Some kind of record
A fierce October wind plays havoc with our round
Last night set some kind of record for setting records.
It was a typical October evening, maybe 7°C, but with an angry, blustery, gusting wind that would have convinced any sane frisbee golf players (i.e. not us) to stay home. It was so fierce that the size of the waves it was pushing in off the lake was some kind of record.
So the first thing we had to do was walk out to the eastern end of the boardwalk to start on the back nine. No way were we going to attempt to throw into that kind of wind on the front nine.
Andrew had brought out a brand new frisbee instead of the potato chip he used in last week's debacle, but quickly fell behind as Aubrey and I eagled 11. The 12th tee is now a disaster area and neither Andrew nor I were able to launch a drive of more than about ten yards. Aubrey gained a stroke on 13 but promptly lost it on 14. But the real fun began on 16.
The 16th hole is known as The Rocks because you have to trudge on out to the breakwater, which is (usually) connected to the beach by an isthmus of sand maybe ten yards wide. Then you climb up onto the rocks and tee off from The Shooter, which is a specific rock, reasonably flat but with a slight backwards slant, but big enough to take a decent step while making the throw.
Normally, it takes a really big wave to hit the rocks hard enough to make The Shooter wet, but last night, the waves were crashing over all of them with depressing regularity.
So you have to time it. Watch the waves, wait for a lull, climb up, shoot, and then get the heck out of there before the next wave comes.
Well, we all made it. Some kind of record. Unfortunately, Andrew's shot found the lake, and one wave later, it was gone. "Never mind," I said, "you can use my spare." I always carry a spare, for just these occasions where someone (usually me) loses a frisbee. So Andrew took a one-stroke penalty, and on his next shot, threw my spare into the lake, too. Gone. Aubrey had to do a masterful bit of persuading to make Andrew go back to his truck to get his spare frisbee and continue playing. So with two penalty strokes on the hole, he finished with a double bogey.
But he didn't give up. (Andrew knows Rule #1: don't give up.)
When we finished 18, it was time to consider whether to play the front nine. That took about a half a second.
On the second time through the back nine, things started out well, and Andrew even caught Aubrey on 14, but fell back a stroke on 15.
Then disaster struck. On 16, I managed to tee off safely again, but Aubrey wasn't so lucky. He was just about to tee off when the mother of all waves hit the rocks and totally drenched him. Top to toe, totally. Then he put his frisbee into the lake. And before he got down, another wave, as big if not bigger, drenched him again. Some kind of record.
Busting with laughter, trying not to let it out and failing, I took off my shoes, hiked up my pants, and ran into the water after Aubrey's frisbee. There it was! I grabbed it just before a wave would have pulled it out too far. The water was only up to my thighs, so it was a pretty routine rescue (I've been in the lake more than everybody else combined).
Dropping Aubrey's frisbee on the shore (no penalty), I turned back to watch Andrew's tee shot, which promptly went into the lake. So, four frisbees into the lake on one night, a new record. And three frisbees into the lake on the same hole by the same guy is also a new record, one which will probably stand forever.
Now, whenever I go into the lake, I don't change my wet socks for the dry ones that I always carry with me (for just these occasions) until everyone has teed off successfully. So it was a simple matter of running back into the water again to fetch Andrew's frisbee, which also was fortunately just still within reach. Two frisbees rescued: tied a record.
Aubrey was done, though, and the next two holes showed it. Clearly, his mind was on finishing the round, getting into the truck, and getting warm again. Soaking wet in a fierce October wind can't be any fun.
And speaking of records, while we're rushing through the last hole, with the portable radio on, we hear "HE STRUCK HIM OUT!!" The Boston Red Sox had come back from being down 0-3 in a postseason series to force a seventh game with the hated Yankees. Another kind of record.
Whoops, where are my gloves? So as soon as the round is over and the guys are on their way home, I go back to look for them on 16. Found only one. The lake had swallowed the other one.