Woodward

He was not known for his golf. Yet for one weekend in the spring of 1989 his thirst was unquenchable. We’ll call this fellow Woodward.


Spring 1989

We were college chums, Woodward and I. He was curiously insistent one Saturday that we go to the golf course and whack a bucket of balls. I put up little opposition. Ranging we went.

At our best we were below average. But this deficiency of golf talent bogged us down none at all. Upon contact with the dimpled white orb it would often go straight. The bucket emptied and we departed. Unbeknownst to me, this same Woodward later returned to the outskirts of the golf range and absconded with a number of errant balls.

It was later that afternoon he suggested we knock some balls off the cliff of Isla Vista into the ocean, the Pacific Ocean. Golf is not my thing, to be sure. I can easily go a decade without craving a round of golf. But twice in one day? Off the cliff into the ocean had its intrigue. Enough intrigue to surmount my comfortable inertia.

He on bicycle, me on skateboard, we traveled almost a mile from my apartment to the launching point. We teed off. A few balls landed on the vacant beach below, but most, surprisingly, landed in the shallow surf 150+ feet away from the cliff wall. Less than ten whacks each, the novelty extinguished, we concluded the exercise.

I lived at an apartment complex occupied 100% by college students. The weekend evening was typically loud with music and socializing. It was deep into the evening and beers were being imbibed.

Woodward, not yet done with golf, suggested we whack a few off the roof of the apartment building. One could easily step over the three foot railing of my third floor unit patio and out onto the roof of the second floor. My daily tolerance for lawbreaking had been sufficiently sated what with the litter bugging by launching golf balls off the cliff. Plus, broken window and car dent possibilities were all around this thickly residential neighborhood. This potential for property damage easily overrode any hankering of interest. Yet, he proceeded.

It was perhaps ten minutes later, I observed a very angry citizen and two police officers engage Woodward. The golf balls and club were confiscated. I do not know if a ticket, fine, or payment for damage was also involved.


He’s a unique animal, my Woodward. But not without his redeeming qualities. The Big Lebowski (1998), starring Jeff Bridges, ranks highly amongst his favorite films.
-klem