The dense grey clouds block my vision but I can still hear the thunder trace the sky above my head.
My hat brim wilts under the heavy rain but my smile is still here.
Quick, gracious sounds of Japanese fly above my head, yet they still bow to a caddy.
“2 cups right.” As the ball rolls, knees buckle and thunder cracks. lightning above the clouds creates a glow inside the cup. Draino. More bows.
They see no need to stop. Lightning does not scare them. I think…they’re swinging the clubs…as I lower the flagstick. And on we play.
Rivers form, rushing but only a 170 carry. Swing easy.
Hono laughs constantly; whether from rain or as a custom, I don’t know. His partner, Mr. Tschikuri, always hands me his clubs to carry
An umbrella or rain-jacket or even a poncho would have been nice. I wonder if the caddie master expects us to run in the rain? Do mailmen ever run? So I stay back on the tee to pick up Hono’s topped shots. “Hit another, I’ll meet you in the fairway.”
A marshal’s wisdom finally warns us to head in. I noticed the lightning hours ago but there was no horn. Yet they want to continue. Behind us, I point out, is a tree or the pale, leafless branches what’s left of one, split down the middle by lightning.
“Well, I guess it is for safety,” says Mr. Tschikuri. After 3 hours of relentless downpour and thunder, only that burnt tree convinces them to stop playing.
