CAMPOut: Fay's Rehoboth Journal

I knew my foray into golf had gotten out of hand when somebody called me a jock. Quick, phone the New York Times.

It had nothing to do with my actual golf skill, but that my golfing buddies didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain.

We’re on the course and it starts to drizzle, then rain, then pour. I expected CNN’s Anderson Cooper to arrive to broadcast while being blown horizontal.

Several players gave up at drizzle and almost everybody was in the bar by rain. It was considerably into pour by the time I could drag my soggy butt off the course. That’s what I get for playing with three serious golfers.

Meanwhile, this reporter cannot reveal her anonymous source despite the threat of jail, but I can divulge that the lounge conversation went like this:

Bonnie: "Oh my God, she’s going to kill me."

League Member: "Why?"

Bonnie: "I told her to leave her raincoat in the car."

Another League Member: "You mean Fay Jacobs is still out there?"

Third league Member: "I know she is. Her tee shot bounced off the roof of our cart as we drove by."

For the record, I was aiming in the other direction. But it did serve them right for rushing back to the clubhouse at drizzle.

So I drip into the bar, wringing wet, and somebody says, "I can’t believe you stayed out there so long. What a jock!"

I may not be getting better at golf, but I’m having my Outward Bound.

Along with precipitation, golf offers intimacy with pestilence. Last week I was attacked by a swarm of horse flies the size of Sea Biscuit. My teammates sprang into action and spritzed me with Skin-so-Soft and a shot of Deep Woods Off. Now there’s a nice fragrance.

On the next hole I was informed that the previous week somebody had spied an electrical line wrapped around an adjacent tree. Wisely, they drove me past the site before revealing that the utility cable turned out to be a reptile. Oy, I was on an aversion therapy tour. Next week I’m expecting a plague of frogs.

At least I’m doing well in the accessory department. My fuzzy Schnauzer club head covers arrived. Call me if you ever need doggy hand puppets. Every once in a while their beards get top heavy on the clubs and a faux Schnauzer topples onto the fairway. I’m going to have to start offering a reward for their return.

And I have to say, the costumes are cool. Imagine my surprise on my maiden golf outing when I was given a glove monogrammed with a giant FJ. "You shouldn’t have…" They didn’t. Turns out that FootJoy manufactures golf stuff and everything I wear can have my initials on it. Cool. I now have FJ shoes, sox, and a ball marker. I’m looking for an FJ fly swatter.

Today, I came home and found a visor with a big FJ on the front hanging on my doorknob with a little note: "Got this for you. Has your name written all over it."

Okay, eventually I have to tell you how I’m doing at the actual game of golf. Here’s a clue. One week my quartet included a woman actively undergoing chemotherapy, a woman with arthritis who has had at least 18 joints replaced, and a woman with a prosthetic leg. They all played way better than me.

Okay, to be fair, all three gals are experienced, superior players despite their challenges, but it does make one consider the point of continuing in the sport.

Although golf is great exercise—especially for me. If four of us tee off, three golfers then jump in the carts to ride a hundred yards or more to their golf balls. Me, I trudge the fifty feet to my ball and whack at it again. I rarely hit it far enough to even use the cart (my first off-road vehicle) and generally wind up walking most of the course. Yes, the exercise is going well indeed.

So I forge on. One day my companion sank a putt and I congratulated her on her birdie.

"Hey, you’re getting the terms down!" she said.

"Language I get, it’s sports where I suck."

At my next lesson, my mentor made me change my stance, my grip, my swing, everything but my underpants. This was necessary because, how shall I delicately put this? My tits were in the way. We gals with expansive continental shelves need to stand further from the ball so we don’t interrupt our swing by whacking ourselves in the hooters.

I made the adjustment, stood further from the ball, took a good swing, missed my boobs, and sent the ball far enough to lose it in the wheat field next to the course. I’d need a hay bailer and combine to find it.

But they tell me the shot was good, despite it costing me a stroke. Better to cost one than have one, I say.

In fact, this whole sports thing may have the desired effect of relieving my stress and giving me a hobby. I could turn into a jock yet. Stop snickering. Do you know any lipstick lezzies who would spurn White Diamonds or Chanel in favor of Deep Woods Off? Me, neither.