Ocean City, Maryland, shines as setting for father-son golf trip

My son, Ike, somehow now a 17-year-old high school senior, had one spring break left before heading off to college in the fall. His next four such breaks likely will be in Florida with friends. Thankfully, due to his considerable golf skill, that means tournaments with his university’s varsity team rather than drunken debauchery in Daytona Beach. (Not that I am opposed to or unfamiliar with a modest amount of college highjinks.)

Still, Ike’s pending departure and the subsequent empty nest loom large, and at my wife’s suggestion we all agreed that a quick father-son golf getaway was in order. Driving was deemed preferable to flying, good courses essential, waterfront preferred, nothing too schmancy. We settled on a place I’d known about forever but never visited: Ocean City, Maryland.

An easy commute for East Coasters

A painless five-hour ride from our home in upstate New York had us arriving just as Rory McIlroy and Bryson DeChambeau were teeing off on Masters Sunday. We spent the afternoon in our suite at the Princess Royale Oceanfront Resort riveted to the action with salt-air breezes blowing in and the sight and sound of waves lapping the shore as background, soothing as Jim Nantz. Hello, gulls. Dinner getting pushed back was a small price to pay for getting so fired up to play the next morning; crab cakes lumpier than Tim Herron were a big step up from pimiento cheese on white bread and a great end to a long day.

We were first off the next morning at Rum Pointe Seaside Golf Links — appropriately enough a father-son collab, as the kids call it nowadays, from Pete and P.B. Dye. Like two of the other area golf properties with considerable name recognition, the Links at Lighthouse Sound and GlenRiddle Golf Club, which were next on our playlist, Rum Pointe is owned by the Ruark family. Their other course, Nutters Crossing, has the most memorable moniker.

I have a soft spot for Pete Dye, with a long-ago round at Harbour Town still minutely recalled for how thought-provoking every shot proved. I have a hard spot for another of his courses, which shall remain nameless, heavy on the brutish, “Dye-abolical” stuff, crammed into a too-small, non-TPC site. Anyway, the man was a legend, the job is to take them as they come, and happily it turns out Rum Pointe deserves a full-throated toast.

Its mostly waterfront setting on Sinepuxent Bay offers plenty of eye candy, especially on the thrilling stretch of holes 6-8. Less obvious but no less exceptional, the routing pivots in all directions to make reading the wind an ever-evolving task. Maybe Rum Pointe’s nicest quality is that it’s nicer than it appears at a glance. The design is links-style but doesn’t play firm and fast, so balls don’t scuttle off into trouble. (Rum Pointe is the only local course with bentgrass fairways and greens.) What looks like trouble, the greenside bunkers, are upon closer inspection set back a bit from the generous putting surfaces, so decent approaches provide decent results. You can scrape it around, which I did, despite being 60 yards behind Ike on most drives, even playing a tee up. I know we want our kids to surpass us, but shouldn’t there be limits?

At the turn, Rum Pointe heads inland for a few tree-lined holes, a lovely little change of pace, before reemerging back to the water for a stirring seaside crescendo. Even after our sloppy bogeys on 18, Ike smiled, took off his hat, and put out his hand for a shake. Happy to be reminded I’ve done something right after being reminded umpteen times that my short game needs work.

Where to eat in Ocean City

Time for brunch. Our local expert recommended Bad Monkey. Any worries conjured by the name disappeared as soon as you heard the background music — some deep-cut Bob Marley, not the obvious stuff. The vibe is authentically chill, the casual menu varied, the food very much on point. Good monkey.

Now might be the moment to point out a few things about Ocean City, which it was already clear could reasonably be dubbed the Myrtle Beach of Maryland. The place is bustling and fun and unfussy, and what it offers it does very well. Putt-putt, beachwear shops and outlet stores? Plenty. (If it’s upscale and quaint you want, look elsewhere — like Berlin, Md., just a 15-minute drive away, which is an utterly lovely little town for antiquing and such.)

Food-wise, if you crave seafood, crabs especially and famously, you’re never more than a half-wedge away from someplace casual and delish. There are excellent upscale, chef-y spots, too, like Coastal Salt, Hooked and Liquid Assets — just make reservations because even pre-high season, weekday nights, getting a table can be tough. And the right funky spots crush it, too. The omelets at the Bayside Skillet aren’t just as big as a football but topnotch, and the superb crepes with strawberry jam so good a Frenchman would golf-clap them, albeit grudgingly, because he’s French.

It’s also notable nowadays that the service in Ocean City proved friendly and professional across the board. Greeters greet with a warm smile. Wait staff stop by the table promptly and then frequently to ask how everything is and do you need anything? “Thank you” is met with “You’re welcome” or “Of course” rather than “No problem.” (We all have our pet peeves.) The Mid-Atlantic is by definition neither north nor south, but from a hospitality standpoint it leans the latter.

With the afternoon free, Ike and I headed back in the direction of Rum Pointe, veering left instead of right at the fork to visit Assateague State Park, famed for its wild horse colony. About 80 feral ponies roam the place, and Ike got pictures of the brave and/or lazy ones by the side of the road as you drive in. We parked and walked over to the beach, where the horses sometimes go to cool off and shoe flies, but the beachgoers were all human or canine. Ike thoughtfully grabbed a few seashells for his grandmother, who pre-trip had talked about this being one of her favorite places to visit with Ike’s recently deceased grandfather. I won’t claim credit for Ike’s golf swing, but I will proudly call halfsies on his kindness.

Even after a leisurely oceanfront stroll, we still had time to kill before dinner, so we went to the Ocean Lanes bowling alley. I mention this largely so I can get on the record and bask in the glory of beating my son in one game of something other than gin rummy. The 190-170 upset rivaled Chaminade over Ralph Sampson’s Virginia, never mind the great equalizer of using house balls, given that Ike had bowled his first 300 perfect game in a high-school match a few months earlier. I mention that fact so that he might forgive me for committing my victory to print. When you’re being outdriven by two Walmarts every damn hole, you better enjoy such moments.

Instagram-ready holes

The next morning, again first off, we drove across a long causeway over Isle of Wight Bay to the Links at Lighthouse Sound; the seagulls perched on each side flew off as we passed, the effect like an avian Busby Berkeley routine. (Kids, Google it.) The weather looked sketchy and soon was, but we had rain gloves, waterproof shoes, and the place pretty much to ourselves.

Lighthouse Sound is an Arthur Hills design from 2000 and in some ways a period piece. There are chocolate-drop containment mounds galore, some raised tee boxes such that you can’t tell which box is which until you’ve hiked up one, and a few severe greenside fall-aways around the undulating greens. Due to the site’s marshy nature, there are many considerable drives between holes — the starter informed us that the course has 8 miles of cart path, and between the 8th and 9th holes is the longest cart bridge in America, at 1,500 feet.

It’s the maximalism that helped wrought the new minimalism. Styles change, trends trend. While lay of the land, self-aware subtlety, and walking-only are now all the rage, there’s still a lot to be said for spectacular, Instagram-ready holes, and Lighthouse Sound has more than its share. The par-3 5th is, proudly, the signature hole, and boo-hoo to those who don’t like the term, because it’s a standout stunner, with a gorgeous peninsula green backed by Assawoman Bay and the skyline of Ocean City beyond. Holing out there and walking to the island back tee box on No. 6 that extends out into the bay is a one-two punch not soon forgotten.

The on-again, off-again rain made the notion of grinding over a score ridiculous, and Ike and I had a fun time trying different shots; his many swing and short-game tips to me were clear, insightful and, yes, poignant — while I have a few things left to teach him about life, when it comes to golf for years now I have been very much the student, and happily so.

GlenRiddle GC hosted our trip’s last round. Its two courses are named War Admiral, as in the 1937 Triple Crown winner, and Man o’ War, for perhaps the greatest racehorse of the 20th century. GlenRiddle’s clubhouse used to be the main stable building of famed Riddle Farm, which produced those two champions as well as Seabiscuit, among other equine legends. You’ve heard of horses for courses; this is courses for horses.  (Fun facts: Man O’ War, who won 20 of 21 lifetime races, losing only to a longshot named Upset, had between 1-1.5 million people from around the world visit him in retirement, and his funeral service was broadcast nationally on the radio.)

Shades of Pinehurst

Ike and I decided we’d end our trip by playing a two-man scramble. Spring break is about fun in the sun, right? Well, we got 25-mph winds — and still had loads of fun. War Admiral had been described to us as routed through a housing development, which is technically true but utterly irrelevant, as the upscale homes are set well back from the playing corridors. Our expectations having been lowered, they ended up wildly exceeded, as this handsome, rugged War Admiral accelerated through the gears. Ike noted, rightly, that the forested course (with tidal marsh in play on five holes) recalled some of the Pinehurst courses, like #4 and #9, that he’d competed on in recent years. Soaring pines, big-shouldered, a well-varied collection of strong holes and nothing silly.            

On the 18th tee of the bruising par-4 closer, a dogleg right with a heroic carry over water to the green, a friendly, grizzled maintenance worker who had watched Ike on the previous hole came over to chat — what’s your handicap, are you going to play in college, and so on. Ike bombed one final drive down the pipe, to the man’s whistling approval. “Where are you going?” he laughed as I went to move up a tee box. “I’m an old man,” I replied, before smoothly bunting one down Broadway myself. “I see where he gets it from,” the man said, as he got back on his tractor.

Even though it was just banter, I couldn’t help but beam as Ike drove our cart down the fairway. We’d pick up my ball and play from his, as the finish line to this part of the race rapidly approached.