My desire to return or tick off a bucket list entry is inextricably intertwined with people and a specific sliver of time.
I’ve never played Crystal Downs, but a maiden voyage without DeVries or Doak would not seem right. I’d love to return to Fishers Island or Creek Club, but absent the company of Uncle George Bahto, the experience would seem lonely and empty.
Playing Spyglass without Dad always seems to miss a crucial component. Someday - if the Chinese virus ever relents - finally getting to Dornoch would scratch a severe itch, but without Brains Goodale as my docent, it will just make me sad all over again.
I desperately want to return to Cruden Bay, but only with Her Redness and Todd (oldest golf homie) on a reprise. Playing NGLA is always lovely, but without an evening on Karl Olson’s front porch with Neal, the anticipation would be tempered with a longing for the past.
The worst part is wishing the younger version of me could experience these wondrous places without a constant reminder the golf ball knows how old and weak I’ve become - and how its merciless taunts grow louder and more insistent with time.
I suppose the bucket list grows increasingly shorter with each year, with acceptance the ships in your harbor will continue to sail out to sea, until there is only a rowboat left.
Moral of the story: Play it while you can . . . . .