As some might say, if you don’t take the plunge, you can’t taste the brine. Others might not say such a thing. I’m taking the plunge, because I want to taste the brine.

Here you’ll find the first installment of “A Golfing Memoir” as we trace a year in the life of Flip Hedgebow, itinerant teacher of golf.

January

For most, the year’s first month represented a new beginning. For Flip Hedgebow, of undetermined origin and great anonymity, January represented the beginning of an end. The coolish winter months in Florida would give way to the fierce heat that made summer—eventually.

The dance that would follow was unpredictable, and the club’s membership would be certain to blame Flip for the rains, the cold, the winds, and any other atmospheric influence that deterred them from their appointed rounds as snowbirds. They had long since abandoned the logic of their younger days, accepting and even embracing the jaded, tortured outlook of the committed Floridiot, as Flip was wont to say. Tempted as he was to call a spade mashie a spade mashie, and tell them off once and then some, he valued his position at The Sextant enough to resist. Like Johnny in “Dirty Dancing,” Flip needed the gig.

The Sextant had been established by an assorted lot of wealthy individuals. Some called it a sordid lot, but few paid them much attention. The course never had a chance in golf course architecture circles—few do, in the pancake-flat 27th state in the Union. It would never be a cathedral of golf—like Seminole or Cypress Point or Myopia.

Resigned to its fate as yet another fine club outside the Top 100, The Sextant made Flip Hedgebow an offer he could not refuse. Flip had no immediate family of note. His parents remained in the north, fiercely against any sort of permanent relocation to warmer climes. They made the occasional journey to the low country, or the lake lands, but they resisted dropping any lower than Georgia’s northern border.

Flip had never stepped up to the roulette table of marriage and dropped a ball; the thoughts of constant companionship and dependence frightened him. Better to risk little than lose it all. Another one of those sayings that followed him around like the sun and moon.

As an assistant professional, Flip figured out in season two that his yearly reappointment was guaranteed, as long as…

He taught the lessons that the year-rounders despised. He worked the hours that the other assistants resisted. He brought a sense of northern distinction, tempered by a dash of aloofness, to all that he did. There was more, but who had the time to scratch all the nuance out of his modus operandi? Flip did as he had planned, making it appear that he did as he was told. Who needed to know which was which?

January also meant that he had to think about closing up shop in state 27 in preparation for a return to state 11. His time in the north ran from April 1 to October 30. Seven months above the line, five months below. Although April could be the cruelest month in the northeast, teasing warmth but tempering cold, he liked the challenge. In the same fashion, October could offer crisp delights of Autumn as it should be, with the occasional snowfall that reminded him why he headed south ’round Halloween. Flip was a man divided, with feet in two different lands.

Thus began another day at The Sextant: awaken at five, walk the thousand or so yards from his on-site apartment to the pro shop, roll the dice on the security alarm code, make a pot of coffee to combat the morning paroxysm, and set six pyramids of balls on the adjacent range for the early ball beaters.

On this day, four of the acolytes failed to show, meaning that Flip’s morning convo was reduced by two-thirds. This gave him time to plot a route northward, presuming that his Cutlass would cooperate at each turn.

Over the next ten weeks, Flip would recalculate and reroute his intended drive but, like most golf holes, he never did find a more strategic path home. It would be the same, safe play as in the previous years. No sojourns east nor west in search of new and fertile opportunities. Point the bow north, release the brake, and off we go.

Flip’s contentment was such that he failed to notice the shock of red hair that danced across the sun’s first beams along the walkway beyond the pro shop window. In fact, his contentment would prohibit him from noticing it for another eight weeks—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

This was January, and Flip was in control of things.

Artwork by JaeB