To start, I have long loathed the state of Florida. When ranking my favorite states one through fifty, I quickly mark California in the top spot and Florida dead last before proceeding to fill in the rest. The list of reasons for this opinion includes, but is not limited to:
- Ted Bundy’s most horrific spree took place in this state and led to an electric chair in Raiford, Florida.
- Florida has among the worst unemployment benefits.
- The Miami Marlins often seem to be more of a money-laundering scheme than a seriously run, professional baseball team.
- This is the state of the infamous cannibalistic face-eating.
- The Sunshine state has a bar that advertises the fact that notorious serial killer Aileen Wuornos spent her last night of freedom sleeping in one of their corner booths.
- Clearwater has been taken over by Scientologist followers of huckster, acclaimed Sci-Fi author, and opponent of dental floss, L Ron Hubbard.
- The popular interweb pastime of Googling the keywords “Florida man” followed by your birth date takes advantage of the wildly transparent Sunshine Laws to allow private citizens to discover all manner of stomach-churning, criminal mayhem committed by Floridians.
Beyond these easy to mock headlines, my several stints in Florida had left me with a clear impression of perceived values. The natural landscape aches to be paradisal. All the water and coastlines create an interesting topography for a hypothetically thoughtful developer. And the abundant diversity of wildlife demands celebrating. Sure the summers can be brutal with heat and humidity, but smartly planned cities should be able to mitigate these factors. And the winters can be fantastic! Further, the state-wide embrace of free-market deregulation should empower residents to pursue passions and indulge creativity.
However, I was always struck by how little the state sold out for. Florida seemed a perfect embodiment of the criticisms of legendary Joni Mitchell and Malvina Reynolds songs (I do understand that these songs were specifically written about Hawaii and Daly City, California, respectively). “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot” for nondescript strip malls, chain restaurants and rows of “little boxes made of ticky tacky.” I often settled on the word “charmless” to describe this state. What depth could there possibly be in this kind of boring, uninspired, suburban malaise? A total lack of effort, joy and love. Utterly charmless. Insert stock Marxist critique of postmodern capitalism.
Further solidifying this general impression was the Sunshine State’s golf scene. Florida has often considered itself the finest state for Old Tom Morris’s game, a distinction I was quick to roll my eyes at. Sure the PGA was founded in the parking lot of the Donald Ross designed Dunedin Golf Club and the PGA is currently based in Palm Beach, Florida. As far as big things go, these are rather notable ones. But in my experience, Florida golf was predictable, cookie-cutter tracks with lots of artificially irrigated water snaking through developments of little boxes. Utterly charmless. They have stripped decision-making from the hands of the golfer and manage to make the sport of Seve Ballesteros robotic. Another sharp dog-legged hole? Guess I have to hit iron off the tee again. Oh water left? Guess I need to stay right. The kind of courses that one of those futuristic blob people from Wall-E could caddy. All this beautiful, sandy earth edged by water should sprout inspired, jaw-dropping 18s. But even the well respected courses such as Pete Dye’s TPC Sawgrass seemed to be more of an artificial nature that moved ungodly amounts of land in a showy, ostentatious display of human engineering rather than a celebration of nature. And that represents Florida golf at its best. However, Florida golf largely trudges narrow, unimaginative, over-watered, artificial courses on land that failed to meet some municipal grade to legally allow for the development of yet another strip mall. That is, until last week, when I played the Black Course at Streamsong Golf Resort.
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For context, I recently spent time in Dunedin, Florida to check out the optimism-fest-for-baseball-fans that is Spring Training and sleeping on a spare bed in my brother Riley’s condo. On one of his rare off days, we decided to splurge and play the much-acclaimed (Golf Digest’s top new public course of 2018), Gil Hanse-designed Black Course at Streamsong. The track was quite a bit out of the way (nearly two hours of asphalt time each way) and rather pricey (which is why this essay is not a referendum on how Florida surprised me with its egalitarian, accessible, championship-level public golf reminiscent of San Diego’s Torrey Pines, San Francisco’s Harding Park or University Place, Washington’s Chambers Bay). Further, we went into the experience fully aware of the reputation of Hanse as well as Tom Doake and the duo of Bill Coore and Ben Crenshaw, who designed the Blue and Red courses on the 16,000 acre property. Expectations were high.
In short, the course did not disappoint. We caught the course on a near perfect day for Scottish-inspired links golf. An overcast morning gave way to a very comfortable early afternoon of “spoiling a good walk” (as someone who was almost definitely not Mark Twain first observed). For those not interested in my hole-by-hole breakdown, you can take the first sentence of this paragraph as a summary and skip ahead to my conclusions below the next page break.
Now that we got rid of those who likely speak favorably of the tenure of King James II of Scotland, let us voyage through the miraculous, wondrous holes that comprise Streamsong Black.
The course starts out with a classic gentle handshake of a first hole, a warm beckoning. A wide fareway accepting all forms of decently struck tee balls. Further, being a par five accommodates a variety of poor shots out of the gates. This is not to disparage the hole or portray her layout as “easy.” I was quite proud of my 50 foot lag putt to set up a kick in par. The beautiful girl at the other end of the bar smiled back.
The second hole was an early example of the types of choices this course presents. An only-drivable-by-Riley par 4 (of 326 yards from the black tees we played; how could you not play the black tees at Streamsong Black?) to an elevated green well-defended by deep and scruffy bunkers. The decision for the first shot outvoted by the inevitable second. Oh, and the wind started to kick up around this time too.
The next hole that required such pre-tee brainstorming was the 4th. A brawny, 581 yard par five that featured a split fareway. Typically layouts of this nature reward the riskier play with an easier follow-up effort. However, for a mere mortal golfer with my ball striking ability, the safer route was also the prudent one. Riley may have been rewarded had one of his Project Mercury drives found the upper half of the split, but for humans, the longer runway also provides the best look at getting home in two. A task I proudly accomplished right before experiencing the type of self-sabotage that all golfers can relate to. Standing over a 30ish foot putt, visions of glory raced through my mind. (This, by the way, was all set up by a 7 iron shot on hole three that left me inside a foot of the cup; my fragile confidence was tenuously high) “If I roll this one in, I’ll be under par for the day. But even if I only get a birdie, I’ll be even par overall.” These fantasies quickly gave way to a three-jacked par that planted the seed for my everglade state epiphany.
Five was a fantastic par three. A long, uphill and into the wind (the hole is always uphill and 200+ yards long, but that headwind was the aspect particular to that day) long-iron showcase. Further, the entire right side of the green was protected by Larry Allen-esque bunkers. My struggles from the previous green continued as I chunked a four iron into the junk short en route to a courtesy double bogey. A terrific test of golf I was unable to meet.
After another not-quite-drivable par four sixth, the seventh hole was a different type of tricky par three. Several shelves on the rambling, undulated putting surface made the hole much trickier than the relatively benign yardage book scouting report would indicate.
The dogleg-right, 408-yard eighth hole was memorable mainly for a ball hit out of bounds by one Riley Adams. Riley is a dream of a playing partner for many reasons. His dumb jock, self deprecating sense of humor belies a voracious thirst for knowledge. His quest to better understand the practical applications of Newtonian physics and kinesiology go beyond professional necessity. His constant scientific openness to new explanations and theories rejects dogmatism. He is the quickest person I know to say, “I was wrong, you’re right.” No egocentric need for deference. He would rather hand out compliments than bask in the glow of adulation aimed his way. He seems to get much more joy out of helping elevate someone else’s performance rather than flaunt his own noteworthy abilities. All his wondrous and joyous physicality strike more as one of many tools in his kit. After devoting so much diligent effort, time and thought, why should he be surprised by these skills? “Sometimes” observes Teller (Penn’s normally silent partner), “magic is just someone spending more time on something than anyone else might reasonably expect.” Wonder as the brilliant byproduct of meticulous repetition, curious experimentation and sweat. Lots and lots of sweat. The exact type of charm by effort that Florida seems to lack. With one moment of magic, Riley redirected me towards the path of appreciating all these feelings anew. His thunderclap of a tee ball headed straight for the decidedly-not-meant-to-be-drivable green. A mighty effort too grand for this particular occasion as the ball was lost into the junk behind the green. More data points to plug into Riley’s supercomputer, but a reminder for me to be more open to possibilities.
The ninth hole featured a fun, elevated, punchbowl green. My blind approach shot guided only by a windmill behind the green to which I tilted at with a skanky, rightward block. However, due to previously unknown punchbowl contours, I ended up with an pleasantly surprising 15 foot putt. As David McLay Kidd might note, on a links golf course, the story of the ball continues well after the ball lands. Every bump, ridge and gust of wind adds an element of luck and tactile navigation. I would be remiss if I neglected to mention another magnificent lecture on conservation of momentum by Riley on this hole. Battling both a headwind and uphill fareway, he channeled the magic of the previous drive into a much easier approach shot than I had. Thoughtfully deployed brawn. And with that, a fantastic stretch of Gil Hanse’s tumbling, wispy brainchild came to an end, and all I could think about was that damned putt on the fourth green.
The turn leads to a quality par five tenth that is getable from the left side of the fareway. I instead trudged through the weeds and shrubs and sand along the right. This set the tone for my back nine that resembled Earl Webb’s 1931 campaign in how effectively I collected doubles. I was in the midst of a full on hangover that clouds my memory of several of these holes on this stretch. The following are the ones that cut through that fog.
Thirteen featured a quirky dual green layout. Unfortunately, we were playing the more difficult green (ominously advertised as the most difficult on property). The front pin location on the false front green led to several putts rolling back into the fareway. Possibly the only unfair pin location we encountered on the day.
The following was a drivable par four, one of my favorite types of holes. My keep-it-under-the-wind, low runner was thwarted by the lip of a bunker on the left. Riley, however, successfully drove to the green. With a two-iron. Another wonder.
Seventeen was a longer par three, playing about 190 yards on the day we played. It was also my lone par on the back nine. The Occidental to my CalTech act. Normally, if Riley and I swing the same club into a par three, one of us has made a dumb choice. Either I will be meekly short or Riley assertively long. However, thanks to the quirks of links golf, this hole rewarded both of our eight iron decisions. I was able to hit a low runner that nestled about 20 feet from the cup on the low side of the green, just inside of Riley’s sky-high, backspun effort. A reminder of how links golf invites imagination and creativity. The Scotts got it right from the beginning. Thanks Old Tom.
The beefy 530 yard, par five, into-the-wind eighteenth provided a fitting stage for one final celebration of links golf and wonder through effort. I used the newfound wind at my sails from the previous hole to scrape together a workmanlike bogey from the warm-up putting green. Riley was the star though. Following a smart, low stinger of a tee-ball to the center of the fareway, Riley faced a daunting second shot. The daring green perched about 240 yards away with a 25 mile-per-hour, hurting, right wind. The green was surrounded by bunkers as well as the only water on the course short and right. In one final display of conditioned genius, Riley smartly rode the wind with a buttery fade leaving a 30 foot eagle putt. He lagged up to an easy birdie to complete the impressive display.
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The first major takeaway from this day was that Streamsong was indeed a magical, beguiling paradise within the swampy, thoughtless, charmless wasteland that is Florida. Streamsong represents the best of golf as a whole, and specifically links golf. Every shot is a decision. “Should I run one in there low or maybe throw it into the wind a little more?” Natural elements prevent the game from turning into a long-division problem. No longer does a 175 yard shot demand the 175 yard club, but perhaps a punch shot with less loft or a wind-surfer with more loft. Where to land the shot is entirely different from where you want the ball to end up. Risk and luck. The mortality of getting punished undeservingly contrasted with the heroism of outfoxing the earth with a brilliant show of wit or brawn. Golf, it turns out, is best with more options not less. Exploration, magic and wonder all swirled together. A good walk, enhanced.
Further adding to these feelings is the specific joy of playing a round with Riley. An exceptionally overqualified caddy as well as a constant source of encouragement and helpful swing observations. Constantly looking for what makes what you singularly brilliant, a generous, earnest curiosity from someone who can vaporize golf balls as if they are Alderaan. The show stopping wallops that laugh at imagined limitations. Casual miracles of diligent effort.
My meltdown on the fourth green is a perfect metaphor for my overall interpretation of the state. Instead of simply enjoying the ride, company, poetry-worthy setting and the feeling of stringing together several well-struck golf balls, I was lost in fantasized potentials and expectations. Sing simply for the sake of the song. Not to ignore flaws or areas in need of improvement. For me, chipping and putting. For Florida, eliminating diagonally hung traffic lights might be a good place to start. Sure they might be cheaper to install and operate, but is that really more important than public safety through civic design? Another tight metaphor inside a metaphor.
The moments of joy are out there. Sure, Florida remains largely a paradise that was paved over for parking lots to nondescript strip malls and rows of tract home little boxes. Sure, many of the most deplorable, slimy, violent people have and continue to reside here. Sure, there is a nearly universal lack of charm. But that difference between nearly and completely is the point. While all those grey negatives may be the overarching rule of the land, resilient charm can and does poke through. The s’mores-flavored cinnamon rolls at Tukro Coffee Shop are delicious. The humid, heavy, cloudy air facilitates striking sunsets. The Woodwright Brewery’s Zwickelbier is crisp and summery in the best possible ways. And a round at the Black Course at Streamsong with your best friend just might draw your attention to all these charming, soulful exceptions to the rule. The cracks that let the light in.
Essays by Cameron 