She didn't mention whether it was her birthday. Probably not.
It was a glorious winter morning of blue skies, cold green ocean and just a slight nip in the air.
Our instructor was first out of the gate as we trotted single-file through low tussock towards the roaring surf we could hear beyond the dunes.
The second life lesson came startlingly quickly: if you fall off the horse, you just have to get back on. Untangling myself and my blushing face from the aforementioned tussock, I could either saddle up again or plod back to the floats and give up. Having an 8-year-old looking at me pityingly was enough to spur me on.
So, pretending my butt - and my pride - didn't hurt as much as it did, I was back in the saddle in no time.
On the black sands of Muriwai we gave the horses free rein and picked up the pace. Just off shore, massive combers thundered threateningly towards the beach like racehorses released from the gate, curling manes spraying white spume in a flashy roar of unbridled energy.
But the energy built up over hundreds of kilometres of Tasman Sea was spent by the time the waves reached the beach and the little white rivulets that trickled up the beach didn't scare the horses in the slightest.
Before now, my experience on horseback was limited to having pony rides at school fairs and gnawing my nails while watching my tiny, fragile daughter have riding lessons, ready to rush to her side should catastrophe befall her (it never did).
"Rise to the trot!" the instructor would bellow at her, so rise to the trot I did, inelegantly bouncing and jiggling along on poor old Jimmy, who was probably thinking at this moment that he'd drawn the short straw. But I quickly learned that trotting worked best if I just rode along with it.
Metaphor number three: if life is out of control, just go with it.
So I got off my high horse and gave Jimmy the control. And soon I was rising to the trot like a pro, leaning into corners and, best of all for my butt, staying on. Once I got the hang of his rhythm, we even got up to a canter. Jimmy tossed his mane proudly.
We returned through the dunes and into the Muriwai forest, freshly cropped in parts but still home to wild deer. We were lucky enough to see two fawns, their grey-brown coats almost rendering them invisible against the forest backdrop.
As our mounts jockeyed for position along the narrow trails, I eyed those chopped-off trunks: here was not the place to fall. But Jimmy and I were best stablemates by now. We'd found rhythm and we maintained the pace with the rest of the posse.
There is no doubt it was tiring work and at the first stream our horses were heads down, noses in the stream. Luckily, I was quite the horsewoman by now and kept my seat as Jimmy drank deep. It turns out you can lead a horse to water and he will drink. He deserved it.
And before we knew it, we were back at the carpark, ride over, off to enjoy our respective birthday lunches. We patted our mounts goodbye and reluctantly trudged off, all smiles - not a long face in sight.
Fact file
Muriwai Beach is 42km west of the Auckland CBD. Muriwai Beach Horse Treks is open seven days a week, except Christmas Day, and bookings are essential. Horses are available for novice and experienced riders.
