Flat-Screening Golf

Collin Morikawa wins Claret Jug PHOTO:SI

                                   

I once told a friend, 

a fan of bicycle road racing, that as a spectator, I was not enamored of that sport. “I cannot get too enthusiastic about watching bicycles race down the street,” I offered in a kill-joy kind of way.

I should talk. I spent this weekend plopped in front of the flat screen watching golf.

This was not ordinary golf -- admittedly as exciting to watch as grass grow -- but the 149th edition of The Open from Sandwich, England. This was old-school stuff with a modern spin.

No manicured parkland trees and flowers, but weather-beaten links that are as elusive to look at as they are to play golf on; foolers of the eyes. A stray ball can be hidden for years.

"It takes a creative mind," said one of the broadcasters.

The ball can bounce in any direction and have you seen those bunkers? Originally naturally occurring hideouts for grazing sheep seeking shelter, bunkers of the old country are steep-sided pot holes that are as difficult to climb into as they are impossible to hit a ball out of.

Golfers of the links confront such obstacles, as well as the stability of their own minds. Not to mention the crazy, unpredictable weather with winds that can knock over an elephant. Notice the landscape is devoid of trees. Beware of thick grass and thorny gorse.

Jordan Spieth blasts out of bunker on 16th hole PHOTO:GW

The diabolical essence of the game -- it's not really a sport -- comes into focus when the world of television viewers are invited to England, Scotland or Ireland for the The Open (unofficially, The British Open). Ten golf courses make up the rotation, or rota, for The Open.

Watching golf inevitably gets me on my feet to practice my swing, typically by flailing my arms around the room pretending that I'm holding a golf club and making my dog nervous.

It is dangerous.

Most frightening, however, are the mental breakdowns of the players, some of whom lose all manner of confidence. Have you ever heard of David Duvall? Once the number one player in the world, Duvall was reduced to melted butter during a round of The Open, never again to pull his game back together.

The late British writer Alister Cooke called golf a penance of the Scots.

Saturday, at the Royal St. George Golf Links, as golfer Jordan Spieth was shooting birdies as if they were fish in a barrel making a run for the tournament lead, he suddenly bogeyed (1 over par) the 17th hole and then on the 18th missed a putt of one-and-a-half feet for par. That's 18-inches, the size of a large man's foot. The look on his face was devastating. He ran away from the green to avoid the press and find his guru.

The weather, which typically wreaks havoc at The Open, had nothing to do with Jordan's unfortunate flub. The conditions at Sandwich were splendid, high 60-degrees and into the 70s on Sunday.

"The warmest we've ever seen it," said a broadcaster.  Global warming? Another Scottish trick? 

TV viewers saw shots of rarely blue Sandwich Bay and the tiny, picturesque town of Sandwich, the white cliffs of Dover, and a long stretch of sandy beach next to the links.

"Look at the beach, honey!" I exclaimed to my wife, attempting to prove that there's more to watching golf than a little white ball.

"Yes, there's nobody on it," she replied, referring to the northerly temperatures.

"Everybody's at the golf tournament," I explained.

"Look, there's a golfer with a bun," I pointed out. She seems to like the hair-in-a-knot-on-top-of-the- head look. I can't do that. 

Today's golf pros are sporting beards and buns.

Meanwhile, a 24-year-old playing his first Open, was quietly rising up the leaderboard, Collin Morikawa. The same guy who won the PGA Tournament, another of the four US majors. I mentioned him in my blog of August 10, 2020, calling him golf's new hero.

Sure enough, Morikawa emerged from a close pack of golfers to take the lead over the final holes, with Jordan creeping up on him, both players making birdies. Collin held his composure and the lead, besting Jordan by two strokes (those two bogies?), having his name engraved on the coveted silver Claret Jug that goes to the winner.

He played his final 31 holes bogey free, an incredible feat.

"We'll be seeing more of him," said a broadcaster. "He's only played in eight majors and he's won two of them. That's one-quarter of those played. He shows the maturity of someone much older."

Collin's acceptance speech proved this point. He thanked everyone including the spectators, announced it was his caddie's birthday, had the gallery singing "happy birthday." Articulate, no fumbling or bumbling, as smooth as his game.

Next year's Open, the 150th anniversary, will be played at St. Andrews Old Course, the cradle of golf, in St. Andrews, Scotland. Collin will be there. I trust I'll be in front of a flat-screen to watch the drama, devastation, hair-dos and don'ts.

Political Silence

PHOTO: BBS

Things were running fairly smoothly over the past six months, mainly because we didn't hear a peep from the former guy in the White House. It's astonishing how much hot-air time he received during his four years in office. 

It seemed like every day an environmental protection law was overturned, a cabinet member was fired, a disloyal politico was threatened, an Iranian leader was murdered by our country, a reputable Middle Eastern journalist was chopped up and stuffed in a bag by thugs of an authoritarian sheik and friend of the former administration. The horror of it just went on and on.

And now he's back. It's the same sad, miserable, degrading stuff. This is not to say that his sycophants haven't been doing their part, except for poor Mike Pence, who did everything he could for the dark one, except overturn the election. That was his undoing and almost got him hanged by the cult insurrectionists.

This week the big mouth announced that he was suing Facebook and Twitter for censoring him. He is claiming his first amendment rights and those of all Americans. This is a joke, folks. He's campaigning again, and raising money for his very deep legal fees. He expects his followers to pay his bills. It's the same old con.

Today the Wall Street Journal gave him prime real estate on their opinion page, where he pleaded his case. Obviously, the column was not written by the liar. He could no more string comprehensible paragraphs together than a pre-schooler. His lawyers are doing his dirty work while he watches Fox News.

The Wall Street Journal is a business enterprise and has the right to allow the insurrection-inspiring piece of dung to spout his lies and grievances. It's the newspaper's decision, same as FB or Twitter.They could say no, or give him a small space on the bottom of the page. But, hey, they want to sell papers and make money. 

I like to read comments by readers about opinions printed in the WSJ. Overwhelmingly, comments on today's column by dirty don are against him. He's not so popular as he thinks, at least among people who read. And WSJ readers are predominantly conservative.

Cult members prefer Fox and social media, which is another reason why the bully is filing a first-amendment law suit. It has nothing to do with free speech. Taking away his Twitter has been like cutting off his tongue, which is a good thing, constitutionally. It keeps him from inciting another riot.

A friend of my wife who lives in southwestern Missouri said she saw a sign the other day that read: "T.... in 2024." She did a double take. "I couldn't believe it," she said. Then she remembered that her location thick in America's Bible Belt is experiencing a surge of delta variant Covid cases because most folks are not vaccinated and have not been wearing masks. They don't believe in reality.

I've had two Moderna vaccinations. I'm praying for another quiet six months and still wearing a mask when I go shopping.

Eat Your Art Out, Jeff

Marcel Duchamp's Touch Up

The story is probably super dated and for all I know Jeff Bezos could be at New York City's Bellevue Hospital having his stomach pumped.

I take that back. I would likely have already watched him eat the Mona Lisa. Or seen the highlights online; clicked the little arrow several times over to ensure that I had satisfactorily digested the artistic je ne sais quoi.

I can see him chomping into those enigmatically ironic lips that for centuries have dazzled the cognoscenti.

I can see him puckering his lips, lifting the little finger of his left hand, and forthwith, pronouncing: "That's good!"

That's worth $60 bills, easy. As in $60 billion, the estimated value of DaVinci's 16th Century masterpiece. Bezos's himself is valued at $200 billion, so he could easily afford to purchase the fair lady.

The absurdity of eating an original work of art, especially the most prized piece on the planet, would certainly qualify as art in itself, especially if masticated by the most ridiculously rich man on earth.

"To imagine a new art, one must break the ancient art," posited French author Marcel Schwob more than 100 years ago. Jeff could do this.

The truth is, of course, Bezos has not reached into his deep pocket to make art history. However, a petition still circulates urging Mr. Amazon to do so. As of this morning, nearly 16,000 signatures have been gathered online. Change.org petition 

The petition was instigated as a joke by Kane Powell, a resident of Stevensville, Md. "No one has eaten the Mona Lisa and we think Jeff Bezos should take a stand and make this happen," the petition states. It would be high "entertainment."

The esteemed piece of Renaissance art is part of France's national collection housed at the Louvre in Paris. As such, experts claim, it is a national treasure and possesses "moral rights" -- droits maraux -- that are supposed to protect art from being denigrated, if not eaten.

But here's the catch: That statute is only about 100 years old and the Mona Lisa, painted by Leonardo DaVinci, was completed in 1506. You can't simply slap a new rule on a piece of art like that. In 1919, Marcel Duchamp purchased a print of the Mona Lisa and with a few satirical brush strokes added a mustache and goatee.  He even made note of the lady's attractive rear end: LHOOQ, pronounce each letter with a French accent.

But we're talking about the original ML.

What to do?

Bezos the billionaire will step down this week from his position as CEO of Amazon. Perhaps, and I only speculate, he might want to go into the history books as more than a business wunderkind/slave driver. He may have a latent, untapped desire to be remembered as a gallant, flamboyant artiste.

Mr. Bezos could theoretically afford it, French tech executive Stephane Distinguin reportedly told the New York Times. "Eating it might prove more difficult but it would really depend on Mr. Bezo's stomach."

And we could watch on YouTube.

A Walking Allegory

Waikiki on Thursday morning from da plane PHOTO:KCS

If it's true that most stories are allegorical, as esteemed British travel writer Jan Morris opined in her final book, Allegorizing, published in 2021, then what to make of my story of walking to the airport last Thursday?

Sometimes we are faced with decisions that offer very few options. That's where I stood when I dropped our rental car off at remote location from the Lihue airport on Kauai. It was either start walking or forget about catching the plane.

I consider myself a walker and have never been shy about hiking to get from one place to another, whether in urban, mountain or suburban landscapes. Thursday's landscape would best be called industrial-tropical. Jungle meets industry. And it involved a time limit.

So what is an allegory, anyway?

According to Cambridge Dictionary, an allegory is "a story, poem, picture or other work in which the characters and events represent particular moral, religious or political qualities and ideas." 

My Story: That there would be no taxis available in Lihue at 8:30 on Thursday morning never occurred to me. Especially within a mile or two of the airport. Surely Kauai Cab would be nearby. 

"No cabs available." Came the answer when I called.

I tried Uber: "No rides at this time."

The morning was full of sun, clouds and rain. It was coming down cats and dogs in Kilauea earlier on our way to the airport. The sun was shining in Kapa'a. Lihue looked unpredictable and felt like a simmering sauna.

I had dropped off Barbara and our luggage at the airport, then sped off to Island Cars to return our $40-a-day rental, a good rate by today's standards. We had booked in early March.

I knew the agency wouldn't open until 9 and they were short-staffed. Their instructions: Just leave the key under the driver's side floor mat and the door unlocked. You can call a cab for a ride to the airport.

Nada. No cabs. No Uber.

Distance to airport: more than a mile.

I curse and spit and express bad thoughts. I pull myself together and praise myself for taking Barbara and our bags to the airport first. I am solo and unarmed.

I'm walking," I texted my wife.

At least it's not raining. Although it could at any second.

I'm dressed for our flight home in a pair of light-weight KUHL trousers, slippers (Hawaiian name for flip-flops), $800 vintage aloha shirt and a $6 Hawaii tourist cap from the ABC store. I might as well have been wearing a track suit. I was off and walking, holding a steady stride, dodging chuck holes in the asphalt and trying not to step on a chicken, looking for a path to the airport.

I would find a short-cut, a back way through the jungle. 

Most vehicles are arriving for work, not leaving, or I might hitch a ride. I pass Pacific Tile, Kuhio Motors and Two Frogs Hugging furniture store. 

It's 8:45. Our flight departs at 9:45. I have plenty of time. I can easily walk a mile in 15 minutes and have time to burn.

I receive no reply from Barbara. I wonder what she thinks about me not being there.

I stick to the main road at first, following an asphalt path. I feel exposed in bright colors, a lonely man on a vacant highway. There is no shade. I pass the Kauai Veteran's Center and Museum. I think of the many islanders who have fought and given up their lives and limbs for the United States. I ruminate on the concept of sacrifice for a higher purpose than myself. We seem to have lost this idea of patriotism, of giving up something for the greater good. We are more self-centered. Our wars are distant, packaged. We cannot agree on vaccinations during a pandemic. This is how we celebrate freedom. Get a gun.

Think kindness. It’s out there, too. We take it for granted.

I begin to perspire. Eighty-degrees on the island is completely different from 80-degrees in Santa Cruz. My pores open up. My mind runs free. I'm not comfortable trudging in long pants. I'll be a sweaty mess for our flight.

Yes, there it is! The short cut. I see green, not quite a jungle but not concrete, either, a swath of lawn untrammeled. Like a thoroughbred race horse I view the straightaway and finish line, but my feet are sore. My toes hurt. The cap on my head is preventing my scalp from breathing, and squashing what little hair I have left on top. I slow to a comfortable saunter as I touch concrete, feigning casual aplomb.

I enter the airport grounds with very little spring left, however. Mentally I am a monster. An elder man among boys and girls. I trekked more than a mile in tropical heat, bushwhacking and bullshitting with myself.

The small, understated Lihue airport sparkles amidst rain-glistened greenery. A welcoming station for travelers, open to tropical breezes with shade and rain cover.

"Oh, there you are," says Barbara, as if I had wondered off to the bathroom and back. Her phone is in her backpack. She never received by texts.

Final Notes:

We made our 9:45 flight to Honolulu. Barbara was detained at the security checkpoint, had her carry-on bag emptied and inspected, creating a minor bottleneck.  Every seat was taken on our flight from Honolulu to San Jose. We all wore masks. Hawaiian Airline's Airbus a321neo airplane is the major competition to Boeing's maligned 737 max. The interior is sleek with one aisle down the middle. One-hundred and twenty economy seats are squeezed three per side off the main aisle. It's tight. You can pay for upgrades. The plane features a narrow body, is supposed to fly lower and faster. Our flight heading northeast to Cali was less than five hours of discomfort.

                                                                ***

"Old age is the right to be absolutely ourselves. Laugh, cry, satirize it, my friends, when your time comes -- but make the most of it, too!" -- Jan Morris, 94, from her posthumous book, Allegorizing.

 

The Show Must Go On

PHOTO BY KCS

The curious effects of an astrological phenomenon did not deter the stellar performance of a group of girls on Saturday. 

They danced and tumbled and wowed their audience, despite a series of unexpected circumstances that delayed the show and had people wondering what the heck was going on.

The most obvious answer is a planetary illusion called Mercury in Retrograde.

From May 29 through June 22, the planet Mercury appears to be orbiting in reverse, according to the Old Farmers Almanac. "These periods are traditionally associated with confusion, delay and frustration. Think undelivered love letters, email blunders and frazzled travel plans."

These conditions were widely apparent yesterday -- the first day of retrograde -- on the north shore of Kauai.

Our day was planned around the dance performance, "I Believe" presented by the Kauai Creative Academy. Our granddaughter, Viva, 10, had worked and practiced diligently to be part of this show.

The road from Hanalei, which currently is only open for brief periods of the day, was closed for hours and into Saturday evening due to a motorcycle accident (?!).

Residents and visitors who found themselves in Hanalei or beyond were unable to move, the only means of travel southward being by boat or other water craft.

"We were lucky to find a ride in a canoe," said the mother of one of the show girls. They had to hike up the hill from the beach before they met their ride to Anahola where the show was scheduled.

Coco had spent part of the afternoon preparing a vegetarian dish for the post-show potluck reception. We were showered and dressed in our aloha finery. She had roses for Viva. We were ready to roll.

Viva on the silk  PHOTO: KCS

But I couldn't find the key to our rental car. I looked in all the usual places -- pants pockets, desk top, dish where key is supposed to be -- still no key. I couldn't have locked the key in the car, I told myself, not wanting to face that embarrassment.

I walked outside to check.

"The key is locked in the car," I reported back to my lovely and forgiving wife.

"How could you do that?"

"You know me. Sometimes I can do the impossible."

I did not like the expression on her face.

The warm tropical air began to get warmer. Time began moving faster. I did not realize that the planet Mercury had apparently begun to move in the opposite direction. I did not know that people were stranded in Hanalei. I did not know many things, including how to break into the rental vehicle without smashing the car window.

This was an emergency. We couldn't miss Viva's performance. Maybe we can borrow Rick and Marcie's car? We thought in unison. They are neighbors at Puamana.

"Sure," said Rick, as he tossed his keychain to me. "Have fun," said Marcie.

Good neighbors. Lots of aloha.

To our surprise, we were among the first to arrive at the school where a beautifully decorated pavilion awaited. Stories were circulating about the difficulties of many getting there.

"You're not the only ones," said our daughter, Isabel, Viva's mother, noting a strangeness in the air.

In due time (Hawaiian time runs a little late anyway) the show began. It was a wonderful performance combining music, dance and acrobatics. The choreography and presentation were impressive. The young performers had obviously put in a great deal of concentration and effort. Kudos to the creative director, Illima, who made it all possible.

The sky turned dark while we milled around following the show munching on delicious, lovingly prepared entrees, salads and sauces. The performers, to my amazement, were running around like chickens, showing no signs of fatigue or retrograde. 

Maybe it's only parents and grandparents who are affected.

About Nothing and Writing

Overlooking Kalihiwai Beach PHOTO BY COCO

A couple of weeks on the island and I am ready to stay here forever. What does one do on a small island in middle of the Pacific Ocean, the farthest archipelago from land on Earth? 

Nothing.

I've always been pretty good at doing nothing, which in reality is doing lots of things that are frowned upon in more conventional settings.

Regardless of where you go you remain leashed to the greater world and its vicissitudes by electronic media. But when you're surrounded by the largest ocean on the planet, your focus narrows. You smell the flowers, hear the birds sing, point your eyes at the turquoise-colored water or shift your view toward the remarkably verdant mountains that form a magical back-drop to daily living.

I know these simple things make many people nervous. I get it. We're programmed for accomplishment. 

During my first week on the island I swept the lanai several times, cleaned the barbecue grill, took out the trash, drove to the store, hiked to the beach, attended a going-away party, played ukulele and sang, joked around with the grandkids, discussed life with my daughter, watched Stephen Curry and the Warriors on TV, ate sushi, visited Hanalei, swam in the bay, surfed in the bay, attended a zoom meeting, partook in a yoga class and joined a Tai Chi group moving slowly and purposefully through space.

I become exhausted just thinking about all the nothings I've accomplished. In the end what do I have to show for it: nothing. But I've enjoyed every moment.

Today I paid some bills using my iPhone. I mean, is that anything to talk about? It's nothing.

PHOTO BY KCS

When I was in high school I returned to school following summer vacation and Coach Pete Lopez asked me, "Sam, what did you do during the summer?"

"Nothing," I told him, figuring he would get it.

"Nothing!" he exclaimed, practically biting off my head. "Don't tell me you did nothing!"

He was achievement-oriented. Despite that, he was one of the few coaches I got along with.

I guess I could have told him that I went swimming at my girlfriend's house. We made out. I rode my bike. I played a little baseball. And a little ping pong.

I can imagine his answer, "That's all!?"

It was the summer after my freshman year and the final summer of my life that I didn't work. That is, until I retired after more than 60 years of working. Since then I've done nothing.

I've traveled, visited friends, gone to museums, walked my dog, surfed and jotted down a a bunch of words, sketched a few things, drank coffee and beer. Enjoyed a martini on Friday evening, watched the sun set and the sun rise. Checked out the full moon. Looked up the definition of words I didn't know. Read a few good books.

I've heard from reliable sources that meditation is one of the best things you can do for you mental and physical health. It's supposed to be calming, enabling you to center yourself so that you can be in the present moment. 

Recently, while walking along amidst an extravaganza of island floral delights with nothing more to think about than placing one foot in front of the other, suddenly, I encountered a moment when everything became clear to me. I was able to solve a problem that had been bugging me for weeks.

It was a writing problem. I had been working on a chapter of my life and a particular circumstance arose that I wanted to avoid writing about.  As a memoirist, the writer chooses what to tell about their life. Do you tell the embarrassing stuff? The things you're not so proud of? Do you only write about your accomplishments?

It became clear to me that I must write about this incident I was avoiding, if only to discover why.

It's about a trip to Hawaii during which I never touched the ocean or beach, didn't ride a single wave. I was so focussed on my future I could have been anywhere. Still, I must have learned something. What happened? What did I see? What did I hear? Who did I talk to? Who talked to me?

I can put these elements into words and create something that I didn’t know existed. Through writing I can solve a mystery out of nothing.

Renaissance Man of Kauai

Donn "Curly" Carswell.    PHOTO:HONOLULU ADVERTISER

In less than a week of our arrival on Kauai, we learned that Donn "Curly" Carswell had died. Curly was more than a well-known and respected character on the island, he personified Kauai. The loss of this pioneer figure is tantamount to losing a part of the island itself, as if one of the waterfalls has gone dry.

Curly, who died on his 85th birthday, February 4, 2021, was a walking encyclopedia of information about any subject, especially the island's flora, fauna and history. He knew the name of every mountain, tree and flower. He spent most of his life on Kauai, leaving his indelible mark in many places including his beloved Princeville Ranch.

He was a no-nonsense bear of a man, tough and ornery, sweet and sensitive. I only knew him briefly, since 2017 when I met him at the Princeville Community Center in a yoga class. Curly and I were the only men in a room of about 25 women.

At some 300lbs, his once athletic body had filled out and it was obvious that his health was in precarious condition, although I never knew exactly what his issues were. He didn't talk about it. His wife, Gale, assisted him in laying out his yoga mat and props. She appeared in fine health. They worked together as good respectful partners do. Curly's presence in the room was palpable.

When he learned that I was from Santa Cruz, he told me that while he attended Stanford University in the 1950s he would go to Santa Cruz to surf Steamer Lane. This was before wetsuits and leashes and that other "baby" stuff.

"Did you know Chubby Hernandez?" he asked me.

I told him that was before my time in Santa Cruz.

"He was a beautiful athlete," said Curly in his gravelly voice.

He didn't mention that he, Curly, was an All-America guard on the Stanford football team. He graduated from Stanford with a major in civil engineering and minor in geology.

Before his college years in California, he attended Punahou High School on Oahu. After college he served in the U.S. Marines Corps. He started the first fitness gym on Kauai which he operated for 30 years. He also worked for the Grove Farm and Princeville corporations.

During one of our regular visits to Kauai I learned about a Tai Chi class at the community center. When I showed up for my first effort at Tai Chi, Curly was there.

Tai Chi master Skip Rush, another well-known island figure, referred to Curly as a Tai Chi grand master. Skip would sometimes ask Curly for clarification of some aspect of the ancient martial art.

I asked Curly where he learned Tai Chi.

"On the Yangtze River in China," he said.

I was not surprised. He was a Black Belt Judo master, too.

Curly never missed a Tai Chi class. On Saturdays Skip held the class on the shore of spectacular Hanalei Bay. I knew Curly had arrived when I heard classical music coming from his pick-up truck. He needed minor assistance from his daughter to get across the lawn, moving several yards at a time with his walker, interspersed with short seated rests. He was resolute and focussed.

Curly missed his first yoga class when his wife Gale suffered a stroke, after which she suddenly and unexpectedly died. Curly was devastated. He didn't show up for Tai Chi. "He's suffering from a broken heart," said Skip. Curly and Gale had been married 55 years.

Gale was a descendant of the Wilcox family of first haole settlers in Hawaii. She had been a picture of health and fitness compared to Curly.

In 1978 Curly and Gale started Po'oku Stables at Princeville Ranch, as well as the famous Hanalei Stampede Rodeo. He was an ace calf-roper. In the early 2000s, he served as president of the Hawaii Cattleman's Cooperative.

His obituary in the local newspaper identified him as "a leader in the community. He was an entrepreneur, a Marine, an engineer, an avid handball player and a rancher. He was an adventurer and always met life head-on with passion, curiosity and enjoyment. He faced the circumstances of life without apology or complaint, and lived such a full life that he is often described as having lived "nine lives."

Curly knew that I had worked in the marketing department at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, a world-famous seaside amusement park. When a newcomer would join our yoga or Tai Chi group, he enjoyed introducing me as a former "clown" from Santa Cruz.

The island isn't the same without him. When Curly passed, we lost a treasure, yet you can hear his indomitable spirit whistling when the trade winds blow.

Aloha, my friend.