Frog Strangler, Gulley Washer

     I spent yesterday morning so convinced that I wouldn’t be playing golf that afternoon that I marched off for a 2+ mile walk to make sure I got some exercise. The Weather Channel was predicting an 80% chance of rain, to begin at 1 pm. We tee off at 2 pm. I should have known better.

          At home when you see the sky littered with black clouds looking like the first stages of Armageddon, it rains. Every time. Here, in the winter, almost never.

          12:30, no phone call. 1:00, no phone call. I loaded up my clubs and left.

          The round started pretty well, aside from my new quirk of teeing off by rocketing the ball to my immediate left, not once, but twice into ponds on the side of the fairways. Still, I made it down to each hole in a reasonable number of strokes.

          It was cloudy – something I was grateful for since I’d forgotten sunscreen – and there was a pleasant cooling breeze. A perfect day for golf.

          We did feel a drop or two, but nothing followed them, so we moved on to the next hole. My ball continued to be drawn to any body of water like a lemming to the sea, as though a portent of what was to come.  

          Third hole – minor sprinkles.

          Fourth hole – dry

          Fifth hole – dry (except for my ball that I expertly hit out of the sand trap on the first try, causing it to sail like a thing of beauty high in the air, completely clear the green, and land into a pond on the other side.)

          Sixth hole – minor sprinkles, heavier sprinkles, then the sky’s seam burst open like every old movie you’ve ever seen when the dam ruptures and the locals run for the hills.

          We were a party of three, so I sat alone in my cart and wondered what to do. At that moment a cart flew past me, its driver hidden behind a giant golf umbrella she’d jammed in the doorless opening. That answered that question.

          I scooted over to my ball, picked it up, and then revved my cart to all of its 15 miles an hour.

          I’ve learned:

          Golf cart makers have failed to recognize the need for windshield wipers.

          My so-called waterproof jacket is pretty ineffective against horizontal rain lashing into an open cart cockpit.

          On the plus side, my Baggolini bag from Marshall’s is waterproof.

          There may be an audience for an obstacle-course themed TV show of golf carts with limited visibility tearing overland through teeming rain.

          Be grateful I own a dog and keep a towel in the car for her (even if it is a bit gamey).