Spying on golfers; it’s par for the course

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When it comes to golf, all I can say is I am a hell of a cart driver.

I’ll get you from tee to tee safely and quickly and make sure the beer stays cold. But, put a club in my hands and every man, woman, and child within 100 yards in front, on the sides, or in back of me had better put on their hard hats. Yes, I am that dangerous.

Besides that, the warranty on my back and knees has expired so about all I’m good for on a golf course is driving a cart and offering moral support, which I am also good at, by the way.

That’s why it is a little odd to find myself living on a golf course. The third hole, to be exact, of the La Ventana course here in San Felipe.

The pin is a little less than 50 yards from our back patio.

You can hear the little gas engines of the carts as they rumble up the fairway from the tee.

And, we are close enough to hear the two most common expletives uttered on a golf course. Let’s just say both have to do with bodily functions.

We relocated to another condo yesterday to this new one on the edge of the green.

My back and knees are still angry with me for toting binnies and bundles of our stuff and, in general, we’re a little foggy from how busy we have been.

There was our anniversary, which was cause for a trip down to the malecon for ceviche, tacos, and cervezas. That was followed by Cara’s Tequila Swim, where a number of celebrants gathered at the pool and had to jump in and swim across the pool — the water was really cold —  for a shot. There was a gathering for a friend’s birthday. There were a couple of nights at The Parrots Cracker bar and grill to hang out with pals and our dear friends, the owners, Robbie and Dawnette. And, there’s also the regular Tuesday night jam, with my buddy Mike and some other local musicians, also at The Parrots Cracker, not to mention prepping for the move, writing on my next book, and my weekly column for STGNews.

So, we have been busy.

That’s why it was nice to get up this morning, get a cup of coffee, and sit on the patio.

A lot of our stuff is still boxed up, but we’re not in any hurry to unpack. Our clothes are put away, our personal doo-dahs are in place, and we’re good to go.

We’re living on Baja time, which means you throw away your watch and get around to doing what you need to do whenever you get around to doing it.

That holds true to most of the culture of The Baja.

If the plumber says he’ll be there at 1 p.m., count on him arriving about 3 or so, or maybe the next morning.

If the sign on the door says a shop opens at 10 a.m., you may not find anybody behind the counter until 11 or so.

If you live your life by a Daytimer, the lifestyle could drive you over the wall until you become either acclimated or gently sedated, which is also an option.

For some of us, it’s just a sensible, convenient, humane way to go, which is why I probably spent far too much time sitting on the patio and watching the golfers this morning.

There was a foursome of older gentlemen whose long game was too short and whose short game was too long.

There were three younger guys who looked like they were better suited for a round of croquet.

There was a husband and wife out there knocking the ball around. She was out-driving him by at least 20-30 yards a shot and splitting the fairway.

There were also a couple of badass guys who were walking the course. One guy was even carrying his own bag instead of pushing it on a roller cart.

While these folks were sweating out in the warm sun, I was sipping my coffee as a cool breeze blew gently through our patio area.

The golfers seemed fairly oblivious. None of them saw me, or acknowledged me, as I sat there watching, which was OK because it made my people-watching more enjoyable to be the fly on the wall.

And, it was so quiet that I could clearly hear the expletives roll out as they knocked that little white ball around.

This weekend, there’s a big tournament here.

Apparently, the really serious golfers show up for that.

Naturally, it will be pretty cool to park out on the patio and watch as they tackle the third hole.

I’m thinking of inviting my friend Mike to come over for awhile.

Mike is the best guitarist on The Baja.

He comes from the East Coast, where he played in a number of bands in the Jersey and NYC clubs.

Over the years, he has accumulated a fair amount of equipment, including a big, powerful, screaming, 200-watt lead guitar amplifier. We are talking Jimi Hendrix volume here.

I’m thinking that we could add a little excitement to the tournament by simply plugging in our amps, and serenading the golfers as they prepare to putt.

I mean, wouldn’t it be rather interesting to see how a golfer would react if they heard the crashing, opening chords of The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” as they drew back on their putts?

Or, instead, I could fill up a couple of coolers with ice cold beer and sell them from the side of the fairway to thirsty golfers.

Either way, it could be an interesting weekend.


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