More Than Just a Good Walk Spoiled...

Okay, yes, I'll admit it. One of the main draws for me on (and off) Hilton Head Island is playing golf. I have now been on the island for four days, and two of them have included shelling out (in February) bargain outlays of Pedro's pesos. The rust is gradually wearing off -- today, for instance, I managed to take 14 strokes off yesterday's score. After all, I hadn't hit a golf ball since last October.

Ah, just imagine, championship courses at championship prices. Sometimes I even imagine that I'm Phil Mickelson, swashbuckler extraordinaire. But not that often. Phil always goes for it. Sometimes it costs him a major victory, but, at least in his case, it still pays off over the long run. I am no fool, however. Mostly, I'm in the game for a quarter a hole, and so far, my buddy Mike (to whom I give six or seven strokes per nine) is ahead by $2.50. Yesterday was a major defeat -- two dollars down; but today, I lost only 50 cents. And all of that because (no shame on Mike intended), I offered him the use of my 3 metal on the 17th hole, and he laced it to 12 feet from 200 yards. So who do I have to blame? Frankly, it was my own fault, and Mike has also been here since early January. Have to watch that guy every second! Tomorrow morning, bright and early, Mike and I are headed out to the local golf outlets to let him buy his own goddamn 3 metal!

But this blog is not about my personal humiliations. It is more about the joys of being out there in the fresh air, the camaraderie of good companionship, the competition, catching the rays, sometimes even with thunder clouds looming, while still reveling in SC's 68 degree weather as opposed to NY's 30 degree icy depths. And then there's the wonderful wildlife.

Yes folks, the gators are already out of hibernation. I'm told that global warming has nothing to do with it, but lazy alligators sunning themselves in the fairways and on front lawns in mid-February does make one wonder...

Yesterday, on the back nine at Arthur Hills in Palmetto Dunes, Mr. Ten-foot himself was relaxing across the way. His appearance, of course, reminded our playing partner in the opposing twosome to retell a story of how she nearly walked backwards into the gaping jaws of death. It was only the loud hissing noise of warning from three feet away that brought her out of her hypnotic golfing trance; and from there she suddenly (at age 45 or thereabouts) ran the next 50 yards in under six seconds. Alligators are scary creatures. I too have been hissed at, but that was last spring. I mean, after all, a five iron can be an effective weapon if called upon -- not that that happened to me. The sucker simply was too close to my ball.

Today's foursome allowed our group to watch two amorous raccoon squirrels, flaunting their sexuality right there on the 15th hole. We had a confrontation of sorts. Once again, we were paired with complete strangers; strangers who became, as usual, fast friends over the course of the four plus hours that it takes to play 18 holes of golf. This time the randy squirrels were brought to abrupt attention by the loud thumping on the ground from our fellow player's driver on the ladies tee. Everyone came to attention and the squirrels suddenly stopped, frozen in time, at her order to behave. Then she hit her drive and the entire gallery was dismissed. Those squirrels knew what they were up against!

Playing a round of golf at Hilton Head National is a pleasure. It is scenic and delightful; it is a constant challenge, with unexpected obstacles at each turn of every dogleg. It was very nice to hear the delightful calls of the cardinals, the quiet "who, who" of the owl in the adjoining forest, and observing anhingas drying their wings amidst the pampas grass while searching for Mr. Bridgestone RX-330.

Yes, there is more to golf than snapping a drive 235 yards down the left side, then hitting an approach onto the green or possibly sinking a 20 footer. But don't you believe any of that stuff. Golf is all about hitting it stiff, and knocking your opponent on his keister.

Golfers never, ever talk about that aspect of the game though. We are civilized and content to wax eloquently about those magical 8 irons that drop dead to the hole after being caught up in the flag itself. It's what keeps bringing us back, in spite of those insolent reptiles...

Stay calm and carry on,

Paul on Hilton Head Island, SC
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