Navy Seal Golf Camp
by Para Chipper
Earlier this spring as the rains continued to fall, talk at the bar centered on our lack of golf conditioning. After all that liquid sunshine could we ever get back to our 2016 form? Had our golf games vanished? What, if anything could be done to halt this downward spiral? Bill Feeley suggested we all check out something he read about called Otter Golf Training. "I’m not sure of the name, but it’ll be fun, a week of golf in warm, dry weather." We all quickly agreed. When it comes to Bill’s ideas, someone should always read the fine print.
We paid our money, Bill the Web, Sonic Sid, Steveo, Swingin Mr. Stevens, the whole gang and boarded a prop driven plane. A squared away with a crew cut and war paint handed us a pack shaped like a pillow and told us to strap it on over our golf bags. At 10,000 feet, somewhere over Dubai, or was it Palm Springs or possibly the Arizona desert, Crew Cut welcomed us to Navy Seal Golf Training. He then said, "Ladies, when that light turns green head to the door and jump. This is a one way ticket, maggots."
I must admit, the sight of twenty golfers parachuting over the desert with their clubs is a sight I will never replicate. The planes quite prop engine minimized the noise enough to allow every scream and cuss word to echo over the valley. It was the start of a magical week.
Upon landing, Crew Cut appeared yelling orders. His yelling was like the din you might hear in the grill after a tournament trying to get a drink. He yelled, "Pull those parachutes in, drop those clubs, get in the sand trap and apply your blindfolds. It’s time for sand shots. Put your glasses in the six o’clock position and hoist. Any spillage and we will start over." This I believe was a tactical error on his part. We practiced our sand shots for hours until he was either satisfied with our progress or out of ammunition. Next he set up an obstacle course of upside down barstools strung with barbed wire. Yes, you guessed it, The Pub Crawl. "Mike Love, he yelled, get your butt down, you could ruin those plus fours." This innovative golf camp continued in this vain for seven glorious days.
It wasn’t until several weeks after our return when I realized how seriously Mel took the camp. We all hit up to a newly formed lake on ten with one ball on the right, one on the left and one in the middle of the water. Mike Bradley was adamant his ball was not in the drink, but somewhere nearby. After a few minutes search, a disgusted Mel took off her shoes, rolled up her pant legs and sleeve and waded into the knee deep lake. She reached down, picked up a ball and said. “Hey professor, here’s your ball." She then held it high over her head, winked at me, and dropped it back in the water.
Play Hard!
