Wednesday, 25
February 2004
Dear
family and friends,
It
was a beautiful day, near cloudless, a soft breeze blowing, pleasantly warm
with the sun high in the sky when I teed off at 2:00PM. There are no birds twittering in the trees,
in fact, there are no trees around the clubhouse. The only sound is the occasional whistle from
the Tren Fin del Mundo (Train to the End of the World) which departs from the
station nearby.
The
number one hole at the Ushuaia Golf Course in Ushuaia, Tierra
del Fuego, is a short 275 yard par 4, slightly down hill, with a
sharp dogleg left into the green. I
chose my driver knowing a nice easy swing combined with my natural fade would
put me in great shape on the right side of the fairway for an easy chip onto
the green. I hit it like I had every
reason to expect, a dreaded scuff hook which ended about 40 yards away. There was no murmur of appreciation, no applause. I thought I heard someone laugh. Frost, Spurrell, and Holmes weren't there and
I didn't wake up. This was no dream, it
was for real. (Expletive deleted.) Mulligan.
I teed up again and... Well, I suppose you don't really want to hear
anymore about my round, but it was great, as was the day.
