in. And so so as he waits his mind wanders as it always does for it seems like he is always waiting for something, he thinks. Before this he was waiting for the car to arrive at his brother's house here in Costa Rica, thinking about how much space there is on this island, as if everything, even the trees and the clouds, has decided to spread out to let the air in. And before that he remembers waiting to board the plane here, wondering what this country would be, whether it would really be the age old paradise the words Costa Rica imply, not by what they mean, because he doesn't know what they mean, but just by their vowels, their o's and a's and i's, the way Costa rolls off the tongue but Rica shoots out like a Roman Candle; the way Costa Rica could be a phrase you'd say to a friend in college, "Costa rica, buddy, costa rica" as if that were a greeting. And before that he remembers waiting for this vacation, talking to his brother Paris on the phone, grateful that at least of them, he, has a head on his shoulders, for Paris has never had one, he was always the carefree one, going where ever was in season, wrapped up in whatever women were around. At times Hector, more serious in demeanor, always pushing himself to self-perfection, was jealous of him, but he knows Paris' life is lonelier and less jubilant than it seems; he knows that there are nights when Hector lays awake, lonely, wishing he'd made something of himself. And Hector thinks that at least he knows he's grown into a good man.

        And as he lays waiting, the sun burning his back, a wave comes; not a perfect wave, it is too small and will proably break early; it lacks that perfect barrelling body you see in magazines, but Hector, tamer of horses, feels the ocean swell beneath him as he struggles to his feet, as though he were in a Costa Rican revolution, he thinks.
        
        He is king of the sea, He is Hector, King of the Sea. For a moment before the wave, flawed as it is, breaks, but Hector, King of the Sea, doesn't fall, he rides the revolution ten years past where it breaks, to where it becomes a war for war's sake, screaming I am King the whole way.

        There is a moment, however, as the wave buckles and breaks that he is reminded of his childhood, of North Carolina, on a beach, riding horses with his family, when his horse breaks away into a wild gallop, the sinew of its body beneath him bobbing and burning, as his body is thrown back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. At first, he remembers, he tried to fight it, tried to push his body against the saddle when it wanted to defy gravity, and tried to fly when gravity would force his body back; he would try and beat the horse, try to stop its strong legs from tearing the sand and the surf so quickly, shouting commands at its ears, as if he were lover or master of the horse. But his legs grew tired, and the small of his back burned, and his voice grew hoarse, so he fell forward into the horse's mane and died, letting the horse carry his tired body behind it as it galloped through the waves until it tired and dropped with him, as though he were a tamer of horses. And Hector, tamer of horses, King of the Sea, remembers this as the wave bucks and breaks, and he knows he is not King of the Ocean any more than he is Hector, tamer of horses.