That I don’t kill anyone as I drive is one of life’s small miracles. A New Zealand surf guide is open on my lap; another, less informative surfing guide, lies dog-eared on the passenger seat. The road map occupies the greater portion of the dash and cascades down past the emergency break. My right hand is on the wheel and my left holds the hotel and motel accommodation guide. Let’s see, I say to myself, the Palm Breeze Motel has a hot tub, my back twitches at the prospect; I scan for room prices. I look up and I’m in the wrong lane…again. Rubber squeals, the map falls to the floor and then I’m back on my side of the road.
On the outskirts of Gisborne, according to my guide, there’s a good right point surf break, called Makorori. The guide is right. As I round the point I see surfers bobbing in the water, I pull over. A set rolls in; the waves break in perfect formation, each one grinding along the reef. Two go un-ridden, but on the third a surfer drops in and takes wing.
There is nothing I know of that approaches the incomparable joy of surfing, okay maybe one thing, but that aside, screaming down the face of a wave, watching as the top of the wave casts out over your head encasing you in a roaring transient blue room, escape ahead, trouble behind. The experience is primal…and addictive. Surfing claims many lives, not through death and dismemberment, but through it’s cult like Dead-Head calling. It’s not so much a sport as it is a passion. Maybe the top ten competitive surfers make a reasonable living off the sport, beyond that the pursuit is supplemented with bartending and other ghoulish employment that leaves the daytime free to surf. I managed to escape its full hallucinogenic effects and yet surfing remains a driving force in my life. Decisions made, choices chosen all begin with ‘Can you surf there?’
I decide to secure lodging first and then come back here to surf. I have just the place in mind. It’s another holiday park with cabins for $NZ15 a night. Another potentially dubious night I know, but the price is simply irresistible. Of more importance, it’s a five-minute walk to the city center, which is significant when you consider that my ass and this car seat are becoming all too well acquainted.
I locate the holiday park, and secure a cabin without looking at it first, something my mother would frown on. My cabin is the first one in a long row of ranch style cabins. I prepare myself for the worst, a grisly triple murder scene behind the door, or perhaps a body swinging from the rafters. I fling the door open. Nothing. No bodies, no dust mites, dust devils, or multi-legged companions, just a bed and four crisp white walls. Serenity. My baggy eyes revel at the prospect of a quality night’s rest.
I drop my bags and drive in a rush back to Makorori. Surf…surf…surf…surf…my pulse beats to the rhythm. I arrive at the beach and the look of resplendent joy that fills every crevice of my face is washed away in the time it takes a dentist to find a cavity. The wind has come up and the beautiful form of the surf has now taken on a dribbly shapeless character. The handful of surfers out earlier have all left. I clamber out of the car. The wind tosses my hair around. I no longer see the beautiful blue water, the brown sugar sand; it has become an ocean of spite, a place of false hopes. I look out to sea with malice in my heart and slowly grind my teeth.
Let it be known that if I had omnipotent powers then the world as we know it would have come to abrupt and alarming halt in that instant. All life would be terminated, the seas turned to dust, the sun forever darkened, and the designers of Auckland’s motorway system banished to the bog of eternal stench. Since the extent of my extra-sensory powers stop somewhere short of the smite world command, I settle for an off-color string of expletives directed at the Gods. Thor! Crom! Come get a piece of me, cut me down if you dare. I taunt. I cajole…nothing. Maybe I should try Moses, or some others, but it’s useless. The God’s don’t care whether I surf or fart.
All hope however, is not lost. My golf clubs beckon from the trunk. I rummage around on the floor of the car for my golf guide and look up . The local course of Poverty Bay Golf Club is listed in my ‘Top 50 Golf Courses in New Zealand’ book. In a spray of gravel I strike out for it. The guidebook only gives an address for the course, which is useless, as I don’t have a map of Gisborne. I have a vague impression that it’s to the south and I call upon chance and circumstance, my ever-present guides, to show me the way. That I find the course in the end is a testament to perseverance. I pull into the parking lot of Poverty Bay G.C. and puzzle at its fullness. I half-create a parking spot at the end of a long row and trudge up to the pro shop.
“Can I get a round in?” I ask dubiously.
The guy behind the counter slowly looks up, “Yep.”
“Why so many cars in the lot?”
“There’s a tournament today mate, but they’re all on the course now. A three-some just teed off, you can try and catch them if you’d like.”
I pay and walk out to the tee. The course is flat but well contoured, kind of a semi-links design. The three-some comprised of three portly gentlemen are waddling down the fairway in front of me. I assume that I can catch them by the next hole. I won’t bore you with every blood-curdling swing in my round, but my fourth shot on that first hole is worthy of mention.
A golf club called a pitching wedge is designed for a specific purpose, to propel the ball high into the air when hitting to a green. The high trajectory keeps the ball from rolling too far once it lands on the green and allows the golfer to avoid costly sand traps. The shot when executed correctly is a thing of beauty; incorrectly, it can be one of golf’s most deadly.
The three guys ahead clear the green. I’m 90 meters from the pin, nice lie, no wind; my right hand instinctively reaches for the PW. I address the ball and begin the swing. The takeaway is sure and true. My weight shifts back to my right foot. Body coils. Potential energy builds to a crescendo. Like a hundred piece orchestra in perfect unison I begin my downswing, and then suddenly a string snaps on a violin in the third row. I come out of my swing too early, blade the ball, and instead of a graceful high arch, the ball takes on the characteristic path of a bullet. Worse yet, it’s traveling with lethal purpose at the chubbiest of the three gentlemen ahead of me. No grassy knolls to hide behind, if I fell him, there will be little room for courtroom denials. The smoking club is in my hands.
The rotund black haired fellow must have caught my shot out of the corner of his eye because with surprising quickness he breaks into a dead run, his pull trolley left behind. It appears too late though, if he had cheetah-like reactions he might stand a chance, but his girth aids him not at all. I wait for the sound of a fleshy thud.
Normally I despise trees on a golf course, but there is one tree on Poverty Bay Golf Course that I will forever be indebted to. A lone spindly branch attached to a desperate looking rimu tree delivers me from a life sentence. The ball ricochets off the rimu, mere feet from its intended victim, and falls harmlessly into a sand trap. The big guy staggers around clasping his heart in a mock coronary. His friends laugh. And I attempt to become one with the fairway.
It takes me three holes to recover.
I of course apologized, in an almost gross display of repentant fervor. I stopped just short of hugging his knees and begging for forgiveness; he never said, “I forgive thee,” but he did laugh which I took as a good sign. He then shook his head and walked away.
“Uh, excuse me!” I yelled to his back. “But do you mind if I join your group?”
His laughter still rings in my ears to this day.
Copyright 2000 Douglas S. Sassaman
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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