After all, I’ve spent a large portion of my life retraining race horses to leap over enormous, fixed obstacles at speed. I’ve spent several years teaching snow skiing. Further, my current favorite sport is hang gliding – not that it’s that lethal, but it hardly has the reputation as something your great aunt Ethel might enjoy Sunday after church.

Nevertheless, I sustained a significant injury only 5 minutes into my first lesson. So what is this risky venture? I’ll tell you, so you can avoid what happened to me. It’s called golf.

Paul, my husband, often plays golf at the Swiss Ski School in Clermont, located about an hour west of Orlando. The school hosted the 2003 Water Skiing World Championships, and is THE place to go if you want to tune up your skills. However, besides water skiing and wakeboarding, it features the aforementioned golf course, plus tennis courts, swimming pools, whirlpools, volleyball and more.  

Being what can only be described as a perfect wife, one day I volunteered to go play a round with him. Paul explained that one didn’t just go play golf without any knowledge whatsoever, and that I needed to take at least one lesson. For this, we trekked over to the driving range at Green Valley Country Club, also located close to Clermont.

I had been tortured into a polo shirt, something the golf club insisted on. That alone should have clued me into the fact that I would have been better off at the airport, where the aging population thinks it’s fine if I wear short shorts, giving them a spectacular view of my lumpy legs. While I learned golf etiquette, I could see hang glider pilots circling in good thermals in the nearby sky.

Paul growled at me. “You should be open to new things,” he said. “Concentrate.”

So I tried. I focused on the ball – addressed it, actually, saying, hey ball, I’m gonna whack you into outer space, you little white pimple, so get ready! (My instructor said that you should always address the ball and I figured we might as well have an honest relationship from the get-go.) I was preparing for said whack when I found myself lying on my side.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing getting up close and personal with the ants but my leg hurt. It hurt a lot. Paul, considerate as always, commented that I shouldn’t be frustrated with golf, saying, look how long it took for you to learn to fly, and look at where your skill level is now. There’s no need to throw yourself on the ground and cry.

Nevertheless, I did cry, and more. I screamed words that left little doubt that although I had donned a polo shirt for the occasion, I was indeed no lady.

Well. That’s what getting hit with a golf ball going a zillion miles an hours will do to you.

Turned out, a golfer had aimed badly while playing a hole close to the driving range. Though he insisted that he’d screamed “fore,” no one had heard him. Further, he was out of sight when he swung. He only realized the damage he’d inflicted when his golf cart rounded the hill and he came upon my maimed body and furious instructor. It was an accident that was as unlikely as catching a record-size bass in a bathtub – and one that I was entirely grateful for.

Although I limped for a couple of days I didn’t have any significant damage. What I DID have was a wonderful excuse to get out of golf in the future. If it’s a sport close to your heart, read Frank Fenton’s column. He’s VISIT FLORIDA’s golf expert, and he’s great.

I can help you out with LOTS of other adventures that are MUCH SAFER!