'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 5. Golf in the Animal Kingdom

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the fourth episode - http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse_part_4_the_ferryman_from_hell - the three remaining golfers - Wild Turkey, Single Malt and I (Irish Coffee) escaped the island tee thanks to the Ferryman from Hell. Herewith is the fifth in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the "Royal and Ancient Golf Curse."

"Hole No. 2 is one of the prettiest holes on the curse… er, course," our lovely guide announces.

She isn't exaggerating. Idyllic is the word for it. Wild Turkey, Single Malt, and I (Irish Coffee), scan the hole ahead of us. It has everything - mountains, valleys, plateaus, streams, oceans, trees, acres of flower beds in bloom, waterfalls, shrubberies, and on and on and on - it makes me dizzy trying to figure out how all that beauty could fit into such a tight little par-4. A mere 313 yards.

"God's little half-acre," Wild Turkey enthuses.

"A regular Eden," I say reverentially.

"I could play this hole all day," says Single Malt, as if he's dreaming.

"She is a beauty, isn't she?" our guide murmurs, quick to concur.

In case you wonder how we ever got off the island green, our guide led us astray . . . that is, what I meant to say is she showed us the way. The ferryman had vanished by the time we holed out, and for a second I thought we'd have to swim for it. But the libations nymph somehow arranged for a golden barge to be there waiting for us. A golden barge!

You should have seen her. She stepped aboard like some empress and lay down on a feather bed in the middle, where she propped herself up on a pile of red, yellow, and violent pillows, I mean violet pillows. Then she contented herself with looking amused as we assumed the role of oarsmen. Wielding three massive ebony paddles, we deftly propelled ourselves along a narrow channel overhung with marvelous, heady flowering vines.

The cascading blossoms clung to rocky cliffs flowing with crystalline waters. We might as well have gone back in time to visit one of the Eight Wonders of the World. With Cleopatra. Could the Hanging Gardens of Babylon have been more intoxicating? Or Cleopatra more delectable? I try to imagine. We were getting kind of spoiled. After a golden barge, a golf cart seems a bit dinky. Lowly.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking this is all just make-believe, nothing but shameless fantasy. I'm going to pinch myself before I say this. Oww. There. I'm wide-awake. I'm telling you. This. Really. Happened.

So there we are paddling along. We duck under a dangling tapestry of wisteria, at their height of perfection by the way, and arrive at Hole No. 2. I guess I'm learning to be more Zen, staying in the moment, because at this point I can barely remember Hole No. 1. I know I enjoyed it, and I know this - the par-4 looks plenty distracting and delightful. We might as well have crossed the River Lethe to the Elysian Fields.

I offer my hand to our beautiful guide, and with the help of a little chivalry, she gracefully de-barges. Surveying the impending challenge, the boys and I are basically speechless, breathing it all in. Breathing deeply.

Finally Wild Turkey quietly asks: "Who's got honors?"

"Single Malt, I believe," I say. "He made par first."

"And that tee shot was stiff to the pin."

"I almost don't want to go," Single Malt admits dreamily. "Maybe we should take a break and just frolic for awhile."

"You can frolic between shots," says the cart nymph. "No rules against frolicking."

"How about capering?"

"Capering's absolutely acceptable."

"What about cavorting?"

"Perfectly appropriate. After your tee shots, you can load your clubs on my cart and gambol as you like. Though you'll probably want to take off your spikes and socks. Really enjoy yourselves."

"Alrighty."

The prospect is almost too beautiful. Kudos to the grounds keepers. Everything is looking untouched and lush and pristine . . . adjectives escape me. I would hate to take a divot on this hole.

We tee our balls up and knock them out there and all three of us find the fairway. The nymph drives our bags on ahead, carefully navigating a picturesque little cart path on the left along a bluff overlooking the ocean, and I can't resist the urge to do a little dance and hop and skip in the general direction of my ball. I'm vaguely aware of Wild Turkey and Single Malt clicking their heels and also proceeding in aimless gyrations and pirouettes.

As my ball looms ahead, I can't help myself and I break into an all-out, wildly exuberant sprint. I haven't felt such a welling up of animal spirits in years. (I might as well be a 10-year-old running home after the final bell has sounded on the last day of school. Summer vacation, here I come!) Wild Turkey and Single Malt are right there, running alongside me, laughing as if they didn't have a care in the world.

"I'm glad you're having such a nice time," says the nymph, when we come dashing up.

"Unbelievable," we all say simultaneously, a little breathlessly.

"Well," I say, "Looks like I'm away."

I pull a 7-iron, and barefoot as the day I'm born, I take an easy, lighthearted swing at the ball. I'm loath to injure the fairway, though, considering its immaculateness, and I hit my ball a little thin. It hops forward, nonetheless, and trickles onto the green. Too soon for a victory dance? Certainly. But a provisional jig? Why not? I go ahead and indulge myself and my friends don't even seem to mind, which is unbelievable in itself.

Wild Turkey's next and he's chuckling helplessly. His practice swing takes a nip out of the grass and a cloud passes in front of the sun. He takes a last look at the target and aims for a bunch of crows that have flapped down out of the trees, landing on the fairway in the distance, making a lot of commotion. He hesitates.

"Let's see if I can scare them," he says, and takes a cut with his 8-iron. The ball heads straight for the flock of crows and plows into them. They take flight, helter-skelter, except for one. It falls and doesn't move. Another dark cloud drifts across the sky, blotting out the sun.

"Whoa," says Wild Turkey. "I didn't mean to hit it."

"I've never seen that before," I say.

"Me neither," says Single Malt. "That was freaky."

"A murder of crows."

As we look around, we see movement in the woods bordering the fairway, and we hear howling and keening and roaring.

"You should have yelled 'Fore!' " the cart nymph says, admonishing Wild Turkey.

From the woods to our left we see branches parting and something big and blonde moving. It's a lion. Or a lioness, I should say. Slowly at first, then sprinting, it charges us. It's clearly coming in for the kill. Before we can take even a few useless steps to get away, it comes pounding, scrambling up, turf flying, and takes down Wild Turkey.

He squeals: "Help! Fear!" The huge animal grabs him by the scruff of his polo shirt and starts dragging him back to the sylvan glade from whence it pounced.

In a commanding voice, the nymph shouts: "Maman! You put that golfer down!"

Dozens of other animals, small and great and not-so-great, are watching from the fringes of the fairway, like spectators on a Sunday's final round. Monkeys, elephants, hyenas, roadrunners. Wild Turkey's eyes are bugging out of his head. He looks like he's given up the ghost.

The lioness stops in her tracks. She opens her mouth and lets our friend fall on the fairway. He's gone completely limp. Limp as a short birdie putt.

"Go on, now, Maman! It was an accident. He's sorry."

"Sorry, sorry," Wild Turkey stutters as he rolls over and crawls back to us. "Never again, never. Fear. Fur."

"Fore," says the nymph.

"Fur," says Wild Turkey.

"Fore!" repeats the nymph sternly.

"Fear!" croaks Wild Turkey. "Fore!"

"There you go. That's a good boy," says the cart nymph. "You won't make that mistake again."

"Nevermore," says Wild Turkey. "Never, ever more."

Treading lightly, practically walking on eggshells, we baby our shots up and into the hole without further damage to the signature hole or ourselves. All animal eyes are on us. We tally triple-bogeys. Our enthusiasm for the game of golf has waned palpably, but our guide, the libations lady, takes no notice. The game, apparently, must go on.

When not writing about golf, Richard Voorhees is a novelist, filmmaker and lexicographer. His novel, "Shooting Genji," and his dictionary of occupations, "The World's Oldest Professions," are available on Amazon.com and at his website, www.rgvoorhees.com.