Bareback horse riding on the beach conjures up images of gliding gracefully through the waves, beast and bikinis as one. But horses have bony spines and so I discovered the very good reason why professionals insist on saddles.

There is also nothing romantic about straddling a sweaty mare and hearing the muffled sound of cheeky equine bubbles breaking the surface.

It is, however, a rollicking good way to spend a morning on an island.

True-blue tattooed Aussie

My bareback adventure took place on picturesque Magnetic Island in north Queensland. Matilda was my noble steed.

After an early start from Jupiters Hotel and Casino in Townsville, we boarded the ferry and in less than an hour were zipping around Magnetic Island in a Mini-Moke, a seemingly ubiquitous island feature.

We saddled up at Horseshoe Bay Ranch, a family-run riding outfit on the island's northeast, staffed by foreign backpackers.

Our tour leader, Meagan, was the exception. A true-blue Aussie with the Southern Cross tattooed on her hip and the Union Jack on her bikini top, she had only been in tourism a short while.

But we were in good hands. Meagan was raised on the land, no doubt riding horses before she could walk, and had only recently quit her job as head stockman at a cattle station in the outback Queensland shire of Boulia.

Taking the reins

Assured she knew her way around a horse, I swallowed my nerves and did my best yee-ha, tapping my heel gingerly into Matilda.

But she had other ideas. First there was no movement, then a sluggish few forward steps until we reached a road and the horse stopped, turned lazily and started clomping back to the ranch.

Meagan lurched into action to help, taking the reins in one hand and riding out of the saddle like an extra in The Man from Snowy River, her mud-spattered Akubra fixed at its perch.

With a lot of encouragement and some forceful persuasion, we set off into the scrub, clip-clopping over dry creek beds and branches that snapped and crackled under foot. Grazing wallabies greeted the convoy but kept their distance, chomping nonchalantly in the morning sun.

Once I found my horse legs it was remarkably relaxing and I drifted into an almost hypnotic trance with the up-and-down rhythm of the horse's movement. That was until we started to trot and, God-forbid, canter.

When Meagan asked how much riding experience I had I was honest. A few trail rides here and there, year eight school camp, does a few rounds on a pony at the local show, aged 10, count?

For the uninitiated, horse riding is a constant battle between harmonising your body with the motion of the horse and being thrown around like a rag doll at a rodeo.

My attempts oscillated between the two. I had fleeting moments of National Velvet mastery, shattered by white-knuckled, teeth-gnashing episodes where I was doing my darndest just to stay on.

Stripped down to our togs

I was relieved when we reached the beach and returned to a walk.

The magnificent white sand of Horseshoe Bay opened up, the sun danced off the turquoise Coral Sea and I felt positively rejuvenated.

We unsaddled the horses, stripped down to our togs and flung ourselves atop our mounts. The horses plunged into the shallows and briefly there was the sensation of splashing through the waves without getting wet.

Eventually, the water rose from my toes until only the horses' heads and their shiny rumps were visible. We looked like tourists sitting on water.

Meagan led us through a routine of equestrian aquatics and we watched as she stood, surfer's pose, on the arch of her horse's back. The horse-whisperer then stepped on to its rump and performed a perfect backflip into the water, as passing tourists snapped their cameras.

A great recipe for chafing

After Matilda had a drink break, gulping a gob-full of sea water, it was my turn. Attempt one resulted with the horse making a break for the shore. On my second attempt she moved (when in doubt blame the horse) and I ended up falling prostrate across two horses.

Determined to save face, I decided Meagan's horse had more generous proportions than mine and clambered up, managing a clumsy backward belly-whacker into the water.

I emerged with a gasp in time to see Matilda grinning through big horse teeth.

She also had the last laugh on the way back, no doubt knowing sea water and sand is a great recipe for chafing.

The author was a guest of Tourism Queensland.