Hole Seven, and Then the Quiet: Wailea Golf Course
Wailea Golf Club, in the morning light, unfolds like a promise—fairways etched between lava rock and hibiscus, a quiet choreography of palm shadows and sea breeze. It’s the kind of place that elevates sport into something finer: a ritual of sun, patience, and precision.
We had four gentlemen on the course that day. A hosted round of 18 at the Gold Course—Robert Trent Jones Jr.’s masterpiece—curved between mountain and ocean, where the grass feels manicured by hand and the air holds a hush of reverence. My role wasn’t to play—I was there for the ceremony, the welcome, the subtle stitch work that turns a simple game into a tournament, into an experience.
We started with laughter. I announced the rules, introduced the prizes, and set the tone for something both light and luxe. I followed the players to Hole Seven, that soft curve of green overlooking the Pacific. There, they competed for the longest drive. Once won, I delivered the prize driver: a sleek, precision-crafted club valued at $800. Pictures were taken. Smiles passed around like champagne.
The gift given, I let the men return to their game. I slipped away—no fanfare, just the whisper of golf cart wheels on the path, a smooth glide through paradise.
The ride back to the clubhouse was a kind of meditation. The cart was silent, the terrain vibrant and undisturbed. I passed groups of golfers—pairs of men, sun-hatted women, and one mother playing alongside her three grown daughters, laughter rising between them. Not surprising, really. Wailea has won more than a few accolades for being one of the world’s most welcoming courses to women.
At the clubhouse, caddies met me like old friends—gentle, warm, and knowing. One offered a soft, moist towel for my hands. Then I made my way to the open-air restaurant, laptop in hand.
I lingered briefly in the corridor, admiring local artwork: sea blues, volcanic reds, the stroke of island life rendered in canvas. The server saw me – tools in hand – and understood immediately. She sat me at an out-of-the-way spot and we struck a quiet deal: if I placed my menu at the corner of the table, she’d come. Otherwise, I was not to be interrupted. It was seamless. Unspoken luxury.
I ordered a cold beer—crisp and clean—and the best tuna poke bowl I’ve ever had. Rich, fresh, unpretentious. And then I got to work.
Emails answered. Notes organized. Strategy quietly shaped while laughter murmured from nearby tables. The breeze moved through the open windows like a sigh. Frangipani, cut grass, and salt in the air.
This wasn’t an afternoon off. It was just work, done well, in the kind of place that reminds you why you built a life with this much freedom. Why you host, and why you give. Why excellence matters.
And why, sometimes, the most powerful seat of the day isn’t on the green—but at a quiet corner table, beer in hand, ocean just beyond.
