DOCK GOLF

Golf. What is it about golf that is so addictive? It is a little complicated. There is the outdoor comeradery with friends, the exercise and of course the mind messing, exasperating physical challenge. Many muscles, large and small, nerves that can get twitchy all must work in synchrony to deliver a precise blow to a dimpled orb a little bigger than a walnut that rests peacefully at your feet. The strike is made with a metal headed club, hand shaped and of similar size. The ball is typically sent over one-hundred yards toward a target with expected accuracy of five to ten yards left, right, long and short. This challenge has evoked the most fascinating behavior from otherwise adult individuals. If you like this challenge you will love what Chris at Sullivan Bay has designed for his boating guests – an irresistible temptation. One ball. One floating green. One shot. Tee up at the end of the float plane dock. It’s one hundred and twenty yards or fifty yards depending on the tide. The “green” is an old satellite dish about 12 feet in diameter and two-thirds filled with water with a flagpole affixed to the center. Land your given ball in the dish and receive your night’s moorage free.

At 4:55pm Austin and I emerge from Ohana and clamor onto the dock. Our neighbor Jim, aboard his large Nordic Tug, Noeta, slides open his salon starboard side window. “You guys heading for tee-time?” “You bet”, we reply pulling our caps down to deflect the wind blown rain. We hear commotion aboard Noeta and Jim is soon out on the dock sporting rain parka and an ambitious smile. We make the walk down the mooring dock past the restaurant, office, general store and round up past the fuel dock and workshop toward the number one (and only) tee. We trudged through the rain like hearty souls on a gray and blustery Scottish day. With purpose, with determination to face the elements and do battle on the field of honor. Chris met us by the recycling center where burnables were smoldering in an ample sized drum. He now led the procession out to the tee. As starter and course marshal, he reviewed the rules. “One shot, must stay in the dish, use any club in the bag”, he examined our faces for understanding. He lifted a water logged golf bag lying by the green plastic turf mat saying, “It might be a seven iron today”. He slid the slightly rusted club from the soaked bag. “Here. I’ll show you.” He tamped down the rippled surface of the mat and placed a ball away from the persistent up-folds. “I’m getting a new mat next week”, he waggled the club over the ball. With a practiced blow, he sent the orb flying from the dock. “Kaploonk”. Ten yards left but spot on the distance. “Not bad”, ran a chorus from our ranks. “Yep, that’s a seven iron”, Chris asserted. After some kibitzing, Jim stepped forward and grasped the seven iron. “I have a one handicap”, he announced. “My swing”. After a brief moment of concentration, he sent the ball on a line drive that fell short even after the skip. I fingered the nine iron in the bag and eyed the pitching wedge. Smooth nine or strong wedge. Smooth is better. “No pressure”, Jim chided, “One shot worth a lot”, he poked. “I’m just glad it’s not a putt”, I placed the ball on the mat. Alignment, check. Grip, check. Relax, hmmm. Not really. Adrenaline was pumping. All quiet, the rain drops drifted to the background, the flag flipped alluringly over the floating dish. The iron rested behind the ball. I could see the strike. Exhale and swing. In the next conscious moment I saw the ball skyward in a great arc on a perfect line for the pin. I love this game. Thanks Chris. I’ll buy a bucket next time we sail in to Sullivan.