The Ocean Course at Hokuala

When I was a wee tyke, my daddy told me golf stories that shaped my world view. He told me about playing a few rounds with Tinkerbell. Can you imagine? We lived in Anaheim, CA., close enough to spy the fireworks sparkling above Cinderella’s Castle – in the near distance from our rancher home.

Somehow or another Daddy met and traded strokes during the day with the lady who suited up and flew across the new Disneyland at night. So from my earliest moments, golf was magic.

My father’s life revolved around the game. As soon as I learned to stand, he placed a putter or a wedge into my chubby hands. I thought all dads spent Saturday and Sunday mornings on the courses, and I enjoyed his return home in the afternoons, sunburnt, and tired so we could share a couple of hours on the sofa watching tv golf.

After moving to Alabama, Mom started taking me with her to the course to watch Daddy roll in on 18. I learned respect for motor vehicles by tapping the break one day to see what would happen: we began rolling backwards down a hill all alone. Golfers from the green and clubhouse all ran to intercept the potential disaster. I learned to trust folks on the course. Yet I still prefer to walk a course to this day.

There were so many lessons on and off the course. Daddy wanted me to learn the game well. My first clinic, at the ripe age of 6, was with a gruff old lady who I was assured knew the most about the game – Patty Berg. As a youngster, I understood that a girl wasn’t as welcome there in the 1960s, as in other places.

Sadly it wasn’t until after Daddy passed and I inherited his country club membership that I took up the game seriously. Nowadays, I never play a game without my dad in my heart. I wish I had been able to trade strokes with him, but his life lessons guide me to the 18th to this day.