'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 2. A Water Hazard

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the first episode (http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse), our golfers were shocked to meet a bewitching cart nymph in an environmentally sensitive area. They were informed by the nymph that they can't return to the course they were playing - maybe ever. The good news, though, is drinks are on her. This is the second in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the Royal and Ancient Golf Curse.]

Being more shameless than my brethren, I'm quick to take up our guide on her offer of a ride. After parking my clubs on the back of her cart, I hop in next to her and we're off. She zips us bouncing through the evergreen trees, over pinecones and tree roots and fallen branches. We crest a little hill into a clearing bejeweled with a limpid pool.

"There's the water hazard," she says softly. "I told you, you wouldn't mind."

And what do I see in the pond but three girls frolicking! One of them hears us drive up and she points and then all three of them turn and wave. I can't help but shake my head. Golf is such a ridiculous waste of time! Like an idiot I wave back. I don't need no stinkin' rain check…

"Who's that? Do they work here, too?" I whisper to the cart nymph.

"They tend the sacred water hazard. They spend all their time here."

"Whoa."

Beer Boy, Single Malt, and Wild Turkey come clanking up to us, understandably goggle-eyed with amazement.

"No reason to get all fixated on playing golf," Single Malt says, speaking for all of us.

"Hear, hear," says Wild Turkey. "A dip would be great. It's broiling out here."

"And I'm covered in muck," Beer Boy agrees. "Can't play caked in mud. Didn't you say something about washing off, Miss?"

"Yes, since you're here." The cart nymph swings her legs free and hops out. "Virgins! You have company. Come say hello."

The three women in the immaculate pool gaze at us with great eyes. Then they swim gracefully to the side of the water hazard and climb out. They're wearing white bathing suits and look sleek and statuesque. And chaste.

We follow their approach with our eyes pretty much starting out of our skulls. They're more than a little intimidating these girls, with their youth and beauty and who knows what? We don't know what!

The ripples in the pool behind them are commingling and dying away in a diminuendo of a million sin waves and the water is perfectly clear, except along the shoreline, where the light reflects so brightly and perfectly that you'd think it was a pool of mercury or molten silver.

"These are our friends, girls."

"Hello."

"What are they doing here?" one of the girls asks.

"They're golfers, girls."

"What's that?"

"It's a curse," the nymph explains.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," one of the girls says.

"Can we help?" asks another.

In moments like these, men's thoughts will often turn to fancy.

But before our minds go haywire, the cart nymph interrupts our reverie: "They need to wash off. This one in particular. The fellow whose name is Mud."

"We could all use some cleaning up, I'm afraid," says Wild Turkey, rising to the occasion.

"True," says Single Malt.

"Too true," I concur.

"Well, then, disrobe."

The three virgins of the water hazard trip back toward their sacred pool. Quickly they slip out of their vestal swimsuits and wade in. Then they turn to watch us, paddling away on their backs, laughing and smiling.

One of them utters the timeless words, "Come on in. The water's fine."

The moment couldn't be riper. Beer Boy yanks off his muddy clothes with some difficulty and lumbers down to the water's edge. The three goddesses watch him from a respectful distance and seem delighted by his belly flop. Then they start kind of guffawing in a way that gives the rest of us second thoughts.

I'm balanced against the side of the golf cart taking off a sock when I see Beer Boy come up for air. His face is bright red. I've never seen such a look of panic. Or despair.

"Where's my club?" he croaks. "What have you done with my balls?"

Indeed. The Vestal Virgins have most efficiently protected themselves from our golf buddy. Our golf bags are still standing upright on shore, but our friend's weaponry has vanished into thin air.

As I'm staring at the spot where Beer Boy's clubs once were, suddenly his bag shimmers back into view. Like a phoenix. That's the exact moment our friend scrambles out of the pool. I didn't know he could move that fast. As he climbs out, dripping and panting, his golf bag full of clubs and balls and tees is returned, as if nothing had happened. But his blotchy, distressed face tells a different story. He's focusing hard on his beer belly, or thereabouts.

"Now that's better," our guide intones. "You're all cleaned up. I have a fresh outfit for you here in my cart. I'll get it for you. Your name's no longer Mud. It's Mister Beer Boy, am I right?"

"Clean clothes would be great." Beer Boy shoots us a consternated look. He also gives his golf bag a quick glance. Then he goes back to looking long and hard at himself, verifying, you might say.

A lilting voice floats across the water toward us. It practically sings. "Who else wants to swim…?"

Beer Boy's eyes widen in horror. He squawks: "No! Don't!"

"Maybe we'll just skip the swim..." I say.

"I showered this morning..." Single Malt adds.

"Me, too," says Wild Turkey. "And then there was the rain..."

"Have it your way, boys," says our guide. "It's probably for the best. You have a lot of golf ahead of you."

"Really?"

"We do?"

"The first tee's right up ahead."

Beer Boy starts to get dressed and my other two friends pick up their clubs, albeit ever so cautiously, to follow the nymph and me and our golf cart's progress. We've already buzzed off. Stunned into silence would best describe me at this point. I frantically scan the horizon for what's next. A beautiful sunny terrain it is. Well suited for a fairytale.

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.