Yet even more to our benefit, as we would soon find out, was that Skip had done so much business in China that his Super Elite status meant he could get on the phone with an airline “concierge” (not a word in my tax bracket) in seconds, and basically hold them at ransom until they delivered us a new plane. If we had to bump some poor family on their March break, so be it; the kids would get over it, and a once-in-a-lifetime trip Bandon was too important to leave to chance. 

Super Elite Skip had us on a flight to Denver leaving in 40 minutes, and with the reduced layover for our connection, we might even make it to Eugene earlier than expected. I say “might” because we almost missed that flight when we spent 30 minutes trying to get a guarantee that our golf bags, which may or may not have deboarded with us, would somehow follow. We were assured by the concierge that it was all sorted, but once we had lifted off and connected to the free wi-fi, the spotty signal was just strong enough to tell us our bags were still sitting on the tarmac. Based on the admittedly deserved berating Skip was giving this minimum wage employee, we also assumed our clubs had been run over by a Boeing 747, out of pure spite.

I spent the majority of the flight researching Bandon’s rental club options, although I was somewhat distracted by the sound of the occasional obscenities from two rows back as Skip vented to another poor geek from United assigned to our case.

“If those bags aren’t on a flight to Eugene in 20 minutes, so help me ... and you!”

I definitely had the better job, and if you end up going to Bandon from Pearson, you should know their rental clubs are top of the line. They have all the major brands, and given how surprisingly well I ended up playing with a set of TaylorMade shovels I was given (I’ve already got the Qi35 3 wood in my cart), maybe it really was a blessing. But at that time, there was still one line at the bottom of the webpage that gave us all panic:

“Availability not guaranteed.”

To silence the horrible thought of having to play the second ranked public course in America with a makeshift bag, Jerry and I began gambling on the Jeopardy! episodes we downloaded for the flight (a dollar for every right answer). The four of us had gone to the bank the day before to make sure we had enough money for all the impromptu bets that would take place, and if you ever want to see a crusty old bank manager break, try asking for $400 purely in American ones. I assured the teller it wasn’t what he thought – not that I should have given a hell if he judged – but no explanation could stop the laughter I saw through the manager’s window as the he went to approve the transaction.

After Jerry lost a quick 20 from his stack – don’t ever try to go against me if the category turns up “American Literature” - he changed seats and tried us luck against Mac in some Blackjack.



But nothing doing. As soon as we touched down in Denver, he sprinted off the plane to find the closest currency exchange.

We met Jerry back at a bar by the gate for our Eugene flight. Feeling rejuvenated with a fresh stack of ones, he ordered us eight Guinness. At the sight of all that pitch black, settling foam, Skip’s unsettled stomach got the best of him, and he flat-out disappeared. We didn’t see him until we landed in Eugene and assumed he ditched us peasants to find the closest airport lounge and continue his assault on the Air Canada and United staff. But his daring escape had left the three of us now delirious and tired souls – with Jerry and I especially unsettled on account of the antibiotics we were taking - to finish all those creamy pints. This was no time to go soft, and while we nursed our first beers, the final boarding call over the PA meant we had no choice but to chug the second. I’m sure the gate attendant had her doubts about letting us on the flight; we could barely stop dry heaving long enough for them take a steady picture.

Mercifully, the flight to Eugene from Denver is short – although seeing the people who were clearly flying home to Eugene was itself a sociological experience. We had just enough time onboard for one more beer, and getting out of that airport was even quicker since the one terminal in Eugene more closely resembles a dilapidated elementary school than an airport. Plus, we now had zero bags to collect. 

Maybe the beers had taken over, but when we finally made it to the hotel we were staying at that night, I felt like I could take one more shot at our new friend and driver. So after we checked in and I saw the Sprinter still sitting in the parking lot, for some reason I decided to sneak up on the driver-side window and scream, “Give me all your money!”

Well, Dale didn’t flinch. He just slowly turned, smiled, and asked “Do you really want to know if I’m packing?”

I did not. I quickly thanked him again and hurried off to my room to find the beers. 

Old Bandon is itself a stunning and unique place, a mere 15 minutes from The Dunes. If you’re from the Toronto area, you can imagine a quaint Muskoka town, but instead of Lake Joseph it’s on a damn Ocean. When the tide is up, the bay it’s built on has all the weight and majesty of the mighty Pacific, but when it’s low tide you could literally walk for miles on the sandy bay without finding water. For some reason that made us all fearful, another potential portent of the climactic violence we were about to experience on the golf course.

The subtle fear subsided with more beers and a delicious crab-meat sandwich at Tony’s Crabshack, a place that, from the outside, looked like it violated every state health code and yet made you sure you were going to get one of the best seafood meals of your life. It did not disappoint, nor did we get dysentery – the only downside was having to guard your chips from the owner’s giant pet Dungeness Crab, which roams around freely and sizes each customer up with its alien-like features. We then felt we should press our luck with more drinks at the other bar in town, an Irish pub that, being right on the ocean, was probably as close to Ireland as I’ve ever come.

Back in the hotel the drinks had done their work, and as happens too frequently on the golf course - where one always imagines there are three more birdies at the bottom of the 7th beer – we put on some more Jeopardy!, all thinking we were much smarter than we were. We also underestimated how all that travelling had made Skip a man of the world, as he cleaned up every mildly-geographic category and piled our ones under his empty bottles. 

When we awoke the next morning and stepped outside our rooms, the sun was glorious, and the cold, bitter wind that defines March on the Oregon coast somehow helped the hangover. But it was also our final reminder that we were headed for a dogfight - a no holds-barred cage match against the almighty golf- and weather-gods. 

Looking out at the low tide, however, somehow we all thought, “just as well.” 

As we would soon find out, you don’t want perfect weather at Bandon. The courses were designed to have the raging wind and sea front and centre. They are both the stage and the actors of this movie, and boy would they become angry.

But when we finally saw the “Welcome to Bandon Dunes” sign and caught our first glimpse of Sheep’s Ranch, where we’d be playing that afternoon, it could have been a blizzard for all we cared.

At that moment, you could have taken our clubs and just thrown them straight into the ocean for all we cared. And if they weren’t still sitting on a Toronto tarmac, that wouldn’t have been difficult as the first tee at Sheep has you hitting straight into the Pacific abyss.

We had no way of knowing that this view was nothing compared to what awaited us, as we let our minds shift in focus to the tournament that was now at hand. Five rounds of team matchplay, rotating partners every round, accumulating a point with every win as well as an all-important stroke advantage for our final, winner-take-all singles match. Those strokes would turn out to be the difference (just ask Skip who couldn’t find the face of his driver until round four).

But as I stood over the ball and did my ritual two checks of the target, my mind again shifted from “don’t you dare lose to your brother” to “where the hell am I?” There was no target to look at, just blue seas and blue skies as far as the eye goes. I smiled.

We had no idea just what was in store for us, but there was one thing this view had already assured us: this was going to be the greatest golf trip of our lives.

***

Stay Tuned for Part 2 of A Pacific Pilgrimage, Coming Soon.

Bandon Shuttle Service: Connoisseurs Golf Transportation

Old Bandon Accommodations: Bandon Inn

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