I believe that the quintessential task of every painter in any time has been to concentrate on the essential.” - Gerhard Richter
The same could be said about every golfer. Sometimes it is the essential that guarantees our survival.
There is nothing quite like enduring fifteen minutes in an emergency shelter on a golf course during a thunderstorm to makes you appreciate the sunny side of life.
For five hours – that felt more like fifteen - my friend and I slogged our way around Dennis Pines Golf Course. During our determined march, not only did we experience a half dozen or more weather patterns, we also worked our way through a variety of playing companions. A more interesting round of golf would be hard to come by.
The day started off in an innocent fashion, our customary Friday round sans two of the usual characters, leaving us as a twosome. A much needed rain the evening before had left the course just wet enough to preclude the use of motorized carts. A walker myself, the course seemed more gentile for the lack of revving engines. Along with two gentlemen to fill out our foursome we sauntered to the first tee under brilliant blue skies, oblivious to the challenges about to confront us.
Sunny skies seemed to be the order of the day for me as I started my round par-par. Our companions were easy to play with but unusually quiet; they were as non-threatening as the weather appeared. Despite the relatively high humidity and lack of our usual ocean breezes it was a gorgeous day to play golf, if not more than just a little sticky. Remembering long ago advice to club up when the air is heavy, my game tuned in to the summer heat.
By the time we reached the fifth green the silence of our round was broken by distant rumblings. I phoned home for a weather update as the skies started to darken; not to worry, I was told, thunder storms north and west but nothing within thirty miles to either side of us. To the best of my knowledge, my husband does not hold a life insurance policy on me, though I was soon questioning that notion. What satellite radar system had he considered; Greenland? On the eighth tee the sky abruptly darkened, a Gerhard Richter abstract painting come to life; glowing, roiling shades of purple and black, unlike any sky I’d ever witnessed. Around us, on every fairway and green, golfers stood transfixed.
Just hit your drives, it’s blowing out sideways, the men advised from their tee box. Huh? I know the red tees are set a little forward on that hole but they weren’t that far behind us. Could they not see the likes of Armageddon rolling up our fairway? My friend and I belted out two massive tee shots. Whether driven from fear and coursing adrenalin alone, or perhaps riding a strange electrical current running down the fairway, our balls were smoking. We watched in fascination as the small white orbs flew skyward and hung against the pulsating aubergine curtain above. I have never seen a golf ball in such a light before, and will gladly never witness it again. Spooky doesn’t even begin to describe it.
As we cautiously headed down the fairway the golf gods let loose, like tremendous applause for our brilliant shots. Crack! A flash of lightening and quicker than the thunder to follow, the two of us abandoned our clubs and headed for the shelter on the other side of the fairway. Not so for the other half of our foursome. For whatever reason, on they went; macho attitude or mere ignorance, who’s to say. We watched their receding backs from the safety of our little bungalow, wondering as to their fate.
Joined by another foursome, for fifteen minutes or more we watched the sky, bonded by circumstance. The previously hot and heavy air kicked up and blew an unexpectedly cold wind. The sky churned from purple to black to smoky grey, criss-crossed by bolts of lightning; clouds hung low as they blew by. The six of us agreed their ragged edges bore eerie cone shapes that harkened visions of tornadoes. Storm chasers, we’re not; golf isn’t supposed to be that exciting. We hung tight.
Eventually the air changed again and patches of blue and white appeared as if the magic of a summer day had never left us. Aside from our new found friends from the shelter, the front nine appeared to be ours alone. Looking forward to the turn and the continuation of my good round, we ventured out and back to the eighth fairway, picked up our clubs that lay like fallen soldiers, and hastened on.
Not finished with us yet, Mother Nature had a few more surprises scheduled for the afternoon. Gentle sun showers quickly turned to a heavy downpour as we putted out on nine. A minor nuisance compared to the earlier electrical display, we headed for the clubhouse and I assumed our day was done.
We were not the only ones seeking respite in the clubhouse. There were so many bags parked out front it looked like demo day for every major golf manufacturer on earth. No sooner did we settle inside at the bar to refresh, watch the weather channel and consider our options than the golf gods unleashed again. The lightening returned with a vengeance, this time seemingly striking the clubhouse itself, most likely attracted by the huddled mass of titanium just outside its doors. There formed a camaraderie that can only be brought through common adversity. The buzz of the waiting players undulated with the power, on and off, as we traded stories of where on the course we’d been when the first round of the storm had struck. There was not a soul in that room that didn’t thank the stars that they’d found cover and safety within.
The minutes passed, and eventually, so did the storm. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t ask my friend to continue our match just because I was having a good day. But a true friend is one who can overlook her own damp discomfort purely to urge another one on toward a personal goal. At the first sign of sunshine and quiet skies we scurried to the tenth hoping to enjoy the freedom of the empty golf course before the rest of the field found their way back to the fairways. A bit premature, we caught another shower midway down ten and stepped aside under heavy pines to second guess our intentions. After the eleventh green we’d be headed back out into the wilds with who knows what ready to fall from the sky. Up ahead we saw one of the local plus-handicappers in the next foursome. Figuring he was not only an excellent golfer but one of the most sensible people we know, we deduced that if it was safe enough for him to play, if was good enough for us. Though the air quickly cleared and breezy white clouds indicated the storm was past, we made a pact that, our ball flight being of less importance than our safety, one of us would keep one eye on the sky while the other was hitting; blood sisters in golf.
Back to a twosome, we enjoyed the serenity of the golf course. We wondered briefly how the rest of our original foursome had faired in the storm, since we had not seen them in the clubhouse, but we hardly missed them and their reticent behavior. Their quietness would not have been a good mix for our excited chatter, still electrified by the storm as we were. While the rest of the course may have been enduring a starter’s nightmare, our timing had been good. Relatively close to shelter during the first lightening round, making the clubhouse at just the right time, and finding the tenth tee without a crowd… you know what they say, when you’re having a good round, you tend to get all the good bounces.
There was nothing but clear skies ahead and we settled down to the business of golf. And yet, this round had yet to reveal all the secrets of its fellowship. On the thirteenth tee, after purposing letting a foursome play through, we found a twosome waiting for us. Again, it was all about the timing. One of the gentlemen was a past colleague of my friend’s, having worked together, “over the bridge.” Not a small coincidence, since the commute is an hour and a half. More war stories of the day’s storm were traded and all too soon our round was done.
We felt as if we’d played four distinct rounds that day – before the first storm; the remainder of the front; the holes on the back as a twosome; and the thirteenth on with a full foursome. We were sufficiently tired from our efforts but at the same time energized by the events. I was thrilled to find out I’d shot my best round of the season, and nearly my personal best for the course. So distracted by the weather, our numerous shifts in playing companions, as well as the mere act of survival, obsessing over my score had been the least of my worries. My usual left-brain behavior had been stymied by the wonders of the day. Not only had we met the challenge and came out unscathed but we’d had a good time doing it. Every round should be so easy.
