Country Club Revisited

Boquete's intrepid trio of golfers, LJ, Woowoo and Yers Truly, set forth in wind and rain to once again brave the wilds of our country club whose name remains a mystery. (There is a sign that says something about a Club Atletico y Social, but we are not sure if that is a name or a description.) We had called ahead to check on the weather and were told it was "esta bien", so we remained undaunted as our windshield wipers tried valiantly to make the highway visible. About halfway to the course, about 45 minutes out, the rain gave way to sunshine and our spirits brightened so we took them out of the bottle and had a slug. Just kidding. We got to the Costa Rican border, made a hard left through the wild and woolly border town and cruised parallel to CR for another 30 minutes or so. We arrived at the club (ha! ha! ha!, I just love saying that... the club) at 3:30 sharp, okay rounded, and found our caddies waiting for us. Ten minutes later we were teeing off and using the horses in the center of the first fairway to give us a sight line to the green. You may find horses in the fairway a bit unusual, but then you probably use lawn mowers to keep your grass trimmed.

I won't, as usual, tell you about the round, because I know how boring it is to people who don't play golf. I won't even tell you about the great shots I hit on holes 2, 5, 7 and 9 which included an excellent chip-in, because you all know I mostly write fiction and wouldn't believe me anyway. I will tell you about the cart lady.

"She's no lady, she's a..." is the punch line to more than one joke. In this case I'm not kidding because the cart lady was a guy, on a bicycle, passing by. He took our money in a serious and forthright manner and set off for the clubhouse on his vintage fat wheeled, no gears bike, for our order of cokes and beers. The cokes were for Woowoo and the caddies. He was back before we had completed the hole, which, if you knew the truth, says more about our tee shots than the speed of the cyclist.

I'm not sure at what point I should mention the principal feature of the golf course, so I'll just do it now and get it out of the way. Golf course descriptions usually range from the lyrical " the flowers at Augusta National remind us all of poetry past and present yadida yadida yadida" to hyperbole that includes best, most, toughest, and meanest, but until now you haven't heard this phrase about your average, run-of-the-mill eighteen holer: The landing strip the runs through the center of the golf course can be used to good advantage. By landing your tee shot there, you can gain an additional fifty yards on the bounce. There is, of course, the danger of hitting the small planes that actually land there and as they all look like the planes used in drug runner movies, this may not be a fortunate circumstance. Pilots and passengers of these aircraft can seldom take a joke.

Apart from the soccer game skirting the eighth hole and the softball game in progress on the ninth fairway, there is not much more to tell. A quick post game Cerveza Panama was had by all, the caddies were paid and we were on our way.

The drive home lacked drama, which is how all drive homes should be unless, of course, like me, you make stuff up. ("Stuff up" is probaly not a great way to end a sentence unless you are cooking a turkey or giving an order, but I'm going with it anyway.)

Upon arriving at LJ's casa, we were greeted by his wife Bonnie who became in contention for wife-of-the -year, okay week, by presenting us with frozen margaritas and a pot of chili. Now, how good is that? I'll tell you how good as that. It almost made me forget my chip-in and the long putt I almost made on six.

Did I tell you about that putt? It was and uphill left to righter with a... Hey! come back here!