What did cowboy movies, Tarzan flicks, and even Amazon adventure stories have in common? Quicksand! Quicksand was the ever-present danger lurking just around the bend. It didn’t discriminate. Both the good guys and the villains could be entrapped in its clutches. And though our hero, or more often, the beautiful damsel in distress, would be pulled out just in time, the danger was still there. Life or death was determined by the availability of a vine, a rope, and of course, a well trained horse. The randomness and unpredictability of these attacks fed my imagination. I spent a lot of time making sure that I didn’t step into quicksand the first time or two that I was in a desert.
I have never claimed to be a good golfer. In fact, my goal is to achieve an acceptable level of mediocrity. This year, I have had to contend with more than just the speed of my backswing and my incessant desire to over swing. It has rained most Sundays. Absolutely poured. Twice we were forced to quit after just nine holes. The ground is saturated and the courses are mushy. Memorial Day weekend has been a welcome change. Highs in the 80’s. Sunny. The pools are filled with sunbathers and we had 7:30 tee times.
We were on the 11th hole at Wicked Woods searching for Karl’s ball. This was very unusual. My ball was in the middle of the fairway and his was nowhere to be found. It is normally the other way around. It was easy to loose a ball in the rough. The grass was high, the ground soft, and the balls plugged as they hit.
“Guys, come here. Need some help”, I heard Karl say. I didn’t like the way that sounded. I sprinted off the side of a hill and found Karl buried up to his thighs in the muddy river bank. Stuck. His cigar was in one hand, his cell phone in the other. He thought he had seen a ball and hadn’t realized that the ground was so soft. I couldn’t reach him without stepping on the same unstable ground.
I called out to Larry to come and help and to bring a club. Larry held on to me as I extended a 7 iron out to Karl. This wasn’t the first time Larry had made the wrong club choice. We were able to drag him out without any damage or injury to Karl (Big Muddy), the club, or even the cigar.
Karl waded in the creek to get most of the mud off his legs and finished the round barefoot.
No vine. No rope. No horse. Who knew the real answer would be a 7 iron?