Back from Scotland
Deal Hudson
Sorry to be out of touch for nearly a week. I spent the last six days with three chums trying to keep the golf ball out of the wind in a land where the wind hardly ever stops blowing.
The first two days we endured what the Scots call the "arctic wind" from the north, which was unusual for late June. These winds, 30 to 40 mph, drove the temperatures into the high 40s (I don't know how to calculate the wind chill factor).
Even the members of the courses we were playing decided to stay in the pub, while we slogged our way around the links (36 holes per day).
One of my travel mates, call him R, called this part of the trip the "Bataan death march," but to his credit he stuck it out.
The last three days were a typical combination of sunshine, rain, and normal Scottish wind, 10 to 25 mph. When the sun comes out over the wet green links at the end of the day (June sunset is around 10 pm), the scene surely has to rank among the most beautiful sights in the natural world.
OK, so a golf links isn't natural in the strict sense, but they're nothing like the more fabricated designs of the typical American golf course. Links are basically strips of sandy grass and dunes between the sea and coastal roads that were considered good only for sheep grazing until some shepherds invented the game of "gowlfe."
So I am home again, after my week of male bonding and golf foolishness. Both my eyes are infected, my face is red and blotchy, and I can hardly straighten my legs.
Ten hours each day we trudged up and down the dunes judging the effects of wind, rain, grass, sand, gorse, height, and distance on the flight of a 1.620 ounce ball. (I did start humming the theme from "Bridge Over the River Kwai" several times: Da DAT, da da da DAT DAT da, da DAT, da da da DAT DAT da....
And then, of course, there are the all-too-human elements, the golf swing itself and the player's mental state at the moment of taking a whack. What makes golf so interesting, so compulsively addictive, is not the swing itself but the challenge of dealing with your own fears and expectations just prior to taking the club back.
I prepared for this trip quite a long time, learning how to hit my drives and irons low into the wind. More importantly, I prepared for the shock of watching a well-struck shot driven out of the sky by the unseen hand of the wind and fall into a bunker so deep the only the way out is backward.
At the end of the day, a golfer doesn't relish merely the sight of the ball tracking toward the target, it's knowing all he had to overcome -- inwardly -- to paint that white slash across the blue sky.
The number on the card is a legitimate matter of pride and public recognition, but the moment when self-command banishes doubt and the trembling hand for once makes its perfect mark is a satisfaction never to be forgotten.

