Morning comes too soon. I am hungover in spite of my efforts, as is my husband. I send him off to breakfast without me so I can retch the last bit of foul bile I can muster from my horrid stomach. The long haul with my clubs is the cruelest torment as we meander along the same path back to the lobby, each clack a clap of lightning in my brain.

Today’s earlier arrival gives us the luxury of warm-up time and the all-important nosh at the small breakfast buffet set up in the snack bar. By then, the soda I was able to sip on the shuttle ride over had settled my stomach enough to eat. The one I noticed is that the eggs are always done wrong, either not mixed up enough or under or over cooked, but the bacon, potato cakes and black beans did the job just fine.

We decided to change our strategy for the difficult course. Today we chose to play best ball, which means instead of each of us playing our own terrible shots, we had the option of picking the better of the two and the other would have the luxury of dropping from there and playing as well. This strategy, we hoped, would grant us the luxury of fewer temper tantrums and golf balls lost to the jungle.

Because it had rained, the course was implementing a cart-path only rule. For those who may not be aware, this essentially dictates that instead of being allowed to run your golf cart willy-nilly to chase the ball, your cart must remain on the path and you walk up to your ball.

Most people don’t adhere to this even in the best of courses, with the most stern of course management, but we always do what we are asked in terms of respecting the well-tended grounds. However, most assholes are easy to spot, rolling around with such blatant disregard for the beautifully manicured, now-vulnerable course. It drove me crazy.

We stick to drinking water this time around, eating all the popcorn and chips the snack cart could carry. As we rounded the corner to the 14th hole, the dark clouds in the sky that we had seen earlier moved menacingly closer and closer. When I saw the first crack of lightning, we decided to play it safe and headed back to club house.

The rain was pouring hard as we sped along the concrete path, doing our best Formula One impression around the sharp curves. We hit an impasse at the 17th hole where some jackass had strategically parked his cart in such a way that we could not navigate around him, even if we had forgone the cart-path only rule. The guy was wandering out on the course, completely oblivious to the rain, the lightning, and apparently other people. I was about to move the cart myself when he finally spotted us idling behind his cart. However, he still took his sweet time moseying over to us.

He must have thought we had arrived for a friendly chat, because he came to our cart instead of moving his. Yes, guy, we would love your take on War and Peace, because there’s no danger sitting on a golf course during a thunderstorm. We politely, but firmly explain that we had seen lightning and were trying to get back to the clubhouse without being struck. He finally understood and moved the cart so we could get pass.

We get back safely and I go to make arrangements for an earlier return time around 2:00. We grab some burgers and beer in the club house and wait for the shuttle to take us back.