| I just don’t “get” golf. A doomed attempt
to avoid becoming a golf widow led me to try it more than a decade ago. Though
I found a certain satisfaction in whacking away on the driving range, the actual
game seemed like masochism.
Yet every year more of my girlfriends take it up: to share a hobby with their
husbands, to join in at work-related
tournaments—some even think it’s fun. Lazily carting around, drinking
beer and wearing brightly coloured leisure wear sounds about as much “fun”
as a Rob Schneider film festival.
But I decided to give it another shot on a girls’ golf weekend with
a tomboyish friend who is naturally athletic but has never golfed. Right off the
bat, travel writer Amy Rosen promises to cheat, reasoning, “It’s not
fun if you’re not cheating.”
Call it cheating or call it consolation, but we like some sun and spa with
our winter golf. We chose Mayakoba, the mega-luxe resort in the Mayan Riviera.
Its El Camaleón golf course hosts the Mayakoba Classic, the PGA Tour’s
only Mexican event, each February.
Amy When I agreed to go on a winter “chicks
with sticks” trip to the Mayan Riviera with Charlene (granted, there wasn’t
much arm-twisting required), I was under the impression that we were both true
newbies to the game of golf. I would soon learn that it was all a setup—with
me playing the patsy. I had inklings early on: in the weeks leading up to the
trip Charlene had started slipping “mulligan” and “scratch”
into random conversations. Then, when we were getting outfitted in our adorable
Lija outfits and Ecco golf shoes, she was going for comfort while I was concerned
with fun styles and colours (does that come with an argyle vest?). Turns out the
traitor once even owned her own set of golf clubs!
If I had to be suckered into a golf holiday, at least I was doing it at the
right place. A new breed of eco-friendly resort in the heart of Mexico’s
Yucatan Peninsula, Mayakoba is a network of intertwined five-star hotels, canopied
jungles, oceansides, clear lagoons, mangrove stands and golf greens. Our home
base was the AAA five-diamond Fairmont Mayakoba, a rambling 401-room resort whose
elegant suites resemble modern casitas. When not lying prone by the ocean, my
favourite among the Fairmont’s five pools is the gorgeous infinity pool
overlooking the lagoon. But then we discover the one with the swim-up bar...
Charlene I set my own tone for the trip by trying
to get into guy—I mean, golfer—mode. Macho poolside reading for me
is GQ and Esquire while Rosen grazes on fluff like Shopaholic Ties the Knot. My
lunch is nachos and beer at the swim-up bar; dinner is steak and lobster and an
icy martini from the retro bar cart at the beach restaurant Las Brisas. Hey, I’m
manning up for tomorrow’s golf lesson.
Amy I feel sorry for men. Women can learn to
golf, easy, but it will take men years to fully embrace spa culture. (Men certainly
don’t know how to gather fresh fruit and cookies in their pocketless spa
robes—now that’s female ingenuity.) And no matter how sleek the Willow
Stream Spa is, the dudes will inevitably choose a sports massage over Cha Chac
Rain Ritual, one of several indigenous treatments that can start with a Mayan-inspired
traditional blessing along with the burning of copal incense, leading into a local
honey body mask. To me, relaxing in a spa is a hard-learned skill, much like a
golf swing. And the Fairmont’s private spa concierges, who anticipate our
every need (chilled facecloth in the steam room? glass of herb-infused fresh pineapple
juice?) are an inspired stroke.
Charlene Our golf instructor Eliezer is hitting
perfect 5-irons when we arrive at a sizzling 8 a.m. at the driving range. Between
his anecdotes about living in Maple Ridge and working in Okanagan orchards, the
Vancouverite in me feels right at home. I get uncomfortable only when he tells
us that if we practice for an hour a day, five days a week, within a month we’ll
be playing functional golf. Uh oh. “We don’t have that kind of time.
What can you do in an hour?” Rosen demands.
We learn the basics of grip and swing. Encouraging us to lengthen our backswings,
Eliezer says: “You have to hit yourself on the back with the stick!”
and I laugh out loud at the image of the self-flagellating golfer. My first mini-victory
comes when I stop tracking the ball: “Keep your head down,” Eliezer
encourages. “You are always playing golf with two or three other people
who are very interested in where your ball is going. Don’t worry about it!”
Amy “Today we will hit 100 balls,”
is the first thing Eliezer tells us. The second is that golf is more of a mental
game than anything else: “Open your mind,” says our amicable instructor.
Turns out there are just two basic skills to learn: driving and putting. (Of
course, these skills aren’t basic, and obviously the interloper Charlene
already knew this, but seems more interested in locating the roaming bar cart
anyway.)
Golf is surprisingly fun! But my mental game has been severely compromised
by the strapping Mexicans practicing drives to my left. “Keep your head
down!” I hear Eliezer telling Charlene as I go to fetch some water near
the cute boys.
Charlene Eliezer keeps telling Rosen, who has
already developed a telltale blister on her thumb, to keep her grip and stance
loose, “like dancing some salsa or some rock and roll.” Her swing
reminds of something and it’s not dancing. Earlier in the trip she had told
me a funny story involving her back lawn, small enough to be “mowed”
with a weed whacker. That’s it! She wields the club like a weed whacker.
Yet she’s right pleased with herself, remarking, “It’s a
good thing we’re so evenly matched. The game tomorrow wouldn’t be
fun if one person was much better than the other.” I choose to believe it
comes from her intimidation at the hidden prowess of my (admittedly rusty) drives.
We retire to the putting green, where I mention that I’m an impatient perfectionist,
thus a lousy putter. “Yes, this would be very hard for somebody like you,”
Rosen intones. I now know she’s trying to play mind games with me.
It’s just after 9 a.m. and I want nothing more than a cold beer. Eliezer
is an enabler: “I have seen people playing very drunk who are much better
than when they are not drunk.” Beer for breakfast: this might just be “fun”
after all!
Amy The Mayan heat is building, topping off at
10 a.m. when a bank of clouds rolls in and a sudden rain drenches the steamy grounds.
As I drink café con leche on my balcony, engulfed by the sultry flora surrounding
me, a wee bird with a white crest, grey mask and yellow breast takes shelter under
an outsized tropical leaf. I fixate on it for a good 15 minutes until the rain
stops.
This is how I know I will not overthink my golf game, I tell myself, gearing
up for the grudge match.
Charlene We tee off late the next day to avoid
holding up “real” golfers on the finely manicured course. As we drive
between holes the live GPS screens in the golf carts give interesting environmental
nuggets, advising to avoid the sensitive turtle-hatching beach habitat and protective
mangrove stands. On yesterday’s boat tour of the lagoons in a silent electric
lancha the Fairmont’s ecology manager Lyn Santos told us: “The mangroves
are a buffer against storms, waves, winds. We can’t touch them,” her
hands folded over her pregnant belly, enhancing her earth mother vibe. Just off
the 10th hole, Santos had pointed out where fresh water enters porous rock into
the man-made canals, dug to mimic the natural flow patterns to the ocean: a little
eco-science with our golf.
Right on the first hole is a natural hazard: a cenote, or underground cave,
revealed during construction. Designer Greg Norman left it yawning, gaping, exposed
on the fairway. I’m so consumed with avoiding it that naturally my ball
lands in its rough border; I chip out directly into a bunker, then hack out into
another bunker. While I’m down there chomping sand, I hear Rosen wickedly
quip: “Maybe I won’t have to cheat after all.”
Let’s just say it was a debacle, with Eliezer tallying 16 for Rosen and
19 for me on the long, dogleg 558-yard par 5.
Amy Following a disastrous 40-minute first hole,
Eliezer, who the club director has wisely decided should accompany us during our
game, suggests we play some scrambles, whereby Charlene and I play against him,
using the better of our two shots against his one. We bogey on our first hole.
(I think that means one over par?)
From there our mediocre game steadily deteriorates, though we sink most putts
in two strokes and learned a thing or two about getting out of a sand trap. In
the end, we learn that we’re better off as a team than working alone.
But that we kind of suck, nevertheless. Swim-up bar, here we come! |
Daniel
Espinosa Jewelry is the place for exquisite silver and gold designs. A native
son, his work is famous around the world. 
