Golf in the Craters

Cabot Citrus Farms 2026

It’s hard to believe, driving north from Tampa at six in the morning, that something this beautiful could exist out there among the flat pine forests of western Florida.

The Suncoast Parkway rolls past endless subdivisions, gas stations, and stretches of land that all begin to blur together after a while. Cookie-cutter neighborhoods fade into forests.

Forests fade into cattle land. Nothing about the drive prepares you for what eventually appears hidden among it all:

Cabot Citrus Farms.

The property rises unexpectedly from the landscape like someone dropped a world-class golf resort into the middle of rural Florida by mistake.

Built on the bones of the old World Woods Golf Club, a Tom Fazio design from the early 1990s, the new Cabot project feels less like a renovation and more like a total reimagining. Architects Mike Nuzzo and Kyle Franz transformed the property into something wild, sandy, and completely unlike traditional Florida golf.

The result looks almost post-apocalyptic in places.

Massive sandscapes stretch across the property like bomb craters from a forgotten war, interrupted only by strips of emerald fairway and towering dunes of scrub grass. It shouldn’t work visually.

But somehow it does.

Beautifully.

The entrance sets the tone immediately.

At the gate, staff greet you with the kind of warmth usually reserved for private clubs you probably can’t afford to belong to. Beyond them sits an impossibly blue lake framed by Spanish moss hanging from ancient oaks and groves of Palmeto trees swaying in the breeze.

The long winding road eventually leads to a modest clubhouse and a cluster of cottages that feel more coastal Carolina than central Florida—hardie-board siding, brick patios, rocking chairs, rope swings.

Nothing screams for attention.

The place doesn’t need to.

After a quick stop in the golf shop, we were sent toward the practice facility in a cart.

And then the scale of the place really starts to sink in.

The range and short-game area are enormous—comparable to the best facilities anywhere in the country. Huge rolling putting greens mimic the chaos waiting out on the course, giving you just enough warning before the real suffering begins.

My course for the day would be Karoo.

Named after the Karoo Korhaan bird, Karoo is the resort’s longest and most difficult layout. Standing on the first tee, it felt less like Florida golf and more like something you’d expect hidden in Australia or the Scottish Highlands.

Before teeing off, staff handed out warm sugar cookies—a Cabot tradition apparently designed to calm nerves and soften the psychological damage about to occur.

It almost worked.

From the opening hole, Karoo feels intimidating.

Fairways twist unpredictably between enormous waste areas and jagged bunkers that look less designed and more naturally unearthed. The entire course has an unkempt, rugged appearance, as though it was simply discovered rather than built.

At first glance, it feels chaotic.

Then, slowly, the beauty starts revealing itself.

Not all at once.

In pieces.

A contour here. A ridgeline there. The way the morning light catches the sand against the deep green fairways.

The course makes you search for its beauty, which somehow makes it more rewarding once you find it.

The greens are where things become truly unreasonable.

Massive ridges and humps roll through the putting surfaces like buried waves. Some rise nearly knee-high, turning simple putts into geometry problems. Every hole location feels slightly offensive.

And yet, the greens roll perfectly true.

Each cup is lined with metal, creating a satisfying ting when your ball finally drops—a small reward after surviving what often feels like a public humiliation exercise.

Lag putting becomes less of a skill and more of an act of faith.

Miss in the wrong spot, and a four-foot par putt can quickly become an eight-footer coming back.

The strategy around Karoo is surprisingly simple:

Avoid the craters. Advance the ball. Accept whatever happens next.

The course almost encourages creativity over precision. Instead of towering wedge shots, you find yourself hitting strange little knockdowns and bump-and-runs with an 8-iron, feeding the ball through slopes and contours toward the greens.

It’s golf that feels playful again.

Chaotic, occasionally unfair, but deeply fun.

The fairways themselves are immaculate—so finely maintained they feel more like putting greens than landing areas. Against the wild sandy landscape, the turf almost glows.

By the turn, somehow, I was two-over par with a pair of birdies.

For me, this bordered on a spiritual experience.

My wife sat beside me in the cart cheering me on, pregnant with our first child, sugar cookie in hand.

It’s funny how certain snapshots in life burn themselves permanently into memory.

That was one of them.

The clubhouse complex loops back into view around the ninth and final holes, anchored by a sprawling ranch-style halfway house with a massive covered porch lined with rocking chairs.

It felt impossible not to stop.

A sandwich, a local lager, and twenty quiet minutes staring back across the property.

Fuel of champions.

Or at least fuel for people trying very hard to break ninety.

I’ve always heard John Daly operated under similar nutritional principles.

My game deteriorated slightly on the back nine.

The course, however, did not.

Karoo finishes with a stunning closing stretch, culminating at a green tucked tightly behind a bunker large enough to hide a mobile home.

It’s theatrical without feeling artificial—a difficult balance that Cabot somehow manages throughout the property.

Beyond the golf, the resort itself feels thoughtfully restrained. The restaurants are excellent without being pretentious, and the golf shop contains enough high-end merchandise to financially ruin even the most disciplined golfer.

By the end of the day, I understood something important about the place:

Cabot Citrus Farms doesn’t really feel like Florida golf.

It feels like someone imported a completely different philosophy of golf and quietly buried it among the swamps and pine trees.

And somehow, against all odds, it works.

I’ll absolutely be back.