Welcome to The Golf Scene — Your Weekly Golf Fix

If this is your first issue, welcome.

If you've been following along, thanks — I appreciate it.

This week we'll discuss the eye-watering expenses of buying a golf course, what it's like being a golf professional on a cruise ship, and why golfers spend their lives searching for "The Thing" somewhere between YouTube and the Emerald City.

And somewhere in there, we'll help you hit a few better shots.

Let's get into it.

💰 The Business of Golf: Part 2 – The Expenses

🚢 Cruise Ship Chronicles: The Buffet vs The Last Line of Defence

🏌️ Swing Insight: “The Thing”

Ever Thought About Buying A Golf Course?

Part 2 - The Expenses

The Part Nobody Brags About

Last issue, we talked about the dream.

The rounds of golf.

The big spenders.

The thrifty ones.

All to understand the income.

Now let's talk about the part nobody puts on the scorecard or brochure.

Because while revenue is exciting...

Expenses are relentless.

They don't care if it rained for three straight days.

They don't care if your tee sheet looks like a ghost town.

They don't care that someone drove a power cart directly into the pond while insisting the brakes didn't work.

They don't care that the mould in the men's shower has developed enough character to demand voting rights.

They don't care that the tuna sandwich is causing a lawyer gastrointestinal distress and a potential class-action lawsuit.

They don't care that half your members are "thinking about joining" Third Mortgage Golf & Country Club located conveniently five minutes down the road.

They don't care that a goose has somehow become your most frequent visitor without ever paying a green fee.

They don't care that your irrigation system appears to require therapy.

They don't care that the pond feeding it is being renamed The Sahara.

They don't care that your bunker sand just washed into the next postal code.

They don't care that your mower sounds like it is communicating with distant galaxies.

They don't care that your mechanic's children are attending private school thanks to your equipment fleet.

They don't care that your accountant has stopped answering the phone.

His lawyer does that now.

They just keep showing up.

Let's start with the big one:

The golf course itself.

It doesn't maintain itself.

Not even remotely.

In fact, if left unattended for a few weeks, it would immediately begin reclaiming its freedom.

Greens need to be cut.

Constantly.

Fairways need mowing.

Rough needs even more mowing.

Trees need trimming.

Weeds need spraying.

Bunkers need raking.

And then re-raking after the golfer who apparently mistook them for a beach volleyball court.

The irrigation system breaks the day they call for ten consecutive days of sunshine, and 90-degree heat.

Drainage problems appear immediately after fixing it.

A sprinkler head explodes after someone hits it with their club.

A pump fails.

A tree falls.

A cart path develops a crack large enough to qualify as a journey to the center of the earth.

And throughout all of this, the grass continues growing with the confidence of a teenager spending someone else's money.

Then there are fertilizers.

Chemicals.

Seed.

Sand.

Water.

Fuel.

Replacement parts.

And countless other things purchased for the sole purpose of convincing grass to behave itself.

Spoiler alert:

It rarely does.

And that's just the outside.

Now add staff:

And yes...

they all enjoy getting paid.

Regularly.

In what can only be described as a highly coordinated conspiracy, they expect money every two weeks whether it rains, snows, floods, or a goose takes up permanent residence on the 7th green.

Then there's equipment:

All of it needs cleaning.

All of it needs sharpening.

All of it consumes fossil fuels with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy discovering an all-you-can-eat buffet.

And all of it eventually breaks.

The range picker breaks down precisely when you're out of range balls.

The fairway mower develops a mysterious vibration.

The utility cart suddenly requires a part that apparently can only be sourced from a small village in northern Sweden.

None of it is cheap.

All of it eventually breaks.

Then come the utilities:

Insurance alone can make you briefly consider converting the entire property into a campground, a drive-in movie theatre, or perhaps a nice quiet field with absolutely no golfers on it.

And just when you think you've covered everything...

Something unexpected happens.

Because something always happens.

A pump fails.

A green gets diseased.

A water main bursts.

A storm rolls through like it has a personal vendetta against the back nine.

A tree falls over.

A bunker washes out.

A goose files a change-of-address form, officially redirects all future migration plans to your 7th fairway, and begins encouraging family and friends to do the same.

By August they're holding a national convention.

Owning a golf course is a bit like owning a boat.

Except the boat is 180 acres.

And instead of two holes in the water...

it has eighteen.

At this point, that peaceful morning coffee overlooking the fairway?

It hits a little differently.

Next issue, we'll look at actual industry numbers.

Not estimates.

Not guesses.

And definitely not the numbers your accountant sent from prison.

This is where we get into the nitty-gritty.

Or hardpan, as we call it in golf.

Be warned.

You may lose a little sleep.

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The Buffet vs The Last Line of Defence

Toot Toot

Years ago, while working as the onboard golf professional on a cruise ship, I ran a golf simulator shop where I gave lessons, organized contests, and occasionally took guests golfing at ports of call.

Honestly?
It was a pretty good gig.

Ocean views.
Golf.
No grass to cut.
No members asking why the greens were “slow.”

Just me, a simulator, and tourists looking for something to do between buffets.

One particular week, I was running a contest that became unexpectedly memorable.

Now, unlike traditional long-drive contests — which are really only winnable by people built like Viking lumberjacks — I preferred something a little fairer.

My event was called “Name Your Yardage.”

Each contestant received:

Before hitting the official shot, they had to declare the exact yardage they believed they would hit.

Closest to their declared number won.

Simple.
Fun.
And theoretically anybody could win.

By late Saturday afternoon, we had around 30 contestants enter over the course of the cruise, and somehow three people had each finished within one yard of their prediction.

A playoff appeared inevitable.

The contest officially closed at 6:00 PM Saturday evening, and by about 5:45 the finalists were already gathered inside the simulator room waiting for the playoff. Another 15–20 people were hanging around watching.

Then the door opened.

In walked an extremely tall elderly Dutch woman.

And when I say tall…
I mean she looked like she could change lightbulbs in the atrium without a ladder.

She calmly announced she wanted to enter the contest.

Perfect, I thought.
One last contestant before the cutoff.

Now, based on her warm-up swings, I wasn’t entirely convinced golf had played a major role in her athletic career. In fairness, I’m not even sure how many golf courses there are in the Netherlands that aren’t technically negotiating with sea level.

But she was cheerful.
So away we went.

I explained the rules and told her the minimum declared distance had to be 125 yards.

“Fine,” she said.

I let her take a few practice swings without a ball to loosen up, and eventually teed up her first practice shot.

She settled herself over the ball.
Firm grip.
Determined posture.

Then she started her backswing.

Toot.

A very distinct sound emerged from somewhere in her general vicinity.

Now, at first, I genuinely didn’t understand what I’d heard.

So naturally, as a golf professional and highly trained simulator expert, I immediately looked down at the floor and her shoes.

Maybe they squeaked?
Maybe the carpet shifted?
Maybe there was rubber on the soles?

I had no idea.

Before I could investigate further, she struck the ball.

64 yards.

Well, I thought…
the playoff field appears safe.

So I teed up her second practice shot.

Again she settled herself over the ball.

Again the backswing began.

Toot.
Toot.

Then during the downswing:

Toot-toot.

She hit the shot.

78 yards.

At this point, the room had become strangely united in confusion.

I’m staring at her shoes, the floor, the golf matt, anything really, as I try to unravel this mystery.

The people beside me are staring at me.

Everyone in the room is staring at anything and everything trying to solve what had now become an acoustic mystery.

Meanwhile she appeared completely unbothered.

Contest must continue.

So I placed the final ball onto the tee.

This was the official shot.

I reminded her once more:
“Minimum declaration is 125 yards.”

Without hesitation she said:

“140.”

Internally, I almost felt bad for her.

The three playoff contestants standing nearby looked extremely relaxed.

She gripped the club.

Moved into position.

Toot.

Started the club back.

Toot.

Reached the top.

Toot.

Started down.

Toot.
Toot.
Toot.

Impact.

TOOT.

Finish position.

Toot.
Toot.

At this point, I had completely abandoned the shoe investigation and quietly accepted that we were likely dealing with some kind of advanced gastrointestinal turbulence… almost guaranteed to be buffet related.

The room fell silent.

I turned toward the simulator screen.

140 yards.

Exactly.

Dead silence.

Not one person spoke.

Yet somehow…
people were STILL looking at her shoes.

She calmly turned toward me with the expression of someone who had just completed a perfectly ordinary task.

I handed her the prizes.

She tucked them gently under her arm, lifted her chin with quiet dignity, and gracefully walked out of the simulator room.

Toot.

The previous story probably won't lower your handicap.

This next one might.

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Mid-January.

Dead of winter.

Courses closed.

Ranges closed.

Golf season officially in hibernation.

My wife and I were sitting on the couch watching the scary movie The Thing.

The lights were off.

The blankets were out.

The popcorn bowl was strategically positioned.

Everything was calm.

Then, about a quarter of the way into the movie, The Thing made its first appearance.

My wife jumped.

The popcorn achieved temporary flight.

The blankets floated through the air like parachutes.

And somewhere in the confusion, a flying elbow found its way into the side of my face.

It was a memorable evening.

Oddly enough, golfers spend a lot of their lives searching for their own version of The Thing.

Not the movie monster.

The golf version.

The Thing.

You know...

The One Thing.

The move.

The tip.

The secret.

The magical discovery that suddenly fixes everything.

Golfers search for it down the rabbit hole that is YouTube.

They search for it in golf magazines, wading waist-deep through Rolex ads, luxury resorts, and private jets in the faint hope that somewhere between pages 47 and 48 somebody accidentally printed the secret.

They search for it on driving ranges.

They're even hoping the unsolicited advice from the range guy who can't break 100 contains it, so they listen.

Some search for it in the parking lot immediately after shooting 102, usually while explaining to their buddies that they "actually hit it pretty good today."

And then, in a final act of desperation, they seek out a golf professional and take a lesson.

Maybe even me.

The belief is always the same:

"If I can just find The Thing, everything will finally come together."

Golf has a way of teasing you that you might have found it, only to rip it out of your hands the very next round, as the double bogeys stack up like firewood after a tornado.

Sadly, golf improvement usually doesn't work that way.

Trust me, I know.

The golf industry has spent the last hundred years selling golfers The Thing.

The secret.

The move.

The cure.

The reality is much less glamorous.

A golf swing is really a collection of smaller pieces working together.

Grip.

Setup.

Balance.

Body geometry.

Swing plane.

Clubface control.

Contact.

And many others.

No part of the golf swing lives in isolation.

Everything is connected.

A better grip can improve the backswing.

A better backswing can improve the downswing.

A better downswing can improve contact.

Better contact can improve both distance and direction.

What most golfers are really looking for isn't The Thing.

They're looking for enough small improvements stacked together that the entire swing begins to work better.

Unfortunately, that isn't nearly as exciting as discovering a secret move on YouTube at 2:30 in the morning, with toothpicks holding your eyelids open, and becoming convinced you've unlocked knowledge hidden from the golfing world since 1471.

By breakfast, of course, you've forgotten half of it and your power slice has become a snap hook.

But the boring stuff works.

The good news is that most golfers don't need to rebuild their entire swing.

In fact, many are only one, two, or three improvements away from seeing significant results.

Better golfers are usually just slightly better at a lot of little things.

No popcorn flying.

No blankets floating through the air.

And hopefully no golf clubs being launched into nearby ponds.

Just a better understanding of how improvement actually happens.

And remember:

You're probably not as far away as you think.

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Closing

If you've made it this far...

👉 you've probably thought about buying a golf course and then woken up in a cold sweat.

This week we've learned three important things:

And please...

If you do find The Thing, let me know.

I've been teaching for more than 30 years and I'm still looking too.

If you found this useful (or at least mildly entertaining), feel free to share it with:

And if you're looking to take your game a step further...

👉 I'd be happy to help — in person or online.

David Govan
PGA of Canada Professional

Golf Excellence Academy
Modern Golf Instruction

Creator of the 5C Golf Performance System
👉 GolfExcellence.ca

P.S. Next issue we'll look at the actual hard numbers behind owning a golf course.

Beyond that, the editorial strategy remains remarkably similar to my golf game:

We have a general direction, but the exact landing area is still unknown.