The Summer I Swam With Horses

I figured the whole trip was a failure. I mean, at that point I did. Before swimming with horses.

A whole summer without a single letter from home. Dean, ignoring me. I sent him at least fifteen letters, long ones, about Crete and why we should hate the Turks and about cheese. Oh, the cheese. My “Feta is true love…” tattoo. The late nights on the balcony, drunk with lust and wine, and desperation. And, yes, those letters to Dean. The letters were beautiful and joyful, because there was hope in each of them; because they promised a return of words. Every letter, if you think about it, it’s like half of a whole.

Not with Dean, of course.

Every letter to Dean? That’s just a fucking letter to Dean, apparently. That is the “whole.”

Gus

I can’t remember how I first heard about swimming with horses. I mean, I know that it was my feta farmer who introduced me directly to Gus, but I can’t remember what made me ask my feta farmer in the first place.

Regardless. Swimming with horses: Dean never made me feel like that.

I asked Gus if I could ride my horse to the Dodecanese Islands (I had heard you can see them from parts of Crete), but he just laughed and laughed. He probably just thought I would get tired. Or maybe I had a weaker horse than I realized.

Oh, Gus. You crazy old Cretan son of a bitch. But goddamnit, I trust you.