With little more than a slip of paper promising our 10:06 tee time, we woke up early to meet the shuttle to the neighboring resort. The morning sun already hot as we hauled our clacking golf clubs across the resort. We normally like to have a full hour to warm up before we tee off, but we were informed that the 8:20 shuttle was already full.
Because the resort that was selected by our group has no golf course, we were forced to ride an additional 20 minutes to the sister facility in the town of Cancun itself. As we are waiting for the shuttle at 9:20, we apply our sunscreen and do our best to stretch out. The shuttle arrives and we load up our clubs, but we must also wait for an additional four people, who are clearly operating on island time. I glare at them from behind my sunglasses. These asshats better not make us late.
The “gentlemen” of the group appear to have been baking in the sun for the last month or so. Their enormous wives waddle in behind them. We receive nasty looks from them as they squeeze by us sitting in the first row of seats. Had I known they would have been joining us, I would have selected seats further back in order to better accommodate them. Instead, I can only imagine the mechanics necessary for someone of that size to swing a club.
As we arrive to the starter, we learn that we’re the last tee time of the day. At least we have the luxury of playing at our own pace. The course is very long and difficult. We are flanked on either side by unnavigable jungle. Our first four tee shots go straight into it, but at least the scenery is gorgeous. We are playing horribly, but are rewarded just the same with seeing the local wildlife, which include local variations on raccoons and rabbits as well as deer, birds, and iguanas. Although fate is definitely not on our side when my husband’s second shot on the tenth hole accidentally kills a bird.
The beverage cart graciously arrives about every three holes, and as our game play and attitudes decline, we delve into the complimentary snacks and beer. As we finish the course, we lumber back into the clubhouse, our egos thoroughly bruised. I check to see if we can get a return shuttle sooner than our originally scheduled 4:00 p.m. time, which is almost four hours away. We are able to procure return at 3:00 instead, and I also change our pick up time to an hour earlier for the rest of the week’s tee times. I return to the snack bar to inform my husband.
The couples from earlier are already settled in to beers and margaritas. One of the husbands has launched into a full blown lecture about the other’s wife shouldn’t even consider stomach stapling procedures unless she can commit to having enough discipline to lose about 30 pounds on her own beforehand. While I didn’t disagree with his assertion, the woman clearly wasn’t in the mood to hear it. Considering she appeared to weigh about 300 pounds and would really benefit from any kind of intervention, she could at least start by limiting the number of sugary margaritas.
On the return trip, we are again joined by the same now very drunk couples. The stomach staple lecturer gives us the lowdown about being resort membership, as they have been members for more than ten years. In spite of being pretty inebriated, his eyelids drooping to the all too familiar drunken cadence, he’s pretty coherent. We learn that they are there for his daughter’s wedding.
The van ride becomes a test of our patience as his drunken gestures become more exaggerated. His hands flailing dangerously close to our faces. We arrive back at the resort, and not a minute too soon, as his invasion of my personal space has reached critical mass. The driver stops along the resort’s long driveway to point out a spider monkey chilling out in one of the trees. This sufficiently distracts the group and we’re able to get out of the van without further incident.