One Foot in Front of the Other

Pacific Dunes

Bandon Dunes Resort Day #2

After the day before, I didn't think golf could get much harder.

I was wrong.

The second day at Bandon would be another thirty-six holes, another march across miles of dunes and ocean cliffs. The previous day's excitement had been replaced by something closer to stubbornness.

My feet hurt.

My back hurt.

I had already walked more golf in twenty-four hours than most reasonable people should.

Yet somehow, at 6:30 in the morning, I was awake again.

Outside, the weather had turned.

Overnight, the Pacific had decided to remind everyone who was in charge. Wind rattled the windows. Rain came sideways. The forecast looked less like a golf day and more like a maritime disaster.

Fortunately, I had prepared.

My twenty-dollar Frog Toggs rain suit would serve as my armor against the elements.

Whether it would actually work remained to be seen.

After another predawn session on the range and putting green—this time in the pouring rain—I headed for Pacific Dunes.

If Bandon Dunes was the original masterpiece, Pacific Dunes was the showcase. Widely regarded as one of the finest courses in America, David McLay Kidd's sophomore effort on the property somehow managed to improve upon the first.

As fate would have it, I found myself paired with the exact same group from the day before.

We looked less like golfers and more like explorers preparing for an expedition.

When my wife dropped me off, she stared at me with the same expression one might use when leaving a child at military school.

A mixture of concern, confusion, and pity.

I asked if she wanted to walk with us. She laughed.

The answer was no.

The round began exactly as expected. Poorly.

By the time I reached the first green, standing water covered large portions of the putting surface. Small lakes had formed everywhere. The drainage simply hadn't been given enough time between storms.

Rain Soaked Greens

At several points we granted ourselves unofficial relief from puddles deep enough to float a golf ball.

Despite the conditions, Pacific Dunes was spectacular.

Several holes cling to the eroded coastline, hanging above the Pacific as if nature had designed the course itself and merely allowed golfers to use it.

The proper shot for the day was a low punch under the wind.

I knew this. I attempted it. I failed repeatedly.

The wind seemed to have a personal vendetta against every golf ball I struck.

By the eighteenth green I was completely exhausted.

The Frog Toggs had surrendered hours earlier.

Water had penetrated every layer of clothing. My shoes squished with every step.

I was down to my final golf ball.

My hands were numb.

My feet felt like they belonged to someone else.

And the worst part?

I still had another eighteen holes to play. The thought alone nearly broke me.

I collected my bag tag, purchased the obligatory flag, and retreated to the cottage.

After peeling my clothes off like wet wallpaper and taking one of the greatest showers of my life, I prepared for the final round of the trip.

Then something miraculous happened.

The sun came out.

My final course at Bandon would be Sheep Ranch.

One of the newest additions to the property, Sheep Ranch occupies a spectacular stretch of coastline where the Pacific Ocean seems intent on reclaiming the land at any moment.

The course is completely exposed.

Because the wind is normally so relentless, traditional sand bunkers aren't practical. The sand would simply blow away.

Instead, the hazards are deep grass hollows and rugged natural contours.

When I arrived, the parking lot was empty.

Again.

For the second time in two days, I would have one of the finest golf courses in America almost entirely to myself.

It felt absurd.

Sheep Ranch

The attendant handed me a scorecard and pointed me toward the first tee.

My wife decided to join me for the opening holes.

After listening to me ramble about Bandon for months, she wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

The course was magnificent.

Wide fairways rolled along dramatic cliffs above the Pacific.

The ocean appeared from nearly every hole.

The grass bunkers were thick and punishing, eager to consume any ball that wandered too far offline.

By now, however, the golf itself was becoming secondary.

My body was running on fumes.

Every uphill walk felt longer than the last.

Every swing required negotiation.

At one point the rain returned with such intensity that my wife wisely retreated to the safety of the truck.

I couldn't blame her.

But I had come too far to quit now.

Whether through determination or stupidity, I was going to finish.

When the final putt finally disappeared into the hole, I felt equal parts accomplishment and relief.

The journey was complete.

Three days earlier, Bandon had been a dream.

Now it was a memory.

My wife rescued me from the parking lot and treated me to another Irish dinner on property.

Shepherd's pie never tasted so good.

Later that evening we drove along the coast, windows down, screaming Toby Keith songs far louder than our abilities justified.

The trip had been thrown together almost on a whim.

A last-minute idea. A ridiculous amount of golf. Far too much walking. Far too much rain.

And I would do every bit of it again tomorrow.

Because somewhere between the wind, the rain, the empty fairways, and the Pacific Ocean, Bandon had become one of those places that stays with you forever.

Not because of the golf.

Because of how it made you feel while you were there.