It’s morning again.
Sunlight filters in through the privacy blinds and nudges me awake.
Rubbing my eyes, stifling a yawn, I glance at my phone to see the time.
6.47 am.
Ah life on the road – sleep ins are not the usual fare.
I spend 20 mins waking up, before slipping into the drivers seat and navigating Charlotte around to the pool and showers.
Slipping into the 80 F heated pool is bliss, as is the scalding hot shower about 15 mins later. $16 very well spent!
Back to the campsite for a bit of breakfast and some decisions to be made.
Today’s events have been lurking at the back of my mind for 2 days now, ever since I first drove into Furnace Creek.
I’m sure I noticed the sign, and the way between my camp spot and the pool takes me directly across it’s path, so I don’t think I can pass up the opportunity.
To play a round and the world’s lowest golf course – Furnace Creek Golf Course – 215 ft/66 m below sea level!
I haven’t swung a club since August, the last of my lessons in Sydney are a distant memory and I have zero equipment with me so it clearly is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
Sideling my way over to the pro shop, I manage to arrange for loan clubs, a cart, 3 new balls and a bag of tees for under $50 including the round.
The only thing I don’t get is a glove – which I will end up ruing.
The course is quiet – it’s Sunday in winter,so not high season, and there is no wait for me at the opening tee.
I make acquaintances with the Driver in my bag, attempting a few swings to warm up.
Takeaway, hinge, keep the left arm straight, pivot at the top, drive down, unhinge – the lessons reverberate in my mind, but the swings and my body feel awkward.
I can’t avoid the moment – eventually I have to try and hit the ball.
Stepping up, I swing, make contact and lo and behold, the ball fires off straight down the middle of the lush green fairway.
No Mussolini turn to the right, it simply traces a majestic path all of 170 metres to the short cut grass.
Bugger me.
Nonchalantly raising a hand to the avid crowd of zero humans, one bird and some assumed lizards, I pick up my tee, head to the cart and set off down the first.
I know it’s just the first swing bliss, and I fully expect that this will not continue, but to say the next few holes were surprising is an understatement.
There’s no way I could realistically have expected this.
To play probably the worst golf of my life over the net 5 holes. Tops, misses, 60 metre ground ball runners. I’ve got em all.
Mussolini returns on a few drives – luckily the course is empty and there is no water so it’s relatively easy to find my ball each time, especially with the help of a cart.
The only thing I can manage even adequately is putting – I one putt a few holes to keep myself in the 7s and away from the dreaded 9s.
Finally I reach the turn with a distinguished 61 to my name. Compounding my ineptitude is the fact I’ve just played the short 2807 yard front nine (around 2567 metres).
This is getting embarrassing.
But then things start to turn.
Somehow the lessons come back, my body loosens and I string a few shots together.
Bogey. Bogey. Bogey.
PAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A double bogey brings me down to earth, but that was a fluffed chip rather than a poor swing.
The ball is flying straight now – Mussolini has departed and I only miss the green when my stance independently assumes I will slice, so it lines up to the left of the target against my knowledge.
Even the one top I make bounces 100 m onto the green!
Another bogey – my card is all 5s and 6s – what is this heaven?
Then – ecstacy on the 16th – the mind numbingly difficult 299 yard/270 metre par 4.
Don’t let its disturbingly straight lines fool you, only exceptional wielders of the stick can punch it 170 up the middle, follow with an arrow straight 8 iron onto the green (having lined up my feet correctly), then drain a 12 foot wickedly non-curving putt.
BIRDIE!!!!!!!
5 valuable stable ford points after applying my self assessed 36 handicap.
Delerium nearly overtakes me, but I gather myself to the congratulatory scowls of the desert insects and mark my card.
Drunk with an over-inflated sense of my own ability I celebrate with a beer at the 17th and tee up.
No!!!!!!!
The golf gods have returned to haunt me, resurrecting Mussolini to taunt me and my drive disappears off to the right!
“Please don’t ruin this round”, I entreat as I navigate over hill and dale in the cart to find my ball.
Having located it, there is only one club I haven’t used so far – a 5 wood rescue type.
Whispering sweet nothings in its ear, making promises of rewards I’m not empowered to deliver upon, I put my faith in this one moment.
The swing.
That beautiful feeling of nothingness at impact when you know you’ve got it flush.
Followed by the sullen clunk of ball hitting tree trunk a second later.
Crushed it.
Into a tree.
But then my sweet little white friend appears, bounding gleefully across the terrain, doggedly heading to the 17th fairway.
It does a final little jig before settling quietly about 40 m from green.
Though it’s got nothing on the dance of joy I break into.
Pitch up, 2 putts and it’s another Bogey.
Rout avoided.
Deep breaths lead me to the 18th when a disturbing thought enters my head.
I realise that I have yet to perform the mandatory Happy Gilmore.
But surely I can’t interrupt these precious moments of actual “looks like a golfer” golfing for that silliness.
Yet I must.
Decades of tradition cannot be forsaken at the feet of a potentially good round.
So, almost taunting the golf gods, I set the tee high and mark out my run up.
Once, Twice, Thrice Happy swings and makes poor or misguided contact sending balls into trees and nearby rock.
Clearly good form isn’t transferring to this mockery of golf!
Suitably chastened, I grab the cart, gather my precious 3 balls up and return for my proper attempt at the hole.
(For the uninitiated – Happy swings, whilst mandatory and able to be used if used, are not counted if not!)
A faulty drive tugs the ball left (LEFT by me! LEFT!), before a gentle, gentle fade brings it back to the edge of the adjoining fairway.
The approach to the green is short and left, my stance again independently interfering, but a pitch onto the green leaves me with another par chance.
Humanly I squander the chance, but I will take the tap in for 5.
Bogey, bogey, bogey, par, double bogey, bogey, birdie, bogey, bogey for a jaw dropping 7 over 43 on the back nine!
With my 61 on the front that’s a 104 against a par score of 70, two better than handicap.
Stableford is even better – 40 points (29 from the back nine alone)
Returning the carts keys, and bouyed by my showing, I ask the pro if he has a club out the back he can give me to keep in the van so I can “practice a few drills” along the way.
This time, unlike at Pebble beach, I succeed – I’m now the proud owner of a Furnace Creek 7 iron!
Sitting down to some of the sweetest beers ever sunk on a golf course, it’s only when the adrenaline drains from body that I pay the price for the folly of playing gloveless.
2 large blisters start to throb on my left hand. On  further inspection the skin has been ground away on one so it weeps like an open sore.
Still it’s a price I’m willing to pay, and the weeping of that sore will be nothing compared to the weeping of the golf gods tonight.
Not-so-happy Gilmore 🙂