'The Royal & Ancient Golf Curse' - Part 7. Hot Springs

By: Richard Voorhees


[Editor's Note: In the sixth episode - http://www.cybergolf.com/golf_news/the_royal_ancient_golf_curse_part_6_the_bunker - Irish Coffee, Single Malt and Wild Turkey ran into two golfers fighting like devils in a particularly stinky fairway bunker. This is the seventh in our friends' series of misadventures, suffered under the spell of the "Royal and Ancient Golf Curse."

We play out the third hole and make our way to hole No. 4, and all the while I keep trying to wipe my golf shoes clean. First on the fairway. Then on the first cut of rough. Even on the edge of the green. The infernal muck from the bunker back there won't come off. The bottoms of my trousers and my socks are devilishly besmirched, bespattered, and bemired.

The cart nymph notices my discomfiture, as discreet as I attempt to be pawing the ground and scuffing my way along. She takes pity on me.

"It's really no use, Irish Coffee," she says. "I propose we take a rest and get you cleaned up."

"Thank God! That would be great."

"This next hole is flanked by hot springs. Why don't you take a bath and change into some fresh attire?"

"For our sake," says Single Malt.

"Yeah, for the sake of humanity," adds Wild Turkey.

"Your friends can wash up, too. How about it, boys? The hot springs are one of the great delights of this curse . . . er, course. Why do I keep saying that? I'm not usually prone to slips of the tongue."

Single Malt and Wild Turkey don't answer immediately.

"The hot springs don't have any little fishies swimming in them," ventures Wild Turkey, "do they? With fangs?"

"Oh, no. They're mineral baths. Very relaxing and therapeutic."

"They're not boiling hot, are they?" asks Single Malt.

"No, no. Nothing like that. They're hot, but you'll love them. I promise." "Sounds nice," says Wild Turkey.

"Yeah… sounds… uh…" murmurs Single Malt dubiously.

"They're over there," the nymph says and casually points to her right. We turn, and sure enough, abreast of the tee box, clouds of steam are wafting into the air.

She gives me an apologetic look and says: "I'd love to offer you a ride, Irish Coffee, but just this once, if you don't mind… "

"I'll walk, of course. Wouldn't think of sullying your cart."

"It's our cart, sweetheart. You can just leave those filthy things where you are. Or drop them in that trashcan. With your sand wedge. I'm afraid that's going to have to come out of your bag."

"I'll make do."

I strip down, ball up my be-clotted clothes and drop them in the trash. I hate to lose my sand wedge, but I shove it in as well. It can't be helped. I lope over to the hot springs and there are my friends, already happily afloat. And they have company. Two winsome gals are bobbing alongside them and the four of them are already yucking it up. They've clearly broken the ice. I don't believe we've met these two gals.

"Come on in!" the nymph calls to me.

I look away from my friends and their gorgeous companions and lo, and behold, there's our guide, in the middle of the hot springs, floating light as a feather, wearing nothing more than her reassuring, welcoming smile.

"The water's fine," she says, as if I needed any more encouragement.

"Twist my arm," I think to myself and plunge in after her.

Owww! I should have tested the water first. Owwwww! It's scalding hot! I do a creditable imitation of a Greek tragedian.

"Hang on, hang on," the nymph says as she does a few quick strokes in my direction. She might as well be an Olympian she's upon me so fast. Then she wraps her arms around me. Wherever she runs her hands, the burning subsides and I glow instead with deliciously soothing warmth.

"Better?"

"Yes." "All better?"

"Yes. Much better. Maybe the heel of my left foot. If you could just give that a little massage… "

"You're right. I missed a spot. There! How's that?"

"Mmmmm."

Entwined in the arms of the lovely libations nymph, I guiltily look to see what Single Malt and Wild Turkey are up to. And whether they see what's become of me. The hot springs are shot through with bubbles tiny as those streaming through fine champagne. My friends have disappeared, completely enshrouded in the clouds of vapor. Low voices coming across the waters tell me that Wild Turkey and his companion are enjoying themselves at one bend in the pool, though I can't see them, and Single Malt and his good fortune are off in another secluded swerve in the springs.

We're all lost to one another and to the world. If I were to try to imagine paradise or nirvana, this is where my imagination would drift. I'm in heaven, and from the sound of things, so are my friends.

But what about our lives? Our wives? The kiddies? Our crappy jobs? Our weekly golf match?

"Wonderful," I sigh, sometime much later.

"Yes," the nymph says.

"But we shouldn't have."

"You had no choice, Irish Coffee."

"No?"

"I'm a goddess. What choice did you have?"

"You are?"

"You don't think so?"

"I thought so the moment I laid eyes on you."

"See. And since you had no choice, how can you regret our little… swim?"

"But I'm going to think about you… about us… when I go home… I won't be able to get you out of my mind."

"If you go home… "

"What do you mean 'if?' "

"You can stay here with me. I already told you that, didn't I?"

"If I go home… when I go home… nothing will be the same. I've gone and mucked everything up."

"If you finish the round, I may let you return to your little life, and you'll forget me."

"That's unlikely."

"Do you want me just to make this disappear? Our little delirium? Your friends won't remember either. Your consciences will be completely clear. Is that what you want? We'll get dressed. You'll drink and play golf. You'll never remember any of this?"

"Never?" I ask.

"Never."

"Total amnesia? For all of us?"

"Exactly. Is that what you want?"

"No. No," I say, suddenly alarmed.

I blurt out my refusal to accept… to forget… my regrets, and this terribly darling nymph swims back into my arms and gives me another unforgettable kiss, diabolical and divine. With all the trappings. And now I'm cursed. I'll never forget how we slid into the hot springs abreast of hole No. 4. Absolutely the worst trap to find when you've lost your rescue club. To treasure and regret. Quite some trappings. As I'm turning this painfully bittersweet thought over in my mind, Single Malt and Wild Turkey paddle back into view. Their companions swim up alongside the libations nymph.

"Well, boys, I have a question for you. If you had to say," the cart nymph asks, "which of us do you think is the comeliest?" The three graces are treading water in front of us, giving us their most beguiling smiles. Of course we're smiling, too, at our good fortune. But even we know better than to answer her question. We weren't born yesterday.

"Such a question," I say.

"We could make you answer," she replies.

"You know the answer," I quickly point out. "You all do."

This seems to satisfy her. "Well, then," she says, giving me her most brilliant smile, "who's up for more golf?"

That very second we hear the metallic sound of a well-spanked ball. A voice shouts from the tee box next to us, "Yeah, who wants to try to top that?!" And there's Beer Boy, he's back, pointing at a white speck that's sailing down the middle of the fairway. A glorious, booming drive. It bounces up to a far ridge and then keeps on going. He's looking a little green, but clearly he's still got game.

"Beer Boy!"

"Dudes!"

"Come on in! The mineral waters are sweet."

"No way! Let's play some golf! Who's got honors?"

Slowly we look at one another, as if coming out of a dream. A dream we can't quite remember.

"I forget. Who does have honors?"

"Uhh… "

"I think you do, Single Malt."

"I know I don't," I say. "I landed in that bunker and… and… I had to wash off."

"Uh… well, young ladies… thank you for letting us bathe here."

"You're welcome!" the three women reply.

"May I still have a change of clothes…?" I ask.

"Of course," says the cart nymph. "Turn around while I throw on something. You, too, Beer Boy. Don't make me send you back to the clubhouse for another victory cigar."

"No more cigars! I won't watch!"

I look away, out over the pool. The other two graces have vanished. Behind me I hear the dripping, watery sound of the cart nymph climbing out of the hot springs.

"Okay, you can look now." And there she is in her impeccable white outfit, standing next to her cart, holding a stack of fresh towels.

"Tally ho!" says Single Malt quietly and we slowly climb out of the mineral waters and prepare to renew our match. After I dry off, the nymph hands me some Bermuda shorts. They're an eyesore, but clean and my size. Everything fits from the shirt to the shoes.

"Your mineral waters are a miracle of miracles," says Wild Turkey.

"I feel 100 percent better," says Single Malt. "Maybe we can come back after our round… ?"

"We'll see. I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves," says the nymph warmly. "You boys are fun. Well, when you're ready, you have hole No. 4 ahead of you, which is tricky. The only hazards are moral ones."

"That's rich," says Beer Boy. "Okay, fellows, sounds like we better behave ourselves."

"Indeed," says the nymph. "That's my advice. In fact it's a warning. Call it local knowledge."

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.