"Lest she be bearing down on our port side at full tilt, with head bulled and eyes full of rage, we shall not back down, we shall not relent. Dig men. Dig deep into your souls and find the whaler in ya'. The white whale smote ol' Ahab and the boys, but he's no threat to this crew. Yar, we've slewn the Sperm whale from Finland to Fiji. We've looked the leviathan straight in the eye and seen fear, man. Fear! The fish knows no fear like the fear of the whaler. We are Gods, men. And when we find that beast, we will treat it to it's final struggle. Oh yes men, we will. What was that said in the back there? We have seen horrors to compare with the fear we bestow upon our prey? I say blasphamy. I say you lie, boy. There is nothing in South Seas, nothing in the iceberg ridden Atlantic, nothing in the great expanse of the Eastern Pacific... no wait. Yes boy, yes. I see what you mean. There is such a challenge that just might teeter a captain who could harpoon a whale's eye from 100 yards or make the feistiest Sperm Bull turn tail and run like a puppy barking at the wind. Remember men. Remember that fateful day. Yes men, I was 5 down after 6 and then came #7."
This Passage is part of a larger work of fiction which was uncovered at the "Ford House Museum" in the Mendocino Headlands State Park. Historians have been unable to pinpoint the exact year that this piece was written due to glaring inconsistencies in the age of the paper and ink and places written about.
Anyone familiar with the Mendocino High School Disc Golf Course will instantly recognize the reference to the seventh hole at the very end of the passage. This hole has managed to wrinkle and crimp the otherwise smooth and steady games of local players. None would speak on record and the few willing to comment on the importance of such a hole have preferred to remain nameless. Maybe the connection to the inaccuracies in the writing and the unwillingness of locals to speak of the hole on record, points to the occult.
Rumors of a spiritual force inhabiting hole seven have not been known to circulate among the players. Never have the words "ghost" or "phantom" been used to describe the strange happenings but some of the players might think such thoughts. Alone and wallowing in an aura of thick self pity and mind melting depression, the local player might blame the addition of strokes to their score on the unnamed power.
Trying to flick this hole is in itself a shameless act of pride. There are a few days when the wind is light enough. When the conditions do not instantly pick your disc up into the jet stream and deposit you up on the parking lot or worse, in the "nest". South winds. A possibility. Too many times a flick has driven itself straight into the hillside, caught a bush or just dropped onto the iceplant. Flicking the disc high enough to get up and over the hill to the basket all too often will be too steeply hizered and left crashing down upon the road. Even if the player shot low enough into a NW wind, and put just enough hizer on it to prevent the dreaded flick-turnover; even if the south wind didn't push the disc down and drain it of all its natural glide; even if the conditions let you take a regular old flick at it; even if you are a lefty and have the privilege of backhanding the thing, then you would still have the wall of trees to contend with. Is there a hole in that wall? Sure. There are many. Just none very big. The south leaning nature of the Monterrey Cypress, counters the arc needed to make a legitimate run at the basket. You flick it and whack! there goes that one.
Backhanding is the preferred method of frolfers on a typically conditioned day. Up and over the benches, arcing left over the corner of the parking lot, mail slotted between the overhanging branches and the dumpsters and finally sending all of its energy down the hill. This does not sound like any preferred shot I have ever imagined. When players summit the parking lot and gaze down into the new frontier of the football field, they see their discs at the bottom of the hill and say, "Rats. I hoped it would stick there on that 30 degree slope." Shooting backhand over the parking lot is like aiming for the bottom of the hill. If it sticks, than it was a miracle. Don't leave it short. With a NW wind, any shot left short could be whisked away and deposited on to the bottom of the hill. From the parking lot, the upside down lay up putt has been employed to rule out the birdie and inflict the least amount of damage. How many holes on this course require a full on lay up? Two. Even under pristine conditions, a simple rejection of the disc by the basket, not caused by any misplay by the putter, will not only loose the player the one stroke but make the player putt from the bottom of the hill, after it rolls out and down to the flats, up to 50 ft. away. That putt becomes the safest shot. A 15 yard, 10 ft. elevation gain, tailwind putt.
Could spirits live on the land and control the discs to repel birdies? Could those same spirits, in turn for your soul, leave you with safe lies and honest putts? Players refuse to comment but maybe, they believe absolutely. If the captain in the passage referred to the seventh hole on the Mendocino High School Disc Golf Course as an even more dreaded encounter than one with Moby Dick, than we must assume a certain level of mischief afoot. Maybe the author of the passage was a time traveler, using a device discovered in a Mayan ruin in South America, who witnessed both the slaughter of the mighty Sperm whale and the sadness of the downhill rolling disc. Maybe the alternate universe in which this piece of art exists is one where whaling captains take a healthy interest in land games such as Frisbee golf. Maybe we all should consider these possibilities the next time we set foot on the tee of the Seventh Hole.