The Eighth Green

The Cormorant’s Bluff Golf Course isn’t widely known. It lies on the outskirts of a minor coastal town once made prosperous by a long since departed whaling industry. A small museum inhabits what used to be the whaling station. Its collection of grainy photographs featuring bearded men astride the shapeless forms that whale carcasses assume when hauled from the water attracts few visitors. The dank ruins of a colonial prison attract even fewer and the seismography centre none at all. The town hugs a glacier-carved bay between two wide headlands. When the wind blows from the south it comes funnelled through the heads with an unspellable howl and brings word of the ice-locked continent across the water. Cormorant’s Bluff is the name given to the eastern-most headland and to the golf course that adorns its back.

The course was originally built by a wealthy local resident motivated more by the desire to have one nearby than any hope that it might ever turn a profit. His name was Donald Arthur and he was considered eccentric even before he decided to put an eighteen-hole golf course on top of a windy hill beside a town of barely two thousand people. He financed and designed it himself and though many at the time expected the result to be a disaster of idiosyncrasy made manifest it is largely unremarkable in playing style. There is no par above a five or below a three and most hazards adhere fairly strictly to links conventions. It does, however, have two noteworthy features. The first is the stark beauty of its views. The eastern headland is higher than the western one and extends further out into the ocean so that on days when the fog keeps away a player on the back nine can look out and see endless rocky projections stirring the grey sea to lather all the way down the tapering coastline.

The other is the eighth green. Among the locals its known as Don’s Deadfall and is spoken of with some pride by those who have played it. The eighth and ninth holes both extend onto a geological anomaly in the form of a wide overhang that juts out over a rock pool formation. Over the years this overhang has been worn on the under side by waves at high tide leaping up off the rocks below to the point where a small section has fallen through. For reasons unknown Mr. Arthur drew his designs such that the resulting two metre wide hole sits in the very centre of the eighth green. The rock pools beneath it are thus littered with lost golf balls and the children who come at low tide to look for crabs and the clinging molluscs that spit water when disturbed like to collect these strange additions to the biome and bounce them hard against the rocks so they sail high out to sea.

Andrew had never been much of a golfer but it was he who suggested they play a round. He’d seen the oversized sign at the driveway to the clubhouse and gotten an urge he couldn’t account for. Dylan wanted to visit the seismography centre.

It’s one of only two in the whole state, he said.

That’s because the last earthquake in this state was in about 1865, Andrew countered.

The last big one maybe but there are still all sorts of little tremors going on all the time that you can’t even feel but these machines manage to pick up. They let you actually see all the shifting of the earth as it moves under your feet. If volcanos are the tantrums of a volatile planet then these tremors are like its personal diary. It won’t take long and then we’d still have time to check out the whaling museum and the prison as well.

They both looked to Sean for the deciding vote and he rubbed his chin and squinted at nothing in particular while he deliberated.

Well, he said slowly. It has been a while since I hit the links.

The three of them were standing in the narrow street behind The Railway Hotel. Their bikes were parked around the corner in an alley than ran steeply down towards the docks.

Sean glanced at the sky. It was clear and the hotel sheltered them from the cold wind that had buffeted their bikes about as they rode across the ridges and into town the evening before and which was still blowing hard off the water. He turned to Dylan and raised his eyebrows in a kind of appeal.

There could be some pretty spectacular views up there, he said.

Dylan shrugged and rubbed his gloved hands together.

Golf it is then, he said. I might just use the facilities first though.

He headed back inside and Sean and Andrew hugged themselves and studied the ground at their feet as they waited. Neither spoke. Their itinerary had never included any sightseeing here but yesterday Sean had broken his clutch lever on the cliff-hewn road above town. A strong gust of wind caught his bike mid-corner and caused him to clip a small outcrop as he fought to avoid the sheer wall of rock rising up on his left. It was a simple job to fix but it was Sunday and the town’s only garage wasn’t open. Just twenty-four hours into a three-week trip they were set to lose a full day. It couldn’t be helped and from the beginning the trip had been planned more as an escape than an expedition but there was a schedule nonetheless and Andrew bridled at the delay. Sean sucked his teeth and studied the rear of the hotel. Like many buildings in the town its walls were of a roughly cut dark stone that held the sheen of damp even when there had been no rain.

After a few minutes the back door swung open and Dylan emerged and jogged up the set of concrete steps to the street. He nodded and the three of them headed around the corner to where the bikes stood close up against the side of the hotel. Sean walked around his familiar old machine and inspected the broken lever in the fresh light of day. The break had occurred halfway down its length and the stub that remained was bent sharply downwards. He’d managed to use it well enough to get into town and find the hotel but they’d all agreed it was too dangerous to ride with on the open road. He tested it now and could only grip it effectively with two fingers. Andrew and Dylan had both retrieved their helmets and Sean moved to unlock the large top box pannier fitted to the tail of his bike. As on Andrew and Dylan’s bikes there was also one attached to either side and on ride days the three panniers carried all they’d calculated they would need for three weeks. With a few clothes and toiletries removed to their rooms for the night their helmets just fitted into the top boxes. Andrew gave a strong kick and his sleek black BMW roared into life. Sean carefully squeezed onto the tiny seat between Andrew’s stocky frame and the top box while he was still buckling his helmet. It was a tight fit but Dylan’s bike had no pillion and was smaller anyway. Sean glanced over and saw Dylan kneeling down and performing a complicated ritual involving the fuel pump. He’d owned his antique machine for longer than either Sean or Andrew had known him and it had suffered repairs so often that most of the engine could claim to have been built in his garage. When he was satisfied he rose and climbed astride the bike. His second attempt at a kick-start brought the motor to a spluttering idle.

They pulled out onto the empty street and Sean was pitched backwards as Andrew opened the throttle. Dylan responded in kind and as his little machine fought bravely to match the pace set by Andrew’s factory-tuned BMW the Sunday morning silence was rent by the roar and whine of duelling engines.

The clubhouse was open but seemingly empty when they arrived. They passed through the front doors and into a single vast room with plush blue carpeting and a high ceiling. At the far end was a counter guarding a small display of golfing equipment. The rest of the room was completely bare. Andrew headed straight for the counter while the others wandered towards the tall windows that lined the entire left side of the room. Outside was a tiled veranda bearing several large tables but no chairs. Beyond the veranda a gentle hill rose up to meet the sky and on its crest a copse of pines were offering deep bows against their will.

Andrew reached the counter and looked around for a bell. He found one and rang it twice. There was a glass door in the wall behind the counter but the room on the other side was dark and Andrew could see no movement there. He rang the bell again. From the next room came a noise like something falling to the floor from a great height and then the door opened to reveal a fat man sweating heavily in a shirt and tie. He beamed at Andrew and closed the door behind him.

Morning, he said. What can I do for you?

Party of three for eighteen holes, said Andrew.

The fat man nodded and started punching numbers into the cash register. He was balding and what strands of hair remained were plastered across his shining scalp.

You gents should have the course to yourselves this morning I reckon, he said. Good day for it too. Do you have your own clubs or were you looking to hire?

Hire, said Andrew.

Dylan and Sean had left the window to come and stand behind him.

The fat man read off a list of the various sets of clubs they had on offer and their prices. Andrew asked for three sets of the most expensive and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Dylan wearing a slightly worried expression.

I don’t need anything that fancy, he said. I only ever use five or six clubs in a whole round.

Don’t worry, said Andrew. It’s my shout.

Dylan knotted his brow and shook his head.

No, he said. I can’t let you do that.

It’s done. If it wasn’t for me you’d be waist deep in beeping machines right now and happy as a clam I’m sure. I gotta spend my money while I still can anyway.

He grinned and Dylan responded with a weak smile.

Well if you insist, he said.

The fat man had been watching this exchange carefully but as soon as Andrew turned back to face him he quickly resumed his business with the cash register.

Ok then, he said after punching in a few more numbers. Will that be cash or credit?

Credit, said Andrew as he struggled to tug his wallet free from his back pocket.

Sean had meanwhile wandered back to the window and he turned now with a puzzled look.

It doesn’t look like you get a whole lot of people through here, he said. No offence or anything.

The fat man looked over and gave a cheerful shrug.

None taken, he said. You’re right. You lot are the first we’ve had through since Friday. Suits me right down to the bone.

Then how do you stay afloat? This place must cost a fortune to maintain.

The bloke who built it died a very rich man and left it all to a trust that administers the club. Through investments and whatnot the trust makes more money than it can spend so this place will probably still be going strong long after we’re all dead and buried even if it never sees another player.

Sean nodded slowly and turned back to the window.

Huh, he said to the scene outside.

The fat man handed Andrew back his credit card.

All sorted, he said. Let me just get your clubs and you’re ready to go.

He disappeared back into the dark room beyond the glass door. A minute later he returned carrying a golf bag full of clubs.

Here’s one, he said and heaved the bag up onto the counter. He was panting heavily and stood bent at the waist with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

You gents from the city? he asked between wheezes.

We are, said Andrew.

Where you headed?

North.

Business or pleasure?

Andrew shrugged.

Pleasure I guess, he said.

The fat man nodded absently as though he hadn’t heard any of Andrew’s answers and straightened up with a sigh. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt then went to retrieve the next set of clubs.

From the moment they crested the hill that hid the first tee the day proved unpleasant. The sun shone bright in an empty sky but atop the exposed headland the wind bit bitter and carried shots well away from their intended target. Nobody mentioned the miserable conditions. Andrew’s few attempts to keep up a conversation were snatched away and lost in the gale and so they soon lapsed into a grim silence. They neither cursed at mistakes nor celebrated good shots but merely went about the business of completing the round with a stoic resolve.

Dylan was far and away the strongest player of the three. Sean had a longer drive but he sliced it more often than not and his short game was a mess while Andrew was limited to endless hooks and overhits and mullygrubbers only occasionally interspersed with unaccountable moments of brilliance. The fat man at the clubhouse had given them each a scorecard before they set out and they filled these in dutifully after each hole with fingers made numb by the cold. By the time they finished the seventh hole Dylan had an eight-stroke lead. Andrew was next with Sean a further three strokes back.

The eighth was a right dogleg par 4. There was only a narrow rough along the left between the fairway and where the land fell away some six sheer metres to the water. A deep bunker and a thin copse of pines that obscured the green from view guarded the inside of the dogleg. From the tee they were driving straight into the wind. Sean was up first and he broke his pre-shot routine to sniff and wipe away the water streaming from his eyes then steadied himself and brought the club back with his distinctive long slow motion. He swung down hard and the ball flew off high and to the right. They watched it sail towards the pines and just skim the canopy before it dropped from view. Sean sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Dylan was next and he executed a solid drive down the middle of the fairway while Sean and Andrew stood off to the side blowing into their hands. Andrew stepped up quickly and struck his drive low. It was a mishit but he got a lucky run on and ended up just a few metres short of Dylan’s lie. They hoisted their bags without a word and set off down the fairway. They had to lean hard into the wind to make any headway at all.

Once Andrew and Dylan had made their approach shots they all moved towards the green and scoured the ground for Sean’s ball as they went. Their eyes were fixed on the grass at their feet and so it wasn’t until they reached the very edge of the green where Sean’s ball had finally come to rest in the froghair that they looked up and saw the orifice sitting absurdly between themselves and the pin. The wind was blowing across the hole and drawing forth a low moan. They stared at one another for a moment then dropped their bags as one and moved forward with cautious steps. The hole dragged in the manicured ground around it like a blue star and by some marvel of engineering the groundskeepers had managed to maintain a putting surface all the way down to the almost vertical point where soil gave way to rock. With Andrew a step ahead of the other two they edged closer and stopped just where the earth began to slope away. It was high tide and by craning their necks they could peer down through the opening into the churning waters below.

What the actual fuck, said Andrew under his breath.

The others didn’t hear but Sean stood slowly shaking his head in apparent concurrence. Dylan caught Andrew’s eye and they shared a long look of disbelief before the latter broke into a grin that was lent a manic aspect by the shock of storm-tossed hair framing the face above it. It proved infectious and Dylan was soon grinning back at him in spite of the gale that flecked his cheek with sea foam.

Both Andrew and Dylan had landed their approach shots on the green. Dylan’s ball sat on a small raised ledge near the cliff edge while Andrew had landed midway between Sean’s lie and the hole and so as they eventually made their way back from the strange abyss Sean pulled out his putter and made ready to take his second stroke. His direct line to the cup was blocked by the hole so he aimed for a spot a little to the right to set up a second putt. He struck it cleanly but he’d miscalculated the extent of the gradient and the ball soon began to curve towards the hole. It slowly gathered pace as the ground became steeper until it was racing straight for oblivion. Sean leapt forward as though to catch it before it disappeared but it was already gone. He turned to his companions and such was his look of profound indignation that they both burst into laughter. He struggled with himself for a moment then grinned sheepishly and went to retrieve another ball from his bag.

By the time Andrew’s turn came round Sean had lost three balls to the hole and Dylan had lost two. Each was met with a pantomime of mock despair from whoever had taken the shot and enthusiastic cheers and applause from the other two. Once Sean and Dylan had both finally found the cup Andrew took his putter and made a careful survey of the lie. His position was much the same as Sean’s had been. It was a good forty feet from his ball to the cup and the hole sat squarely across the direct line. After studying the gradient from several angles he rose from his haunches and solemnly held up a single finger towards his spectators who were watching closely and grinning in anticipation. He took up his stance with careful precision and executed a few practice strokes then shuffled forward into position.

As soon as he made contact he knew it was good. The ball’s trajectory was slightly to the right of the hole and soon began to succumb to the gravitational pull and curve in to the left. Dylan and Sean started to cheer but quickly fell silent. Andrew had put plenty of pace into his shot and the ball slid past the hole and broke its orbit to keep travelling on a new trajectory straight for the cup. Andrew ran around the hole and followed his shot as his companions moved in closer. The ball seemed to be holding its line but at the last second took a slight deviation and rolled by on the lip of the cup. Dylan and Sean both groaned but Andrew held up the same solemn finger and kept his eyes fixed on the ball. It rolled a little way on past the cup and then stopped and after a second’s pause began to trickle slowly back down the most gradual of slopes. Dylan and Sean hurried forward and crowded in close to watch as it rolled steadily towards the cup. With barely two centimetres to go it began to slow down. Its line was taking it towards the centre of the cup but the closer it got the more it slowed until it perched on the very lip and stayed there. The three men all watched and waited for it to drop but as the seconds dragged by and it still refused to move Dylan and Sean began to sigh and mutter. Andrew remained stone still. Dylan gave him a pat on the back but he didn’t seem to notice. Sean sniffed and shook his head.

It’s a shit of a game sometimes, he said loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Andrew’s only response was to sit down where he was and cross his arms over his knees. His eyes never left the ball. The other two stood by on either side and exchanged gestures of bewilderment across the top of his head. After several minutes of this Dylan crouched down beside his friend. Andrew frowned but didn’t shift his gaze.

You two go on, he said. I’ll catch up.

Dylan nodded slowly.

How long are you going to wait? he asked.

Til it drops.

What if it doesn’t?

It will.

Dylan stood up again and he and Sean shared a worried look. Far out to sea a heavy bank of clouds was gathering. Sean scratched his chin as he figured the wind and the distance then bent towards Andrew’s ear.

Listen mate, he said. She’ll be raining in an hour or so and we don’t want to be riding back in that. All the wet weather gear’s back at the hotel.

Andrew gave a tiny shake of his head as though flicking away a fly or some errant strand of hair.

I don’t mind, he said. If I’m not back in time just go and I’ll meet you at the hotel.

I won’t fit on Dylan’s bike.

Take mine. The keys are in my golf bag. I’ll ride Dylan’s back.

Sean took a deep breath and straightened up then he and Dylan moved a little way apart to speak amongst themselves. After much discussion and many concerned glances at the unmoving figure behind them they eventually came to some consensus and Dylan returned to crouch beside Andrew again.

Alright, he said. We’re going to head off. Just make sure you get back to the clubhouse before dark. We’ll tell the bloke to drive out and pick you up if you’re not back by dusk. You don’t want to be stumbling blind around these cliffs. I’ll put the keys to my bike in your golf bag.

Andrew gave a small nod and then hesitated for a moment before speaking.

You don’t need to worry, he said. It’ll drop. I just need to see it.

Dylan looked towards the ball poised on the brink of the cup and then back at Andrew.

Fair enough I guess, he said.

He stood up and he and Sean walked off towards the golf bags. At the edge of the green they had one last look back and saw framed against the sky a figure sitting like some Buddha of the occident, utterly still but for the mane of dark hair that scrabbled about his head in the wind.

As soon as he sat down Andrew was no longer troubled by the gale coming up off the water. He found a sort of comfort in the way it drowned all other sounds in a howling silence. Once Sean and Dylan had left he refocused on the ball still hovering on the lip of the cup. The longer he stared at it the more he became convinced that it hadn’t stopped at all but was still rolling towards the hole at an exponentially decreasing rate like a curve approaching its asymptote. He thought he might detect evidence of its glacial progress if he could only stop his eyes watering for long enough. This proved impossible and he eventually relaxed and sat back with a small sigh to wait.

Time went by with only the slow shrinking of the sun before the gathering storm for a measure of its passage. The cloudbank moved steadily towards the land and the air grew chill and Andrew hugged his knees to his chest to keep warm. He kept one eye on the ball while the other kept drifting towards the hole away to his left. From where he sat he could see only the ground sloping away and then rising again on the other side such that it just looked like a deep depression but in his mind he saw straight down to the sea roiling on the rocks below. His backside became numb and he began rocking backwards and forwards in time to a song in his head to get the blood flowing.

The ball still hadn’t dropped and the clouds were almost overhead when he heard a faint cry come over the wind. He glanced up and saw a lone bird hovering above the cliff not far away. It faced into the gale and its pinions thrummed wildly though it achieved no forward movement. Andrew was no bird watcher but he knew by its black plumage and long neck that it wasn’t a gull and he figured it must be a cormorant since the golf course was named for them. It hung in the air a moment longer then cocked its head to one side and suddenly tucked its wings in close to its body and dived out of sight. When he turned back to resume his vigil the ball was gone. For almost a minute he sat blinking at the spot where it had been and then slowly crawled forwards on hands and knees to peer into the cup. Though it was growing dark under the storm he could clearly see his ball sitting there at the bottom.

He stood up and stretched and then began the long walk back to the clubhouse. As he picked up his golf bag there was a clap of thunder and he gave the leaden sky an ironic look. He whistled a little tune to himself as it started to rain.

Andrew was the last person ever to play the eighth green. They had Sean’s bike repaired early the next morning and were winding through rainforest on their way to a campsite high in the mountains when the overhang collapsed. Seven children playing in the rock pools below were crushed to death. It took them several days to retrieve all the bodies and in that time the local authorities launched an investigation. They soon discovered that the seismography centre had recorded a tremor of 3.2 on the Richter scale the afternoon before. At the subsequent coroner’s enquiry several geologists testified that the tremor likely caused a small fissure and the overhang then collapsed under the weight of the rain that soaked the town all that night and well into the following day. After several weeks the coroner found that nobody was to blame and no charges were ever laid.

The tragedy made the evening news but neither Sean nor Dylan nor Andrew heard about it as they spent the next few nights camping in the wilderness. It wasn’t until well after they’d returned home and Andrew’s divorce had been finalised that they heard the story of the disaster but it was only mentioned by way of the name of the town and none of them had noted this detail when they passed through. The three of them were at a barbeque to celebrate Sean’s recent promotion and they were watching Sean’s youngest going about with a lighter and reaching up with great difficulty to light the Tiki torches spaced around the yard against the descending night. A friend of Dylan’s from Chile had taken up a guitar and was sitting over by the swimming pool picking a few notes. The group at the table included Andrew, Dylan, Sean, Sean’s wife Helen and a friend of hers she’d met in Croatia while they were both traveling whose name was Sarah. When Helen had told them the story she’d seen on the news and couldn’t get out of her head there’d been a short and deeply respectful silence from all.

What were they doing out there anyway? asked Andrew.

They didn’t say, said Helen. Does it matter?

No, not really.

Sarah opened a fresh bottle of wine and topped off their glasses then set it next to the five empties occupying the middle of the table. She raised her glass.

To what never was and what never will be, she said.

Here, here, they all said softly and drank.

Speaking of what never was, said Dylan. Did Helen ever tell you about Andrew’s putt of legend?

Sarah glanced at Andrew and smiled and shook her head.

Well, said Dylan and he sat back in his chair with his glass resting against his cheek and turned to Andrew. Shall I?

Andrew shrugged and looked out over the toxic sunset as Dylan began to tell the tale in indulgent detail while Sean and Helen shared a few private words. When he was done Helen clucked her tongue at Andrew.

So not a single witness, she said.

Well, said Andrew. There was this bird you see. Now, if I ever met the bird again I don’t quite know how I’d go getting it to tell anyone anything so I don’t go down there looking for it more than once a year or so but it saw the whole business right enough.

Helen threw her head back and laughed and even the man from Chile stopped his aimless plucking to listen at the richness of it. She was still laughing when she stood up from the table.

Give me a shout next time you go hunting for it, she said. I have a bit of a way with birds. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a date with the salad bar.

She walked off still smiling and shaking her head.

Andrew turned to Helen.

What’d she mean? he asked. Does she keep parrots or something?

Not that I know of, said Helen. I know her girlfriend works at the zoo though.

Oh, said Dylan. Didn’t you say she used to be married?

She was once but it didn’t last that long apparently.

Andrew was listening with half an ear while he watched the skin above Sarah’s skirt disappear and reappear as she bent over the various bowls and plates spread out on the buffet table.

You don’t suppose I could get her number do you? he asked.

Sean paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips and gave him a suspicious look.

You can’t be serious, he said.

Where there’s a will there’s a way, said Andrew and winked