The summer I was 15 I drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, past Hearst Castle and Big Sur to Lompoc, so that my cousin could visit the wild horse sanctuary there. The gas in Big Sur cost $3 a gallon, and at the time I remember thinking that was incredibly expensive. Someone once told me that Grace Kelly died when she drove her car off of one of the cliffs that hugged the PCH; I still don’t know if that’s true, but it always seemed like such a glamorous death. I imagined a white scarf wrapped around her neck fluttering out of the convertible’s windows as the car tumbled into the sea.
In Lompoc we settled in a crappy seaside motel that reeked of fish oil. I slept dreamlessly on a fold out couch with a stain in the shape of a starfish. The next day we visited the wild horses. My Aunt worked for In Defense of Animals and was friends with the owner, so we got a private tour. My cousin Amelia was seven at the time, and as we walked out onto the pasture her face lit up with glee. I was terrified of the beasts that surrounded us. They were powerful and majestic, but there was something menacing about the way they could strike out at any time. These were wild horses, not domesticated. “Try not to make any sudden movements,” our guide told us, “We don’t want to startle them, or it could get ugly.” I was frightened and couldn’t wait to leave. The only thing I took away from the trip was that Hillary Duff was the celebrity protector of the horse sanctuary. At the time I really liked Lizzie McGuire, so I thought that was pretty cool.