Playing Golf Out of the Country (And Out of My Mind)
You ever pack your golf clubs with dreams of hitting smooth drives in a tropical paradise… only to nearly chuck those same clubs off a cliff seven holes later?
Let me back up.
We were on a cruise to Bermuda, a dreamy, pastel-hued escape filled with sea breezes, rum swizzles, and, for me, a bucket list golf course I’d booked through the cruise’s excursion desk. I was hyped. Golf in Bermuda? YES. Golf on a cliffside with ocean views? DOUBLE YES. Golf with my clubs?
Well…almost.
The Lost Clubs Panic
The excitement hit a wall when my clubs didn’t show up on the ship right away. I had a moment where I imagined playing my dream course with rental clubs designed by a sadist in the 1990s. Thankfully, they were eventually found, some kind soul had moved them somewhere “safe.”
(Side note: never trust a bag labeled “VIP Storage” unless your name is actually VIP.)
The Vibes and the Vultures
I got paired up for a shotgun start, meaning every group starts on a different hole, all at once. Smart way to keep the course flowing. I was matched with a retired couple who were chef’s kiss golf angels. They were sipping cocktails, smiling at everything, living their best cruise life, and just oozed “we’re here for joy.” I loved them.
Then there was… the other guy.
The fourth in our foursome. The kind of man who sees “golf etiquette” as a concept for other people.
The Cart Conundrum
He hops in the driver’s seat of our cart before I’ve said a word. No “Hey, want to drive?” or “Mind if I take the wheel?” Just a silent, presumptive grab for control like we were racing in Mario Kart. I let it go. Maybe he’s just eager. Maybe he’s nervous.
Maybe he’s a Grade-A douche.
The Route Rumble
We’re about seven holes in and it’s time to circle around to the back nine. I remind him we’re supposed to hit hole 10 next. He cuts me off mid-sentence to tell me I’m wrong. Loudly. Like he’s announcing the weather.
Thankfully, my cocktail-sipping cruise angels backed me up. They nodded, smiled, and just… quietly drove to the correct hole, ignoring him completely. Legends.
The Curse of the Spoken Score
Now, if you’re a golfer, you know: you never talk about someone’s score mid-round. It’s like complimenting someone’s ability to balance a Jenga tower while they’re still pulling blocks.
We get to a beautiful downhill par 3, Bermuda blue skies, ocean breeze, and I’m standing on the tee box, feeling pretty good. I’m even par through 7.
And that’s when he said it.
“Hey, you’re playing really well, bogey free! Even through 7, right?”
I swear I heard a distant thunderclap. The golfing gods blinked, and it felt as if all of Bermuda was now staring at me.
I completely unraveled. I started thinking instead of swinging. Finished with an 84. Went +12 over the final 11 holes.
The Bright Side
Heartbreaking? Yeah. But also? Magical. Because I played golf on an island 800 miles from home. I chased balls over cliffs and across fairways older than some towns. I played somewhere not in the U.S., with the wind in my face and the ocean behind me.
Would I do it again? Absolutely.
Would I want that guy in my cart again? Absolutely, never again, (unless you pay me a good sum) not.
