The Mysterious North (Rim)

It started when She was confirming our "north rim" reservations. 

Taking along our wimmens, Larry and I will be loading our scooters onto a trailer and have three nights reserved at the North Rim of The Canyon the second week in August, for what should be a remarkable showing of the Perseids meteor shower during a new moon.  

Anyway, back to today's events.  Herself cries out triumphantly, "We also get a free round of golf while we're there!"  I retort, "How the hell far do we have to drive to use it?"  She demurely responds, "Not at all.  The free golf round is at the course we're staying on, right there at the north rim."   

Several seconds of silence ensue.  Damned uneasy silence on my part.

"Honey,"  I venture cautiously.  "THERE'S NO FREAKING GOLF COURSE ANYWHERE NEAR THE GRAND CANYON!!!!!!!  ON EITHER FREAKING RIM!!!!!"  

A flurry of testy exchanges ensues, and civility is restored only as it becomes abundantly clear that this is, in fact, entirely my fault, since I (as well as other unnamed co-conspirators) signed off on the arrangements, with my usual attention to detail.  

Turns out we're staying in a palatial 3-bedroom condo in - wait for it - Kanab, Utah, a bustling burg about eighty miles from the mysteriously re-located north rim.  Turns out that Kanab is within 65 miles of Zion Park, and 85 miles to Bryce Canyon, all scooter jaunts well worth our time.  And there's the free golf.  

Damn, I'm good. (Hey, if I have to take the blame, I'll sure as hell grab on to the credit.)

The Sunday Flog

Hot; damn hot.  Front nine an unremarkable 48, but tied with TB for low putts.  Back nine, different story: Lar & I won the team bet and ate delicious hot dogs courtesy of the King of Krakow and the aforementioned TB.  Then, Prince Lyle the Magnificent, as I like to call myself, went on a tear, finishing with two birdies in the last three holes, and a five over par.  Collected an astonishing $15 for the drubbing I gave the Stooges. 

Was waxing eloquent over a pitcher of adult beverage in the nineteenth hole, relating yet again to my astonished and awe-struck, not to say vanquished course-mates, when my phone went off.  "Are you on your way home?  The kiddies are still in the pool and they're asking for you!"

I bade adieu to the Stooges, who seemed less reluctant than I would have thought to have me exit before detailing the finesse required to post two birdies in three holes, one more time, and headed westerly.  All the way home I planned my entrance.  'I'll sneak into the house, get my suit on, and come barreling out the back door and jump into the pool in a cannonball much to the joy and elation of my gathered family.'

That's pretty much how it happened, right up to the last part.

Got home, suited up, and headed out the south patio door.  See, I'd taken my glasses off indoors, which lent some ambiguity to my perception of the actual path to the pool.  I had that barreling thing down, for sure, but as I rounded the pool fence, attempting to accelerate a'la Gabe, one leg of the fence reached out and grabbed my left foot.  Even for one so nimble, graceful as Fred Astaire, this misaligned my trajectory.  Shawnee later recounted that she heard "pat pat pat pat - thwup - padapat - whompwhomp" though I think the reference to a stumbling water buffalo was uncalled for.

Anyhow, I had enough momentum built up, if not altitude, by this time, that I segued (again, very gracefully) into a backflop into the shallow end, at the feet of Shawnee and Joe.  Much applause, huzzahs, cries for a repeat performance, this time for the cameras, etc etc.  Oh, thanks for asking.  I'm fine, thanks.