Joe Putnam
Looking for a hole-in-one on the St. Joe River in Idaho.
I had finally persuaded my new husband to play golf. This was a major deal, as he was a big angler (aka fishing addict). Talk about boring. But on our honeymoon, what could he say?
During our first couple of days in our seaside pad in Turquoise Place on the Gulf Coast of Alabama, we’d been total lounge lizards. We’d awakened at our leisure to sip frosty drinks at the pool and soak in our private hot tub on our balcony. It was time for something more energetic.
But golf? My new mate’s idea of “sticks” were his fishing rods.
Although I had played golf since I was a kid, my husband had spent his down time casting for trout and tying flies. Still. he could gorilla the ball in spectacular fashion when called for.
But he resisted, “Golf? Are you crazy? It’s hot. Why not go fishing? Sea breezes, water. This place has the largest deep-sea fishing fleet in the country. Besides, we don’t have any clubs. ”
“We can rent them.”
“We don’t have any golf shoes.”
“We can play in our tennis shoes.”
“We don’t have any balls, tees or gloves.” (Was there a pattern forming here?)
“Look in my makeup bag.”
“We’ll need a tee time.”
“1:07. Kiva Dunes.”
He was starting to discover that his new bride had the determination of a hustler putting for five skins.
It was a perfect golf day. No rain in sight with a slight cooling breeze.
The first few holes were blissfully uneventful. My drives flew safely down the middle; his powered down the fairway several yards past mine. Great stuff. We walked side-by-side. He raked my sand damage; repaired my ball marks. I held the pin while he putted. We shared a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a Gatorade from the beverage cart.
And he’d lost only one ball. That was until the par-4, ninth hole, when Murphy’s Law kicked in. You couldn’t see the water from the tee. That was unfortunate. His ball rolled over and down the hill into the water. Never found it.
On 12, again wet. With water on almost all the rest of the holes, he and his balls rode a disaster train.
On the last hole, he caught the behemoth bunker. Taking his sand wedge, he blasted away. Sand flew in all directions and the ball moved, maybe, three inches. Backward.
“Humm,” I said. “Try thinking of your club as an ice cream scoop. Relax. Move your weight to your left side. Open your clubface. Not so far back ...”
I know, I know. I should have kept my mouth shut. He swung his wedge hard enough to take down a Royal Palm, missed the ball and, with a throw worthy of a Yankee pitcher on steroids, hurled the club into the water behind the sand. (Did I say he was good with a fishing rod?)
We were out of balls.
Back on our balcony, sipping a cool glass of Pinot Gris, he said, “Babe. I know you love your golf, but I just can’t play this game. It’s way too frustrating. I’m thinking we should go fishing.”