RE: [Paddlewise] The Mission

Great story from Paul Montgomery -- "Then when I was passing in the
shallows next to a golf course I spotted 3 golf balls in about 10 inches
of water. THAT would be my mission." -- reminded me of an earlier
"mission" of my own.

The Naval Air Station at Patuxent River, Maryland includes several large
lagoons and, I'm told, a great golf course.  As a volunteer (and with
base credentials -- and in earlier days), I often worked for the
award-winning base environmental shop, making use of kayaks on a
mission!

The green guys provided an extensive array of dead sticks -- to all
appearances -- which I was to "plant" on eroded banks around the
perimeter of the backwaters.  Willow trees would magically grow from
these sticks stuck in the mud and stabilize the littorals.  (Nobody in
that shop has ever read Michner's book, "Chesapeake", obviously.)  But
it was a mission, it was environmentally sound, and it was a great
excuse for a hall pass to go paddling.  But it led to another mission --
the recovery of golf balls -- which is the segue from Paul's story.

I mentioned that there was a golf course on the base?  It wound around
the backwaters of this incredibly beautiful piece of land on the
Patuxent River.  In the course of schleping willows-to-be about, I
happened upon a vast field of golf balls in very shallow water near an
embankment -- which, if I failed in my willowing, would soon be part of
Harness Creek.  As a non-golfer, these missiles had little value to me,
but they were probably of value to others -- possibly golfers.  Since
there was a golf course in this area -- the mind was working slowly in
the hot, muggy afternoon -- I decided to reward some golfer who might
pass by, and I picked up all the newewt, cleanest balls I could find --
probably some 75 to 100 -- and lobbed them up over the brush onto the
embankment.  (It hadn't occurred to me yet that this seemed to be an
unusually high concentration of golf balls in one area.  Again, hot,
muggy.)  It was only when I heard something resembling a golf cart noise
and four men all talking at once that I reasoned the start of the
terrible truth: I had just launched 100 golf balls onto the ninth green
in the middle of a golf tournament of some consequence.  (To golfers,
anyway.)  

That association occurred more or less simultaneously with the sound of
"Holy s--t!!!" from the first golfer to eye the green.  There were
probably ten of his particular balls to choose from -- as there were for
the other three.  My mind, now working to some degree, urged me to make
myself -- and my flourescent yellow sit-on-top (the ideal vehicle for
willowing) as inconspicuous as possible under the brush.  Which I did.
The expletives turned into hysterical laughter as the athletes, baffled
at their bounty and now their suspect scores, tried to envision how such
a thing could come to pass.  (Since many of these gents were probably
retired admirals, I reasoned that I had a decent head start on the
thought process.)

I maintained a very low profile on the opposite creek, willowing away
near a huge, red and white squared radar site (in the middle of the
creek), which is why, in distant years to come, the western creek will
remain willowy and extant while the golf course will, appropriately,
follow Mr. Michner's prophecy and fall into the sea.

Jack Martin
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