I felt bad for how I answered the phone, seeing as I had the greatest booking agent on earth. After she realized I was the same Jeremy King, Mr. #80, who cast the ballot – and not some foul-mouthed Yeti – her first question was dates. 

I took the latest week I could — late March. Given my own experience with January and February, March felt like the safer bet. The prayers and divinal rain dancing will, of course, come later.

Then she asked about the itinerary. But obviously I had none. No spreadsheets, no master plan. No obsessive research. I’d spent years imagining the place and cursing the people I saw playing it on Youtube, but the logistics of actually making it there? Never thought about it.

“What do you recommend?”

Her laugh simultaneously said “I work in customer service” and “don’t worry, I’ve seen this before” … but also, “you idiot.”

Feeling humiliated, her “Oh hunny, I’ve got you,” made me feel relieved. “How much golf do you want to play?”

That one was easy: “All of it.”

She knew every inch of the property — what order to play each course, which to pair back-to-back (since we were definitely playing at least 36 holes per day), and which we could consider forgoing. The one exception was Pacific Dunes (Golf Digest has Pacific Dunes ranked #23 in America and #2 best public course). That one, she told me, deserved its own day. Eighteen holes and no replay. You needed the rest of the day to let it sit with you, and really feel its weight. 

Thirty minutes later and it was done. Booked. This thing was real.

And only then, in the strange calm after the storm, did it dawn on me:

At no point did I ask her what this was going to cost.

And at no point did I ask: “M’am, how do I explain this to my wife?”

* * *

Bandon is one of those destinations that clearly arrives long before you do. 

It shows up in photographs of seaside bunkers and fairways bent sideways by corrosive winds, in half-heard stories told over beers after rounds elsewhere, and in the certain knowledge that this was not going to be just another ball marker to add to the collection.

Bandon isn’t marketed so much as whispered about — you aren’t even sure where you heard all these now assumed “facts”: that the weather is ferocious and indifferent, that the turtleback greens and firm ground require an elite short game, and that it is, according to someone, somewhere, one of the best places on god’s green fairway’d earth.

Bandon is geography, yes — the Oregon coast (I checked), a stretch of land where the whole world seems to end and the mighty Pacific Ocean does whatever the hell it wants. But in a place that sounds so cruel and unforgiving, every golfer knows that a modern pilgrimage awaits, one that beckons those who, Miller Lite in hand or not, still believe the game is at its purest when you walk, when you’re exposed, and when comfort is never guaranteed.

In my mind, it had only ever existed “out there.” Like a Canadian watching the news of a tropical storm forming in the Atlantic, it was always approaching but never felt real. It’s a place I dared not speak of in any tense but the conditional— if we ever get in… someday… one day…

But now that I was headed straight for the eye of the great beast, what next? Start battening down the hatches? Get my go bag together and flee? … “by god, what of the women and children!” And by this I of course mean: I should probably spend 5 minutes practicing my chipping.

The myth of Bandon is partly architectural. Its five courses – Pacific, Trails, Sheep Ranch, Old Mac, the original Dunes course itself — laid across ocean and forest and heathlands make the hurricane analogy apt, except the only death and destruction it brings is to one’s ego. Rather than fearing the beast, though, I imagine it will be more like a child watching a lightning storm – amazement, and even a little bit of envy, at the sheer force of nature.

But the crux of Bandon’s myth doesn’t require any analogies. Like the unmolested ground its courses were laid upon, part of the excitement is also in knowing precisely what awaits: knowing you’ll be walking until your legs give up the debate, that you’ll inevitably be finishing a round in weather that has long-since scrambled your brain, and with an exhaustion that is entirely manageable because of what it signifies: You’re there. 



In short, I imagine Bandon is just what it purports to be - a place built for golf, and little else.

You don’t go to Bandon alone. Places like this demand witnesses, testimony — people who understand the strange logic of walking thirty-six holes in gale-force wind and still calling it a good time. While the myth of Bandon is embodied by the land, the myth of the golf trip to Bandon - like, I suspect, with every good golf trip – lies in companionship: for us, that means four friends carrying the same anticipation, same alternating sense of awe and dread, yet each of us arriving with our own habits, hopes, and tolerances for fatigue. But not, thankfully, different handicaps.

Choosing the cast was easier than I expected.

In my head, it played out like an NFL draft board — names on a list, roles to fill, chemistry to protect. I even had nightmares of being on stage while someone passes me a Cleveland Browns hat.

One wrong selection and the whole thing goes tits up: too much day-one energy, too much complaining, legs too sore for an impromptu rip on the short course…

The first pick was obvious.

Tyler “The Bonesaw” King — my brother, my best man, and the closest thing we have to a chief editor in the field. A dedicated golf psychopath in the purest sense: the kind of person who has rebuilt his swing 16 times yet always shoots the exact same score. He can play thirty-six holes and, with enough drinks, still stay out far too late. But by god he’ll be the first one on the range in the morning, hoping to both find “it” and 4 Advils. The trip wouldn’t make sense without him.

Second came Andrew “Andy” McIntyre — my member-guest partner for years, and the most agreeable man I’ve ever met. Andy has never uttered the word no in his life. A smooth swing, steady temperament, annoyingly handsome and always up for whatever debauchery comes his way. The kind of golfer you want beside you in match play and beside you at the bar afterward.

The last pick required more thought.

Everyone has been on a trip where that one wrong personality ruined everyone’s time. But thankfully I had a checklist of basic requirements to work back from: single-digit handicap (no strokes on this trip), competitive, tolerant of long days, fond of a wager (and willing to pay it), and capable of surviving eight rounds in five days without mentally unraveling.

Ticking those boxes, the decision became clear.

James “Skip” Gardiner — a new friend forged through mutual acquaintances, a love of competition, and a shared admiration for the best golf courses in the world. Although Skip’s drive will be 90 yards past mine on every hole, the man is built for the coastal air. It also helped that his frequent flyer points suggest he was destined for a pilgrimage like this one long before I asked him. I still don’t think he knows the price – “let me know and I’ll send you the e-transfer” was his only reply. When it comes to destination golf, that’s always Skip’s way.

The pitch to each of them was simple: you’re either in or you’re in the way.

I gave them each twenty-four hours to decide. It took about twenty-four seconds.

And just like that, a new group chat lit up with hole flyovers, impromptu strategy sessions and therapy-inducing chirps. Plans were set for weekly trips to the Trackman simulator, Bandon courses only, in the hopes of finding some little piece of knowledge to bring with us, And we can’t forget about the daily weather checks, like the temperature in Oregon is some sort of stock ticker.

Every good golf trip begins long before the first airport lounge Guinness. So in a very real way, Bandon is already here – in the planning, in the group chat memes, and, most saliently, in the private imaginations of our individual, golf-mad souls … that place of definitions, but no words.

Those same souls had heard the coast calling. 

Eight rounds. Five days. Late March.

The Pacific coast doesn’t know we are coming, but our names are on its tee sheet regardless. 

And when we do finally get there, we will, by any means necessary, make damn-well sure its raging seas and rolling fairways know: 

We are here. 

Bandon Bros story coming early-April

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