After our fabulous, wonderful, fairytale day on the golf course in NY, we decided to take ourselves into Burgaw, NC today and play a round of golf at the grand ole Buccaneer Club, as a last hoohaw on our last day (morning, actually) of vacation.
For one thing, the word “Burgaw” really means “Mudhole” in some obscure indian language. We were advised by the fellow who works in the clubhouse that it was “cart path only” today. Meaning….”We’ve had a couple of sprinkles of rain in the last week, so y’all are in fer some free mud-boggin’, shoot-dang!”
As we slogged around the mud paths in our mud spattered cart, trying in vain to avoid the deepest holes by sliding off the path every few feet, my brand new, clean golf towel drug through ten inches of fishy smelling gunk and turned a nice shade of turd brown. Which left me nothing clean to wipe my sweaty hands on. My nice white golfing clogs, that I just bought in Myrtle Beach last week….are now clogged with wet grass and covered in that unique Burgaw mud. Our balls managed to find every puddle on the course, which, if you play golf, you understand the significant dismay we felt at getting absolutely no “bounce and roll” all day.
I suppose all the wetness was keeping the maintanence crew from being able to mow, since every fairway was like a hayfield of tall grass here and there. Nothing like hitting a wet ball out of foot high grass and getting a stunning two yard roll into another mud puddle.
Then there’s the humidity. The flies love it. As do the mosquitos. And every other kind of bug that calls Southeastern North Carolina home. I’m convinced that our balls were literally caught in the pea soup mixture we call air down here. I shot a 60 on the first nine holes, after shooting a 45 in NY two days ago. Becuase we were waiting behind a group of five elderly gentleman, who could not be bothered to glance behing themselves and see the cute two-some waiting patiently, we decided to call it a day. It was, all in all, a most miserable experience.
I guess it could have been worse. We could have decided, foolishly, to take the time to search for one of the dozen-plus balls we lost in the ponds, weeds, grown over ditches or mud holes formally known as “bunkers”, and gotten ourselves a cute, little, rattlesnake bite or met one of the friendly gators.
There. Now I feel better.