One summer several years ago, some close friends asked Lynn and me to join them in Spain’s Costa del Sol region in mid-November. This region hosts great beaches. We decided to take a pass since we would soon be traveling to southern Spain and passing by many of the Spanish Mediterranean beaches, legendary for their full-throttle sunning.
Upon arriving in Tarifa, we booked a whale tour through the Straits of Hercules that Nicky Blade and Nissa took in Dangereously Overcaffeinated. I used a lot of webcams in writing my book, Dangerously Overcaffeinated. In Tarifa, Spain, while researching one of my scenes, I noticed an RV was parked in the exact same location every day. I assumed the owner was just at the beach every day. Sure enough, the same RV was in the same spot as it was every day I used the webcam. I thought the owner was staying near a beach.
However, the RV was not parked at the beach but just off the ramp leading to the Tangiers, Morocco ferry. Beware of a Chamber of Commerce promoting its city that uses optimal angles in camera placement.
Be advised, not just webcams can be misleading. We’ve always used Rick Steve’s Guidebooks while in Europe and read about a pristine beach outside Nerja along the Costa del Sol in southern Spain. Lynn, the boys, and I took a series of steep switchbacks through a protected wasteland in a rattling eight-person minivan for €2 each to the blue Mediterranean below.
According to Rick Steve’s Guide Book, we were expecting this beach.
With these people;
But got this…
It turns out the naturalists were peeved that families and the rest of us clothed mortals had the better beach and facilities. Unknown to the guidebook, they had moved from the discrete nude beach around the corner to the family beach. Rick’s guide needs updating. Only in Hollywood movies are the good-looking people naked.
In the Summer Olympics, the 100-meter sprinters get a huge share of the glory, but the distance runners seem to come back year after year and don’t hit their peaks until their late thirties. I guess it is the same in everyday life. I always viewed life as a marathon, not a sprint.
On a trip years ago with the family to Italy, I discovered one of Italy’s secrets to a long life, “é tutto bene,” meaning “it’s all good.” You drive fast, I drive slow, it’s all good. In the early 80’s, I discovered the book Success Through a Positive Mental Attitude, and it helped shape the way I think. Maybe this is why the Italians seem so happy. “é tutto bene” is their form of PMA. I wish I’d read PMA in high school. Bad things happen to all of us, but the trick is to not let those speed bumps in the road define you. Don’t think that just because I don’t mention bad stuff along the way, it doesn’t happen. Also, I can get a little wordy sometimes, so stop reading if you get bored. If you are curious about me, you can find me at https://dalethomas.com/. However, I tend to put the good stuff at the end.
I met and hung out with some great people in high school. However, I’m amazed at how many other great people from our class at Northwest High School in Indianapolis I didn’t know. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our class’s informal gatherings at local pubs and on the old community networking website, Classmates.com, to get to know classmates better, reconnect with others I’ve known for a long time, or just recognize that there are a lot of good life stories out there.
The same goes for Facebook. Although it’s changed in recent years, it’s brought me stories about lunch-table friends, classmates on the golf team, and even old girlfriends. The good part of FB is that it jolted me to look back and realize that everything happens for a reason. The girlfriend break-ups that knock you off the horse help you empathize with your boy when he gets dumped, you remember your HS apprehensions, so you push them a little so they have no regrets, and you remember the “end of the world as I know it” feelings and help them keep life in perspective. Plus, there’s the eye roll…é tutto bene.
Some of my friends and loved ones hated high school and college. For me, I loved high school and college. I’ve tried to put my finger on why, but have come to the conclusion that I just liked the carefree lifestyle of education. A lot of people ask me (mostly my male friends) how I could have gone to Purdue University with such an unbalanced male-to-female ratio. I didn’t attend General Motors Institute and Wabash because of a minimal or no female student population. At first glance, the ratios seem rather daunting. In the early 70’s, Purdue had 30,000 students, split at 10,000 women and 20,000 men. Starting with my class, the ratio of women to men began to rise toward 1:1. However, 19,189 of those men wore a pocket protector, a slide ruler on their belt (yes, I said slide ruler), never dated a woman, and talked engineering jargon nonstop… é tutto bene.
College-wise, life was good, except for the 46 hours I spent as a senior, when I switched majors too many times and didn’t like taking classes that met before 10 am or during afternoon Cubs games. Summers, I worked as a Road Brakeman for the Penn Central Railroad, traveling by rail, making up trains, and setting off cars around Indiana, Illinois, and Ohio. I saved $5,000 each summer (a lot of money in the early ’70s), so I made it out of Purdue debt-free while maintaining a nice college lifestyle…é tutto bene
After undergrad at Purdue, West Lafayette, I took the best job I ever had. No, it wasn’t in plastics as suggested to Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. I became a lifeguard. With an Industrial Engineering degree, I was a darn good sun-bleached blond, red swimsuit lifeguard and found the perfect tan, you know the kind that’s between your toes. I had a pleasant daily routine: golf, test the water, clean the pool, lifeguard, nap, disco, sleep, repeat. Although I didn’t have sufer ripped abs…é tutto bene.
Shark Repellant Yellow
Eventually, my transmission went out on my ’65 Ford Galaxy (60/40 seats, carry everything I own in it, get my head alongside the engine block and gap the plugs with a fifty-cent piece), so I decided to get a real job at St. Vincent Hospital in Indianapolis. I couldn’t fathom how people made it through the day in an office without a nap so I turned to coffee. This was my first introduction, albeit Folger’s Instant, to coffee….é tutto bene
During my stint at St. Vincent and a research position at the Indiana Hospital Association, I finished Grad School. Seeking adventure, Lynn and I recklessly moved to Pittsburgh for a Big Eight, now Big Four, position. Much like the Baltimore Colts and about the same time, we escaped to Cincinnati. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, you dastardly Public Accounting. However, Pittsburgh eventually led Lynn to meet her mentor, Howie, and that alone shaped our lives…é tutto bene.
Eventually, we settled in Carmel (Indiana, not California). Then after 20 yrs. In healthcare consulting, after 20 years dabbling in commercial and residential real estate, I decided to become a writer. My first novel is a reluctant-hero adventure titled DangerouslyOvercaffeinated.
The inspiration for the main character in my book sprang from the idea that a lot of guys have that one friend a wife doesn’t like and thinks is a bad influence (you’ll read about that guy in my post, He’s a cheatin’ You Laddie). So I invented Nicky Blade, the guy he tells her he’s hanging out with at the casino, bar, or on an overstay of a golf trip. “Honey, I know it’s 2 a.m., but Nicky drove to the Casino and wouldn’t bring me home. Plus, he borrowed $500 dollars.”
Nicky eventually took on more heroic characteristics, and his old traits and tendencies morphed into those of Royce Crocker, his best friend, a seaplane pilot. Nicky is sort of a cross between Jimmy Buffett and Jack Reacher. There’s a Dead Sea Scrolls subplot throughout the adventure, along with a threat to the US financial system. No, the threats are not Congress raising the capital gains tax, nor another subprime meltdown caused by fundamentalists.
Lee Trevino once said, “Columbus went around the world in 1492. That isn’t a lot of strokes when you consider the course.” Lee wasn’t wrong when you played a links-style course after years of dealing with the amenities of golf in Central Indiana.
A few years before publishing my first book, Dangerously Overcaffeinated, you can find it on Amazon at;
My wife and I arrived at the Turnberry Hotel in the early afternoon. A bagpipe player entertained in front of the hotel during Happy Hour.
Tomorrow, we will tee it up at The Ailsa Course in Turnberry, Scotland. You can fill in your own names of your golf buddies in the story. The trip was a few years before publishing my book on Amazon. You can find it here;
This is Billy. He will be your caddie, and Sandy there will be your friend’s caddy,” the Turnberry Caddy Master said.
Billy and Sandy followed us to the practice tee and watched as we hit each club.
“Pleased to meet you, Billy,” I said.
“Let’s start with your sand wedge.”
I thought back to my wife and me arriving in Scotland and the Eurocar shuttle bus driver asking me how long I’ve been waiting for the bus. I thought she asked how long we’ve been in the UK. I replied on Tuesday. “Tuesday, she exclaimed, you’ve been waiting on the shuttle since Tuesday!”
Golf-wise, Chi Chi Rodriguez came to mind. He once said, “The last time I was in Scotland and asked my caddie for a sand wedge, he came back ten minutes later with a ham and Swiss on rye.” I didn’t think Billy would see the humor.
“What brings you to caddying, Billy?” I asked as we walked down the first fairway.
“Times are hard for amateur golfers in the UK. Tournament entry fees are outrageous, and caddying helps ease the financial burden with the wife. Sandy, there is just picking up some drinkin’ money.”
My wife tagged along for a few holes to take pictures. Turnberry encouraged females to follow along for pictures, unlike our experience on the goat path called St Andrew’s the previous day.
The Turnberry Clubhouse
The St. Andrews Caddie Master had paired us with Ashton and Dylan, two Canadians, on a two-round per day whirlwind tour of golf. Since arriving in Dublin fourteen days ago, the Canadian’s played their way to Northern Ireland, jumped a ferry, and continued their tour through Scotland.
“Fourteen days, that’s a lot of golf,” I remembered saying as I shook Aston and Dylan’s hands.
“Three more days to go and then we’re heading home,” Ashton replied.
“Ashton here convinced my wife to let me come, but told her it was only for a week. I figured it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Dylan said, laughing. Our foursome shook hands and began teeing off on St. Andrew’s number one. There were no yard markers, trees to give perspective, or ball washers. The teeing areas were barely marked. All the caddies were hired, so we carried our own bags. My wife walked over to take a couple of pictures on the first tee, and the starter chased her off the course. No women allowed.
Back at Turnberry, my caddy was about to earn every bit of his thirty-pound sterling caddie fee.
“Looks like I’m about 120 yards away, Billy. What do you think, a nine?”
“The greens raised about thirty feet, and it’s blowing in from the Ailsa Craig,” Billy said. “So, pull out your 4-iron and give it all you got.”
My ball dribbled on the front of the green.
“Well done.” Billy smiled for the first time.
Billy wasn’t much for words, but I assumed that was just his professional approach to caddying. As my playing partner walked down the fairway, he noticed some furry creatures racing about the gorse.
“Don’t let them bother you, son, they’re harmless,” Billy said. “By the way, how long have you been in Scotland?”
“We arrived in England on Tuesday, Billy.”
“Lad, I asked you when you got to Scotland.”
“Point made, my mistake. We arrived in Scotland on Sunday.”
“Are you ready for Turnberry’s trademark hole, lad?”
I peered off the stony ridge on the edge of the Irish Sea. The landmark lighthouse cast a shadow over the 13th-century ruins of Bruce’s Castle. My boys, Cole and Trent, designated each lighthouse on the Outer Banks as ‘theirs’ if it was the first one they climbed. Cole’s lighthouse was Hatteras in Buxton, North Carolina, on the Outer Banks. He climbed it when he was only seven, stepping on his toes to reach the height limit. Trent’s was the Corolla Lighthouse in Duck.
“Stay focused and just bang it across the corner of the bay,” Billy said. “If you’re lucky, Robert the Bruce’s ghost will guide it across.”
Two holes later, I had a straight shot to the green from 175 yards away.
“Get out your 9-iron and put it up in the wind.”
“I only hit a 9-iron 130 yards.”
“Lad, the Ailsa Craig’s force is behind you now,” Billy said.
I hit it high, and the wind snatched the ball, carrying it to the green.
“I do have a question,” Billy said. “Are ya a playin’ for anythin’?”
“Just a pint a side and one for the eighteen,” I said. “Why?”
“Because your friend there, he’s a cheatin’ ya.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sandy there says he’s a movin’ his ball, grounding his club in the hazard, not countin’ his strokes.”
“No worries, Billy, he paid his hundred pounds sterling, so he can do whatever he wants.”
“He’s a cheater, lad, and I don’t like cheaters.”
“I understand, but as long as I don’t lose money, I don’t care what other golfers do. You know a lot of golfers think a round of golf is just a lot of walking, broken up by disappointment and bad arithmetic.”
“Funny, you just think that up?” Billy asked.
“Nope, it’s anonymous. Probably came from Bob Hope or Arnold Palmer.”
We finished our round and shook hands. We tipped our caddies, and they said nothing. I shot a respectable eighty-seven. I think even Billy was maybe even impressed.
Back at the hotel, we settled up the bets at Sean Connery’s favorite snooker table. Tomorrow we’ll fly back to London and head to Bath and maybe catch Stonehenge on the way. Find me at https://dalethomas.com/
Bad Coffee or Vodka Cranberry 