The Wonderful World of Wellington

The Overlook

By Tom Clavin

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The new year means a new season in Wellington, Florida. Beginning this week, anywhere from 7,000 to 8,000 horses are coming in from all over the planet to compete at world-class events. Exhibitors vie for more than $10 million in prize money. It’s quite commonplace to see celebrity riders in the show ring and out around town, such as Georgina Bloomberg, Eve Jobs, Jennifer Gates, and Jessica Springsteen – okay, I mean the daughters of celebrities.

Established only 30 years ago, Wellington has had its fair share of controversy. The original founders set out to carve a dedicated horse community out of bug-infested swamps. There had been similar startups but never on such a grandiose scale. These were equine pioneers. The difference? Deep pockets. Earlier attempts were mostly modest houses built around a simple barn, rings, and paddocks. Wellington broke that mold with elaborate barns, fancy show rings, and sprawling mansions.

This new community was not just for horse lovers but for rich horse lovers. With expensive show jumpers fast becoming the coin of the realm, well-heeled owners sought an exclusive refuge for their ultra-blueblood lifestyle. Those with modest bank accounts need not apply. Wellington fast became a mecca for the uber-wealthy. What better way to show off success than placing your son or daughter on an expensive jumper in a Camelot-style world?

When the internet spawned a whole generation of overnight billionaires, Wellington became overrun with nouveau riche arrivals who had the coin but not the culture. Old-world elegance became invaded by noisy shopping malls and even a tawdry circus merry-go-round. Sunday polo matches suddenly appeared and, with them, a new brand of spectator who could care less about hallowed traditions. Tailgate parties replaced charming picnic baskets and Ferraris shouldered Rolls-Royces off the roads. Barbarians were at the gate. The original homesteaders were outraged.

Soon a full-blown class war erupted. The classic “old” versus “new” money battle was suddenly raging. Original mansions were dwarfed by monster McMansions, town houses by high rises, show rings by stadiums, antique food carts by a neon-lit fast-food court, quaint kiddie pony rides by armor-banging medieval jousts, and polite dressage exhibitions by rock ‘em sock ‘em polo matches. Culture clashes were never more spirited than at volatile town hall meetings where old-timers openly faced off against their newly installed counterparts.

With Wellington more popular than ever, that class war still simmers. Both camps are amped up and willing to fight. While the “old” money crowd appreciates the increased gate, they deplore the crass descent into what they see as a gaudy Gen Z “rap-music” halftime show. For their part, the newbies rail against a stuffy out-of-touch format. To them, entertainment trumps tradition. They point with pride to all the new super luxe retail – Hermes to Vuitton -- that has recently opened at Wellington and to jammed valet parking lots for Sunday polo.

With polo zooming in popularity and these dashing “Princes of the Pampas” suddenly everywhere on the property, the newest wrinkle is that many of the Argentinian polo pony strings are in fact cloned from a single horse. Yes, incredibly, cloned like Dolly the sheep. But this new-age science seems to be working because the Argentinian teams are often victorious. But what, many wonder, ever happened to old-fashioned breeding?

Hold on: Weren’t there residents in the area who were replaced by the old-money crowd? Maybe what goes around comes around.

When Walt Disney started searching for land to house a second Disney theme park in November 1963, he chose the feral swamps near Orlando, Florida. To avoid jacked-up prices and certain notoriety, he fronted the purchases with a series of “dummy” corporations. He paid about $5 million for 43 square miles – roughly $185 per acre – an astonishing low price even for swampland. That was over two decades before the Land Settlement Act of 1987, which effectively deeded most of the lands in Central Florida back to the Seminole Indians across six reservations and twelve Florida counties. And with swamplands so impossible to regulate – like quicksand itself – the frenzy was on.

Since then, Wellington, well south of Orlando, has tried the same playbook by trying to annex well over 250 acres for its ever-expanding equestrian domain. Other developers have often attempted similar secret land grabs with mixed results. The thinking has always been that no one would seriously object to such snake-infested swampland being bought and sold for bloated prices.

No one, that is, except the Indians. No one ever counted on serious pushback from the Seminole Tribe which has majorly lawyered up and gone to court. But that hasn’t stopped anyone from trying. Now the marshy areas around Wellington are always in play, especially since the jaw-dropping post-Covid migrations to Florida, with determined builders pushing cruise ship-style amenity-loaded destinations meant to entice the wealthy or retired – intrusions the Seminoles always challenge. These Native Americans know a thing or two about white politics: In 1837, Osceola, the famous Seminole leader, was taken prisoner near St. Augustine though under a white flag of truce. That deception has never been forgotten. Today, a new “woke” generation of Seminoles isn’t falling for any phony white flags.

Equine communities always attract a colorful assortment of outrageous characters. Why? Because the exclusive horse world is, by definition, centered on massive but vulnerable creatures that require specialized talents: riders, groomers, braiders, whisperers, farriers, clothiers, PR writers, saddle makers, quirky owners, equine dieticians, high-priced vets, and an army of foreign-born (mostly South American) barn characters who help keep the horses in fine form. In this jet-set age, many of these orbiting sycophants are increasingly part of someone’s personal entourage and soon become embedded in an extravagant traveling circus -- jetting event to glamorous event. More and more, rock star owners and riders have wannabe hangers-on like so many pilot fish on preying sharks.

The explosion of Wellington-style wealth has also created a few sidebar characters. With bigger homes, a construction industry has emerged with shady builders falling over themselves to design bigger and better horse farms. Spas for horses are often de rigueur these days. So are air-conditioned barns. Many “build-‘em-fast” developers are indeed reliable. But some are definitely not. The joke around real estate offices is that many humongous homes are inevitably round because so many corners have been cut. Nevertheless, tricked-out McMansions, however shoddy, still sprout like wild mushrooms everywhere.

Until recently, drugged-up horses were also a nasty secret. Infamous racetrack deaths have spilled over to the Grand Prix world. Show jumpers, once off-limits to any performance enhancers, have tested positive for prohibited drugs to help them jump higher and run faster. In the desperate hunt for blue ribbons, vets are now called upon to camouflage injected drugs, leading to more sophisticated and untraceable cocktails for competitive jumpers – some of which can indeed prove fatal. Inevitably, more savvy, if not unsavory, vet teams have joined the ranks of Wellington’s workforce.

Most conspicuously, celebrities have found their way into the Wellington cast of characters. Royalty and horses have always gone hand in hand: princesses practice dressage and steeplechase while princes play polo. And the U.S. Olympic Team sometimes winters here. But the newest celebrity arrivals have come from the tabloid pages. Spawn of the rich and famous are everywhere: Jessica Springsteen is an avid rider and a decorated Olympian. Jennifer Gates boards at Wellington. Georgina Bloomberg is an accomplished equestrian. And Tom Brady’s pre-teen daughter, Vivian, is an up-and-coming competitor.

More than anyone else, the horse world – Welly World, as old-timers like to call it – is filled with eccentric horse lovers who are in awe of the classic beauty of steeds prancing everywhere. The sport of kings and princes is also the bailiwick of aesthetes who have always prized horseflesh in all its magnificent forms. Wealthy retired men and women love nothing more than watching the endless cavalcade of awe-inspiring horses in their breathless quest for blue ribbons in the show ring.

Unfortunately, this has made oldsters easy targets for con men who bilk naïve if not gullible dowagers for a bogus chance at buying into the coveted equine action. So, sadly, fraudsters are also part of Welly World.

Horse lovers have often sought inspiration in classical antiquity. None more so than in Alexander the Great’s monumental horse – Bucephalus. Born in 355 BC, Bucephalus was a muscular black stallion with exceptional jumping abilities. Philip of Macedonia, Alexander’s father, bought the horse but couldn’t ride it. Why? The horse was just too unmanageable. His teenage son, Alexander, quickly discerned that Bucephalus was simply afraid of his own shadow. By keeping him in the shade, away from the sun, the boy was able to calm him down enough to make him rideable.

Alexander conquered a mighty empire on his beloved horse’s back until his own death is 323 BC. Enemies would quake at the mere sight of Bucephalus. The stallion became renowned for courage – especially for getting Alexander out of battlefield scrapes. When in trouble, Bucephalus would simply vault over all adversaries. Which is why it became famous as an almost mythological jumper. No horse could leap higher.

Given the scientific genealogy of horses, where traits are carried over generation to generation – indeed, all current thoroughbreds derive from only three horses in the late 17^th Century -- the equine world is ever drawn to the possibility, however slight, of a living blood heir of the ancient noble Bucephalus. To diehards, the world’s most legendary jumper must have relatives today out there. If so, what could that mean for Grand Prix competition? With the record height for horse jumping at just over 8 feet, set in 1949, no telling what heights a Bucephalus heir might scale today. Equestrian records might be smashed.

Today every major Grand Prix venue, including Wellington, has its share of quixotic Bucephalus seekers. Thus far, no such bona fide Thessalian-bred jumper has been found. But hope springs eternal. Those who believe in the lore of classical antiquity are actively in the hunt today.

More next week – especially about the infamous “Horse Show Murders,” a scheme so nefarious that some readers will find it unbelievable. Alas, it’s true.

Tom Clavin is the bestselling author/co-author of 25 books. His latest book, Bandit Heaven, was published by St. Martin’s Press last October. Please go to your local bookstore or to Bookshop.org, Amazon.com, BN.com, or tomclavin.com to purchase a copy.