My family recently visited Myrtle Beach for the first time. We figured it had something for everyone - the beach for me and our daughter, and golf, lots and lots of golf, for my husband. So prior to leaving, he booked us a tee time at a reasonably priced course near to the house we were renting.
As we pulled in the Azalea Sands driveway, I saw a sign about booking your caddy. We both figured this was going to be a nice course. The first and last time we played with caddies was on our honeymoon in Jamaica 20+ years ago, and we still talk about them. In addition to helping us with yardage and club selection, they kept track of our wayward balls, improved our lie at every opportunity, and cheered our good shots with shouts of “Solid gold, mon!” In fact, just seeing the sign had us reminiscing as we pulled up to the bag drop area.
We visited the pro shop to pay our fees and get a ticket to give the starter. I took advantage of the indoor facilities and used the clubhouse ladies room. Outside the grill room, I noticed a pool table, and a sofa, upon which sat a scantilty clad mannequin wearing a pink, plaid mini skirt. Then I noticed a grill room employee wearing the same outfit.
We were paired with Dave and Doreen, snowbirds from Newfoundland and members of Azalea Sands. Doreen explained that the club had recently signed a one year contract with an outfit called The Kilted Caddy and for $150 a round, one could be accompanied, in a hot pink golf cart, by one of the well-endowed girls in mini kilts. As members, they were not pleased. As guests, Walter and I were totally amused. Our partners explained that the young ladies did not know the course, or the sport for that matter, and Walter and I spent the majority of the round surmising what one got for their $150. Did you get a “happy ending” on the 18th hole?
The course was horrendous. No grass on the fairways, over-sized cups to speed up play, trash cans overflowing, numerous trees down, and water stations empty. I felt almost bad for Dave and Doreen as their club was really not showing well. So we tried to make our snarky comments out of ear shot. When Walter’s tee shot hooked left, I sympathized that he had hookered it. When I hit the ball with the heel of my club, we commented I had skanked it.
We so hoped to see a kilted caddy in action, but it must have been a slow day, or perhaps Hooters needed extra waitresses that day. The closest we came was the dancing girl in the grill room who served us beers as we made the turn. I’m glad we were able to laugh at this terrible course that actually managed to make golf tacky. Dave and Doreen, I noticed, weren’t laughing. I wonder if they’ll be members again next year.