My Journey to Treasure Island:
The circumstances surrounding my day on the famed West Links at North Berwick.
Treasure
There is an abundance of literature and video of the West Links at North Berwick (pronounced BEAR-ick), so I will spare you any feeble attempts at architectural insights. In my mental catalog of golf experiences, my memories of North Berwick are in a folder labeled “TREASURE”. There are a few unusual and unrelated reasons. First, Robert Louis Stevenson summered in Berwick as a child and would row out to a nearby island with his brother. This would become his inspiration for Treasure Island. The second reason is the old saying “the treasure is in the journey.” If the treasure is in the journey, the treasure of North Berwick started for me way back in Edinburgh. The day that I was to play North Berwick was the same day that we were to move into our accommodations in St. Andrews. Every one of so many moving pieces needed to fall into place for me to meet my host for a late afternoon tee time. (Edinburgh to St. Andrews, back to Edinburgh, to Berwick, back to Edinburgh, back to St. Andrews.)
My family stuffed all our belongings into a small Vauxhall station wagon. It was so full that I had to warn the family, “Only Dad is allowed to open the rear tailgate.” I feared just how much of and how fast the luggage might come tumbling out when the pressure valve was released. We picked up our key, drove to our flat, parked, unloaded, and then I immediately tossed my golf bag back into the “boot” and headed for Edinburgh with the intention of returning the rental car and taking an afternoon train to Berwick. I realized early on that my run needed to be flawless, like Super Mario Brothers’ (World 1-1) kind of flawless. After I made my first wrong move, I knew that I should stop and contact my Turo car host to tell him that I needed to return the car later than expected. I then researched which train station would get me from the west side of Edinburgh over to Berwick. I settled on a station near the car rental drop-off. When I reached that station and ran up the stairs to the landing, the train was pulling away. (I would learn later to get on the train first and ask questions later. They will sell you a ticket inside the moving train.) I jumped back in my car and typed the next possible station into the GPS. It was going to be close. I arrived, parked, and ran up to the landing with my golf bag swinging behind me clanging into every possible handrail. Something did not feel right, but I bought my ticket from the ATM style kiosk, and I waited. As soon as I saw the train coming, I realized what felt wrong. I was on the wrong side of the station, the west bound side. Maybe I was blinded by panic, but I could NOT figure out how to get across to the other landing. My wife swears to me that there MUST have been a way, but the parking for each landing is on its own side of the tracks. I looked for stairs, tunnels, anything, (even considered jumping and trying to somehow “lily-pad” my way across on different structures). Alas, I looked for too long. I ran back to the car, drove back under and across into the other lot, parked and ran up the steps again to see the train that I needed slipping away without me. I began to tear up a bit, not sadness tears, but maybe just the kind of emotion that you get when you’re in an unexpected struggle (like the way that so many schoolboy fights end up with both combatants in tears). I felt a little bead of sweat form on my right temple. I know that it was my right temple because I had to use my left hand (less involved in golf bag stability) to reach across to wipe my brow. That is when I realized it was not in fact a bead of sweat, but just a bee. I also know that it was my left hand because that bee went under my wedding ring, so when I swatted in down on my thigh a few times, it felt like it was stinging me over and over again. That bee sting was the turning point for which I am now thankful, because it turned my emotional panic and despair into rage. I was in the zone. I typed “West Links North Berwick” into my phone and chose the route of fewest miles. That’s right, I was prepared to push the Vauxhall to its limits (American readers can think of a Saturn station wagon). Several times on that drive I wondered how long it would take someone to find me if I slid off into a ditch or an old stone wall which has separated the fields of neighboring crofts for the past 400 years. I sensed that the scenery was beautiful, but my field of vision was so narrow with rage and adrenaline that I could not be sure. I remembered that Josh (my host) had told me not to follow GPS all the way because it would lead me to park on a street where my rental car could easily be struck by golf balls. I loaded this piece of information into the supercomputer that was my stimulated brain. “I will follow my GPS all the way to its recommended location because that means that it will be very near the course (golf balls) and more likely to be avoided by locals and thus have spots available. I was right. Victory. I looked for a pit crew to celebrate with me as I jumped out of the cockpit, but I quickly snapped out of my F1 fantasy, calmed my breathing, and strolled casually towards the club house. “I decided just to drive instead of take the train, “ I said. I would wait a few holes before I let my new friend in on the drama of the last few hours. I also thought it might be prudent to allow him plausible deniability if he was later questioned about damage left in the wake of an unidentified grey station wagon that tore through the surrounding countryside just a few hours earlier.
Playing in the evening made for the types of views that were simply magical. Parts of the course were very difficult but when the wind abated, I really enjoyed it. With my adrenaline hangover and the Scottish winds, I went out in 44 (including a triple bogey) but I came home in 37. 81. During the round, Josh took video of me chipping over the famous wall which protects the green on the 13th hole and then had me putt ball all the way across the diabolical green on 16 just for fun. I narrowly missed the putt and so Josh then missed the chance at having an epic moment on his Instagram Feed @Golfing_Scotland.
After the round, I splashed cold water on my face in the clubhouse locker room. I looked into the mirror and took a deep breath and reminded myself that the race was over that I could drive back to Edinburgh at a reasonable speed. It had taken me almost the entire front 9 to settle in. I felt like I was not supposed to be there, everything had gone wrong, maybe somewhere in my subconscious I thought that I was going to get in trouble, that feeling that I had forgotten something or left something undone. Maybe someone might walk up to me on the course and confront me for my driving, or my late rental car return, or for leaving my family in an unfamiliar town 15 seconds after arriving. Surely something was going to catch up with me.
On my way out of the clubhouse, Josh pointed out a famous painting of a presbyterian elder getting caught playing golf on the Sabbath. There I was! That is how I felt for the first half of my round of golf at North Berwick as a presbyterian elder on sabbatical.
This picture (and a thousand+ words).
