Carl Hiaasen Read online

  “Done.”

  The magazine put us up at a well-known and preposterously expensive resort called Sandy Lane, which would later become more famous as the place where Tiger Woods got married.

  My editor, Bob Roe, arrived hauling a set of golf clubs. Having journeyed to many tropical locations for previous swimsuit editions, Roe was not breathlessly fascinated with the proceedings. The only golfer in the magazine’s entourage, he’d disappear each afternoon to play one of the rambling eighteen-hole layouts at Sandy Lane.

  Meanwhile I was dutifully monitoring the photo sessions on the beach, taking notes and—dare I admit?—getting bored.

  You’re thinking: How is that possible? Sports Illustrated’s models are the most breathtaking women in the world!

  The point cannot be argued. However, fashion shoots can be as sappingly tedious as moviemaking. There were long and frequent delays for weather, lighting, makeup, hair styling, thong alterations and even crowd control. My mission was not to chronicle the scene as a journalist but rather to troll for potentially satiric material. After a couple of days, I’d collected more than enough.

  One evening at dinner, Roe and I started chatting about golf. Foolishly I mentioned that I’d played when I was young.

  “Why don’t you come out with me tomorrow? It’ll be fun,” he said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “They’ve got monkeys out there,” he added matter-of-factly.

  “What kind of monkeys?”

  Roe shrugged. “How should I know?”

  I was aware that golf had changed during my three-decade abstinence, but I had no idea that prestigious courses were now being stocked with wild, free-ranging primates. Who in their right mind could pass up a day of monkey golf?

  The following afternoon, Roe and I set out for Sandy Lane’s Country Club course, designed by the renowned golf architect Tom Fazio. Roe assured me that the shareholders of Time Warner would be delighted to rent me a set of clubs and pay my green fees. They even kicked in for a golf glove and a sleeve of balls.

  Waiting on the first tee, I was no more anxious than a cliff diver in a hurricane. My rented driver bore little resemblance to the old persimmons I’d used as a kid—the clubhead was as large as Ozzy Osbourne’s liver, and made of a distractingly shiny alloy. I have no memory of that first shot, though I feel confident to report that it did not sail 260 yards down the center of the fairway.

  Fortunately, Roe is a witty, easygoing guy, and after a few holes my nerves began to settle. For not having played in so long, I was striking the ball shockingly well. I still couldn’t putt worth a damn, but I finished the front nine only 10-over-par, a respectable number considering my extended layoff.

  On the back side, those eons without practice caught up. My swing disintegrated and so did my score. I began to notice that whenever I approached my ball, Roe, who stands about six-feet-five, would discreetly endeavor to align himself behind a coconut palm, or cower in a vale of dense shrubbery. At one point, our mild-mannered caddy snatched the 3-wood from my hand and declared that I was no longer allowed to touch it.

  Frankly, I wasn’t as dismayed by my rusty play as I was by the lack of marauding primates, and I raised with Roe the issue of false advertising. If a golf course promises monkeys, then, by God, there ought to be monkeys.

  The caddy expressed authentic surprise that we hadn’t encountered any of the beasts, which he described as fearless and coarse. The only species found on Barbados is an Old World vervet, the African green monkey, which arrived more than three centuries ago with slave traders from Senegal and Gambia. Today the island’s simian population is estimated at five thousand to seven thousand individuals, a somewhat speculative figure given the logistical challenges of monkey census taking.

  African greenies aren’t large—adult males grow only sixteen inches tall, and a ten-pounder would be considered a cruiserweight. But because they sometimes roam in hordes, the possibility for mayhem is omnipresent. I tried to remain upbeat while hacking my way through the last nine.

  Finally, as Roe and I stood beneath a tree on the 13th tee, something rustled heavily in the branches above us.

  “There’s one!” the caddy cried, with a ring of vindication.

  We looked up just in time to see a tawny form darting among the limbs, but just as swiftly it disappeared. In vain we waited for a display of monkey hijinks, but all remained quiet at the top of the tree. The caddy insisted that what we’d seen was an African green, and I politely pretended to believe him. In truth I suspected it was a large squirrel, or even a feral cat.

  Roe and I teed off without incident. Heading down the fairway, I watched for movement in the foliage. If a troop of monkeys was tailing us, they were uncharacteristically stealthy and well disciplined.

  Roe hit a terrific second shot that landed four feet from the pin. I took my usual ping-pong route to the hole, putted out and stepped away while he lined up a birdie attempt.

  As he steadied himself over the ball, I happened to glance back down the fairway—and there, loping boldly toward us with its tail erect, was a robust, full-grown Chlorocebus aethiops.

  Since that day, I’ve apologized numerous times to Roe for what happened next. Indefensibly, inexcusably, I got carried away by the unfolding scene, a genuine Animal Planet moment.

  At the precise instant that Roe drew back his putter, I excitedly blurted out: “Look at that fucking monkey!”

  Two things happened next, both predictable: The monkey ran away, and Bob missed the putt.

  A golfing tradition that hadn’t changed during my absence was the strict code of etiquette. When a player is putting, his companions are expected to remain still and be silent. My untimely outburst might have been forgivable if the monkey had presented a clear and present danger—say, if it was drooling with rabies, or armed with a sharp stick.

  It wasn’t. The animal was simply bounding toward the green, probably to beg for a snack.

  I felt so badly about Roe missing his birdie that I urged him to try the putt again. He did.

  And pulled it to the left, the same as before.

  “Do it over,” I implored. “This is all my fault.”

  He told me not to worry about it, and tapped in for his par. He remained so good-natured about the fiasco that I was crippled with guilt for several holes. Thank God no other monkeys showed up.

  The 18th was a downhill par-3 to the clubhouse. I could see tourists sipping cocktails on the broad veranda and looking out toward the green. A bitter knot gathered in my stomach. It seemed only fitting that I should finish the day as comic relief, considering my faux paw, as it were, on the 13th.

  Yet, against all odds, I stuck a 6-iron about thirty feet from the hole and two-putted for par.

  It was the worst possible thing that could have happened, because I walked off that course believing I could actually play this damn game again.

  One day.

  Maybe.

  If I put some work into it…

  The following morning, Roe asked if I wanted to try another round. I almost said yes, but then I remembered how golf goes: One day you’re suckered into self-confidence by making a few decent shots; the next day you can’t hit the green with a sledgehammer, and your spirit is crushed like an insect.

  So I politely declined the invitation, and spent the remainder of the trip on the beach with my wife and little boy, watching half-naked supermodels pose for pictures.

  Foolishly I brought home a pink Sandy Lane golf tee as a souvenir of the Sports Illustrated gig. I should have thrown the stupid thing away, but instead I placed it on a bookshelf in my office, in plain view, a constant reminder of that sunny day in Barbados.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  Total Relapse

  Golf books are laced with aphorisms and pithy one-line nuggets of advice because golfers aren’t supposed to overload their brains. “Swing thoughts” should be few and simple, according to the experts. One’s mind should be uncluttered, and
at ease.

  Unfortunately, the single most important fact about golf is as calming as a digital prostate exam: It’s hard.

  Ridiculously hard, if your goal is to play well.

  When I decided to reconnect with the game, I had no illusions about getting really good at it. I just wanted to be better at something in middle age than I was when I was young.

  The golf industry estimates that between two million and three million newcomers take up the sport every year, but there is no reliable statistic on recidivists like me.

  For many of those golf-free years I’d lived down in the Florida Keys, where I pursued a passion for fly-fishing. My preferred quarry was bonefish, a swift and skittish species that must be stalked while wading, or poling a flat-bottom skiff across the shallows. Bonefish are often difficult to find, and even more difficult to fool with a pinch of rooster feathers tied on a bare hook. They are among the fastest fish in the sea but, being neither tasty nor impressively large, their appeal is limited to anglers of an intense and arcane bent.

  In the summer of 2005, our family moved up the coast to Vero Beach, where there are no bonefish to be caught. Consequently I found myself lacking an unhealthy obsession, a perilous state for a writer.

  As it happened, the contractor building our new house was Joe Simmens, the older brother of Big Al, my high school classmate and former golfing companion. Joe had a summer membership at one of the local clubs, and he asked if I wanted to join him for nine holes one afternoon.

  No thanks, I said.

  Joe kept after me, and to this day I truly believe that he meant no harm; he was just trying to be friendly.

  Eventually, I caved. We played a quick nine and it wasn’t a total disaster; in fact, it was pleasant. I had a few good holes, which is all that any dumbass needs to fool himself into thinking he’s got talent.

  Days later, Joe and I played again. There were fewer bright moments, and less cause for hope, but I managed to convince myself that I was struggling because I was using borrowed clubs.

  So I took the next step: I went shopping for my own sticks.

  What triggered such an impulsive and chancy decision is hard to say. Time, lurking like a starved jackal, was surely a factor. If I ever were to try golf again, the battle had to be joined while I was still ambulating with pin-free joints and uncompressed vertebrae.

  It would be the beginning, I knew, of a weird and self-pulverizing journey. Like a true masochist, I kept notes.

  Day 1

  My teenaged stepson, Ryan, agrees to accompany me to a store that specializes in secondhand golf equipment. Everywhere I look are gleaming clusters of pre-owned, metal-head drivers. After a few minutes of puzzled meandering, I confess to Ryan that I have no idea what kind of clubs to buy.

  Finally, while browsing through the bags, I spot a familiar and hallowed name: Nicklaus.

  I snatch up the set and approach the register, where an amused-looking salesman assures me that the clubs will fit just fine. The previous owner, he says, was exactly my height and build. I hand over my credit card.

  Ryan asks, “What about a glove?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ll take a glove, too.”

  “And don’t forget some balls,” Ryan says.

  “Right. Good idea.”

  The total bill: $164.21. Some guys spend more than that on a putter.

  My plan, though, is to start cheap. Minimizing the investment in golf gear should make it easier not to take the game so seriously and, if necessary, allow for an honorable retreat. Dropping fifteen hundred bucks on a new set of clubs would have been a heavy, long-term commitment—who needs that kind of pressure?

  Pleased with my strategy, I walk out of the store toting an almost pristine set of Golden Bear TranZitions with a “light reflex” .370 tip, reinforced with titanium. I have no clue what any of that means, but I’m about to find out.

  Lesson One

  Indian River County has good public golf courses, including Sandridge, where I started hitting once or twice a week on the practice range. No two shots followed the same trajectory; every swing was high drama.

  Before long, I screwed up the courage to schedule a lesson with the club pro, Bob Komarinetz, an outgoing fellow and also an avid fisherman. He watched me hit about a dozen balls, then politely inquired about my clubs. I handed him the TranZition driver, which he examined somewhat skeptically.

  “It’s too short for you,” he said, “and too light.”

  The shaft, he added, was whippy. “The clubhead turns at impact, because of the torque,” he explained. “That’s what’s causing your slice.”

  “What about my hook?”

  Komarinetz cleared his throat.

  “And my shank?” I said.

  “You should learn on clubs that fit you. These are okay for now, but if you change your mind I can loan you some others.”

  I hit some more shots. Every once in a while, one of them would go straight.

  “The guy who sold me the set said the original owner was the same height as I am,” I offered lamely.

  Komarinetz looked doubtful. “The clubs would work fine for an older person,” he said, “someone with a much slower swing.”

  “In other words, the last person who used these was probably in his what—seventies or eighties?”

  Komarinetz saw that I was bummed about getting suckered at the golf store. Like any good teacher, he wanted to buoy my spirits.

  “Let me see you hit a few 5-irons,” he suggested.

  From then on it wasn’t easy to concentrate, knowing that my clubs were better fitted for Mickey Rooney.

  Still, I swung away stubbornly and vowed to stick with my plan. As long as I was carrying secondhand sticks, I could quit the game all over again anytime I wanted, with no harm done. At worst, I’d be out $164 and a little bit of pride.

  So I resolved to grind it out with my geriatric Golden Bears.

  Day 30

  I play nine holes, and I don’t hit a single drive that flies more than a few feet off the ground. It’s a good thing there are no gophers in Florida because I would’ve killed a bunch. By the end of the afternoon, I’m praying for double-bogeys.

  And, of course, hating my clubs.

  Day 41

  So much for my grand plan; I’ve got no chance with these TranZitions. It’s like hitting with chopsticks.

  Komarinetz loans me a set of adult-sized Callaways, and I shoot 48 on the front nine, including two pars. I blow up on a couple of holes but overall it’s not too awful.

  The next step is to ditch the Golden Bears.

  Sorry, Jack.

  Loyalty is fine, but pain is pain.

  Outside Agitators

  Before recommitting to golf, I consulted with several friends, most of whom expressed surprise and a certain twisted glee. One was Mike Leibick, a marvelously sardonic character with whom I attended high school and college. Over the last thirty years Leibo has developed into an appallingly good golfer. Now a vice president of Bacardi, his travels take him to some of the most hallowed golf shrines in the country, from Pebble Peach to Pinehurst.

  A naturally gregarious fellow, Leibo is equally at ease among strangers and friends. I am the polar opposite.

  What had drawn me to bonefishing was the solitary and natural setting—poling the tropical shallows alone, or with a guide, in a small skiff. It’s a peaceful but focused state of isolation that I was hoping to replicate on the golf course.

  “I just want to be able to sneak out after work and play nine holes all by myself,” I told Leibo. “You’ve gotta understand: There are only a few people in the world I can stand to be around.”

  “You’ve got to get over that,” he said.

  “Why? I go fishing alone all the time.”

  “But golf is a social sport.”

  “Hey, I’ll mind my own business. I won’t cause any trouble.”

  “This oughta be good,” he said.

  The first time I got up the nerve to play with Leibo, I par
red the opening hole. He tried not to appear shocked.

  “Just wait,” I told him, and promptly I triple-bogeyed the second.

  “Ray-Ray golf,” Leibo explained with a grim nod.

  “Which is?”

  “One hole you play like Ray Floyd, and the next you play like Ray Charles.”

  “That’s me!” I said. “I’m the poster child.”

  Another person in whom I confided was Mike Lupica, the popular novelist and ace sports columnist for the New York Daily News.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked when I told him I’d bought some secondhand clubs.

  “I’ve got to do something or I’m gonna drive Fenia crazy,” I said.

  Lupica started playing golf at the same young age as I did, but he didn’t pause to take thirty years off. Consequently, he now owns a single-digit handicap and hits the ball straight as a dream.

  While he has been outwardly sympathetic to my tribulations on the golf course, he freely admits to having many laughs at my expense. It was Lupica, abetted by the great Pete Hamill, who suggested that I start keeping a golf diary. And it was Lupica who, whenever I threatened to quit the sport again, talked me down off the ledge.

  Once I felt the need to apologize for a hail of self-flagellating e-mails.

  “I’ll stop whining,” I promised.

  “Are you insane?” Lupica shot back. “Whining is one of the rock-solid foundations of golf.”

  That’s all I needed to hear.

  Day 57

  E-mail to Leibo: “What’s the record for the number of golf balls lost in nine holes? And why doesn’t someone invent a tee that you can slit your wrists with?”

  Day 59

  “Golf free the rest of your life!”

  This is the sales pitch of a mammoth retirement development called The Villages, located south of Ocala in what was once the tranquil horse country of Florida. Commercials for The Villages run frequently during televised PGA events and also on the Golf Channel, which, disturbingly, I’ve begun watching late at night if Letterman is a rerun. The ads show “active” seniors dancing, playing softball and, most festively, marching the links.