life in bandon, part I

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I’ve blogged about my caddie years at LaGrange Country Club (←click the link, suckas!), but what I’ve yet to touch on--in any real detail, anyway--are my four summers in Oregon.

Bandon is a coastal community in southern Oregon, nine hours from the Bay Area and four from Portland. (Above pic was taken at Bandon Beach with a $7 camera.) The neighboring towns aren’t all that interesting. Coos Bay borders on the north, which probably doesn’t register unless you--like me--were a fanatical track dork in high school. Steve Prefontaine, one of our most celebrated distance runners, hailed from Coos Bay.

Bandon is as tiny as it sounds, but I’ve erred in my estimations; Wikipedia tells me that roughly 3,000 people--not 1,700, as I previously guessed--populate the town. Formerly a nondescript fishing and logging village (both industries suffered during the 1980s), Bandon experienced a rebirth of sorts when the first course at Bandon Dunes Golf Resort opened to the public in 1999. Ten years and two courses later, many well-traveled golf fiends consider Bandon the world’s premier resort destination. I've heard that statement on more than a few occasions, without a hint of hyperbole.

It went like this: E-mails were sent off and then received, phone calls placed, flights booked, bags packed. Summer ’04--my first out of college--I moved to Bandon with Van, a friend from school.

We squatted in a roadside motel off Highway 101, a major artery which cuts through coastal Washington, Oregon and California. She asked a mere $450--$225 apiece--for rent. Two twin beds, modest sink/vanity, mini fridge, bathroom, maid service. Four minute walk to the freakin’ Pacific Ocean. Not bad. We called that place home for three months.

The resort was a short drive up the road, ten minutes door to door from the motel. Van and I usually arrived at 5:15 in the a.m., if not sooner. There’d be a few other faceless caddies (faceless on account of the darkness, I mean) milling about, smoking cigarettes and muttering to each other.

The caddie shack was--quite literally--a trailor without wheels. Someone plopped this boxy eyesore on the fringe of a parking lot and converted it into a sitting room. The shack housed a big screen TV with an impossible glare; knives of sunlight kicked around the room off the sagging window blinds and dashed any hopes for a clear picture. There must have been a SportsCenter clause appended to the sitting room constitution, because it's all we ever watched. ESPN yielded only to golf, which we tuned to whenever a tournament was airing.

The trailor experienced a bit of a fly problem--an epidemic, really--during the warmer months. Dozens of flies circled the room, landing on bits of muffin and cheeks of sleeping caddies. We massacred them, of course. With my rolled-up Newsweek, I probably took down 40-50 flies a day. Their bloodied carcasses became one with the walls, the tables, the floor.

Then there was another, smaller shack, which acted as a crude cardroom of sorts. We’d huddle around a banged-up table and play Spades for $5 or $10 a pop. Damon (my frequent card partner) and I rarely lost; we probably banked $800 that summer on Spades alone.

Karl cooked for us. Seeing as Karl knew his music (he befriended the Ramones in ’76 and spent the next ten-odd years bopping from venue to venue throughout New England), we hit it off right away. He’d fire off obscure trivia questions, which I usually fielded cleanly. My competence in such matters earned his immediate respect. When not engaged in music talk, Karl scared up some fierce dishes for mere pennies; a chicken-and-cheese wrap the size of my head went for $2.25. Every Sunday he served up hulking pancake dishes for $1.50.

In terms of caddie apparel, we had two options:

1) The “Whites.” The “Whites” were essentially a painter’s uni--a white, canvas, neck-to-toe zip-up that kinda made you look like an Oompa Loompa. Pros: Light, airy, comfortable, versatile, and cheap ($25). Lots of pockets. Cons: AWFUL in the rain. The material absorbs, rather than refracts, water. (See me in "Whites" below.)


2) Gore Tex. The preferred look for most caddies on the resort. A black, two-piece ensemble, Gore Tex provided shell protection from the frequent Bandon rains and kept us warm. Pros: Classier, sexier, more aesthetically pleasing than the “Whites.” Phenomenal rain/wind protection. Cons: The price ($225).

Caddying is more complicated than one might presume. We’re bag carriers, yes, but the job hardly ends there. We’re also counselors, gurus, cheerleaders, chums, guides, comedians, and mediators.

For each and every shot, I’m at my golfer’s side, offering advice. I consider breeze (a significant factor in Bandon, where the average winds are 20 mph), terrain, altitude, the slope of the fairways and greens, my golfer’s skill level, the strength of his opponents, the ball’s position in the grass. If he selects a 7-iron from his bag and I know it oughta be an 8, I pipe up. If he turns blood red after a poor shot, I remind him that the shot can’t be replayed, and prepare him for the next. If he’s been overswinging all day, I encourage him to relax. If he bitches about his coworker/playing partner/wife, I change the subject. If he's tense, I make fun of him until he laughs in spite of himself. If he’s sober and dull, I suggest drinks at the turnstand.

Once my golfer reaches the putting surface, I ditch the bag and sink to all fours to scout the subtle undulations of the green. After visualizing the path of the ball, I point to a twig, leaf, or indent in the ground and use that marker as a guide. “Hit it here, Bob,” I say, “and with 75% pace. We’re going downhill and downgrain. Your ball’s gonna take a sharp left eight inches from the cup.” Tips are made and lost on the putting greens. Those who read them with sagacity are handsomely rewarded.

Bandon caddies receive payment in cash, cash, cash. For stories about the idiotic things we do/did with all that cash, you’ll have to wait for Part II, which I’ll post early next week.

Happy Saturday!
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