Weed Golf has never been my kind of thing. But I play in a golf league with other cannabis writers and marketers, and the young guns among them use the Weed Golf Challenge to prove how tough they are. It’s a way to stand out by knocking down someone more established.
It never affected me because no one is less established than I am. Nonetheless, after a few too many drinks in the clubhouse one day, a young marketer named Geary got up in my face. He was 26, the “head writer” for the edibles division of a major cannabis operator, and he had it in for me because I refused to review edibles. (I like edibles fine, but I’m not a food critic!)
“I think those weed posts you write are bullshit,” he said. His voice carried through the clubhouse, a classic corporate bully. “You act like you’re an expert, but all you ever talk about is smoking itty-bitty joints. No vapes, no concentrates, no gummies – you know nothing about modern cannabis. I doubt you could vape your way through even half a round of Weed Golf.”
“Yeah, well, that’s just like your opinion, man,” I quoted, and turned back to my drink. He responded by pulling out his golf glove and contemplating it for a moment. Then he slapped me across the face with it.
The clubhouse crowd whooped, recognizing the unmistakable sign of a Weed Golf challenge.
“Are you kidding?” I asked, and he slapped me with the glove again, across the other cheek. That really was too much.
“Fine,” I said. “You’re on.” The clubhouse roared. Wagers were already being made even before I walked out. Between me and Geary, the stakes were quickly laid out: If he won, I’d review one of his gummy brands. If I won, he’d get me a freelance gig writing for his company. If I won.
The rules of Weed Golf are simple and terrifying: It’s a 9-hole match, but both players must take three hits off a vape pen chosen by their opponent, every single time they tee off. Importantly, each player gets three golf balls – and that’s all they get. If a player loses all three, they lose the game. Otherwise, regular match-play rules apply: Whoever wins the most holes out of nine, without losing three balls, wins.
The choice of caddies typically gives the first indication of a player’s strategy. Caddies are required not only to carry the clubs, but also to serve as seconds for the duel, holding the loaded vape pens and making sure everyone stays on track. Geary chose Studs, a long-limbed scratch golfer who could hit the ball a mile. He was seeking golf expertise and Studs, jauntily sporting a Panama hat on his shaved-bald dome, totally looked the part.
I chose Crash, an old family friend and once-famous smuggler from the era when the best marijuana was flown in over the border. He wasn’t much of a golfer, but that old coot knew how to function while smoking weed all day long. I wanted someone with experience getting around the course while tripping balls.
On the day of the match, a small crowd of kibitzers were waiting when we arrived at the first hole. Crash, rumpled and unshaven, looked like he had slept outdoors in a marijuana field, which he probably had. He glared at everyone until they took a step back. That didn’t slow the action at all. All sort of weird bets were floated: “$10 one of them loses a club!” “$20 one of them hits a goose!” It was like a demented stoner version of “Caddyshack.” But the main wager was an over-under on how long I would last, and the smart money seemed to be no more than five holes.
Finally the wagers were settled and it was time to begin the marijuana golf event of the season.
Geary’s caddy, Studs, ceremoniously handed me a vape pen loaded with 1 gram of concentrated Gorilla Glue oil. Gorilla Glue! A bold choice on Geary’s part: It’s a strong bud with a heavy body hit, bad for athletics. As concentrated oil, it was 72 percent pure THC, very high. (For comparison, as bud in a normal joint, it would be more like 20 percent THC.)
I took three full hits as Studs watched closely to make sure I didn’t cheat, then I stepped to the first tee and hit a pretty good drive down the right side.
Crash then repeated the same vaping ritual with Geary. I saw Geary’s eyebrows go up when he saw what I selected for him: Ghost Train Haze, one of the most dizzying, head-swirling sativas out there. As an oil concentrate, it consisted of 70 percent THC. Again, we had chosen exactly opposite strategies. He was using a powerful couch-lock strain in an effort to wear me down physically. I went the other way with a heavy sativa, aiming for the brain instead.
Geary took his three vape tokes, and then a mighty swing. His ball split the fairway, at least 50 yards farther than my drive. We both knew he was the better golfer under normal circumstances. But this wasn’t really a golf match so much as a destruction-level marijuana stress test.
Still, it started normally enough. Geary took the first hole with a par to my bogey and was one up. We took our vape pulls again on the second hole, and we were both feeling nice. We were outdoors, the sun was shining, the fairways beckoned, and at this point it was a lovely high.
I didn’t even think about my swing, just stepped to the ball, felt totally in the groove, and crushed one straight down the middle. Geary had a goofy smile on his face, so I knew he was starting to feel the Ghost Train running down his neural tracks. He looked happy, I’ll say that. He stepped to the tee with confidence, took a big, looping, over-exuberant swing, and hit a huge slice into the trees.
Then came the first signs of weirdness: He and Studs tromped off into the woods while I pitched up to the green, followed by the crowd, and then we waited. And waited. What was happening?
Finally Geary emerged, brushing twigs and leaves off his clothes and laughing happily to himself. He looked exactly like he had been rolling down a hill. Studs followed behind, less amused. The important thing was that they had lost their first golf ball. I won that hole, and the match was tied 1-1. Even better, Geary already was down to two balls.
Three more vape hits on the third hole, and now it was my turn to have trouble staying focused. An ever-expanding throb was tightening in a band around my skull. Sure enough, my swing went haywire. The ball shanked right and bounded sharply off toward a big lake. Crash and I spread out to search, and I went left toward the lake.
The sunlight flashed off the water like a strobe light, and I had to close my eyes for a second. In the dark, my head started floating high above my body. I opened my eyes and found myself in a world flooded with brilliant fluorescence. Everything shone as if hand-colored by day-glo Crayolas. The water was a blinding Blizzard Blue, the forest was Screaming Green and Electric Lime, the whole landscape showered in sparkles of Atomic Tangerine, Neon Carrot and Laser Lemon. I stood rooted in the rough.
A sudden motion at the edge of the lake caught my eye. It appeared to be a fish crawling out of the water. I looked closer. Wait! Were those little legs? I stared open-mouthed as a whiskered four-legged catfish walked itself out of the primordial ooze. Evolution in action! I pinched my eyes to clear them, but when I looked again, nothing was there.
I did a close scan of the landscape and there wasn’t a single forest fish in sight. There were birds and squirrels and lots of butterflies, and. . . wait. Why exactly was I standing here? Wasn’t there something I was supposed to be doing?
“Hey, did you find it?” That was Crash, yelling over to me. “We’re out of time.”
The ball! Yes, that’s what I was doing. “Nope, no ball,” I said. “Only a walking fish. I’m leaving.” Crash rolled his eyes. He was used to any crazy thing a stoned person might come up with.
I scrambled awkwardly out of the woods and back to the fairway, where the kibitzers applauded me for losing my ball and exchanged wads of cash. Some of the bettors might be ahead, but I was now down 2-1 and Geary and I had each lost one ball and quite a bit of our mental acuity. And there were still six holes to go.
At this point, we should review some basic marijuana math when it comes to vaping. Keep in mind that 25-35mg of inhaled THC (basically a few hits off a good joint) will get you satisfactorily high. Over a short amount of time (a couple of hours), inhaling a total of 100-150mg will get you very high. (Important Note: these dosages are for inhaling only – the metrics are totally different for edibles!)
With the vape pens, Geary and I were taking in 80-100mg of THC every 15 minutes. If we used the entire vape pens (unlikely but possible), that would mean as much as 700-750mg of THC within two hours. I emphasize the pacing because the passage of time is a big factor here. Spread out over a whole day and night, heavy users could probably handle 600-700mg of THC, though not pleasantly. But to smoke that much within two hours?
It wouldn’t kill you, but coordination and cogitation will be heavily degraded. Headaches, dizziness, and a total body-and-mind stupor should be expected. It will not feel good. And the marijuana hangover the next day will be significant; you won’t wake up bright, cheery, or early.
No matter. Onward we slogged. The next hole was a dogleg running alongside the lake. As Geary and I walked over to it, I attempted our first conversation:
“Do you ever think about evolution, Geary?”
He startled to hear my voice; I had woken him from some deep stoner fantasy in his head. “What? Where?”
“Evolution, Geary. Consciousness. Life on this planet was born in water. We grew up as aquatic creatures, evolved out of the sea and carried ourselves onto land on four churning little legs. But we’re always looking to get back to our natural home in the water.”
Geary stared at me with bloodshot eyes as we arrived at the tee. He looked totally blasted out of his mind. I stood with hands on hips and looked out again at the lake. “Wow!” I said. It was beautiful to see, sparkling in the sun. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, mostly because I was hoping to glimpse that strolling catfish again.
Geary just stood there, confused. Again Studs had to whisper in his ear, pointedly jabbing his finger toward the fairway and away from the lake. Finally Geary stepped up to the ball and made a careful swing, trying to ensure he went nowhere near the water.
It looked like a good shot, and the ball soared. We all watched as it flew into the sky and then gasped as it started hooking oh-so-slowly to the left, gathering speed as it arced more sharply toward its target, like it was a nugget of solid iron and the lake was a magnet, and… SPLASH! Perfect hook shot into the lake. The crowd laughed and jeered; more money flashed. The gamblers were having way more fun than we were.
I had closed the gap a bit. Geary was still up 3-2, but now we were both down to our last ball. (I don’t know how I lost my second ball and Crash just shrugged when I asked.) Onward we slogged. The next hole, which turned out to be the last one, was a long walk away. I stumbled on a tree root and then stopped moving altogether. All motivation had left my limbs. Crash had to lead me forward to the next tee with a hand on my elbow, like a nurse leading an invalid.
When we finally arrived, I didn’t see Geary anywhere. That was because he had plunked himself down on the previous green and was refusing to get up. Studs and a few friends tried to lift him to his feet, but he kept pushing them away, darting fearful looks at the sky and ducking his head whenever a bird flew by.
While we waited, I looked over the hole. It was a par 3, featuring a large marshy pond directly in front of the tee, about 50 yards wide, filled with geese splashing about. You only needed to hit it 60-70 yards to get over the water, and 175 yards to reach the green, exactly my sweet spot.
I wasn’t thinking about that, though. I wasn’t thinking about anything. Instead, I meandered on the safe side of the trees beside the pond, idly tapping the ball forward with my 9-iron. I caught the ball on the edge, and as it squirted sideways onto some spongy grass, I heard Crash announce that Geary had finally arrived at the tee.
I hopped over to grab my ball where it had settled on an iridescent patch of green moss. As I reached for it, I realized that I was no longer standing on solid ground. This wasn’t moss. It was green surface scum floating atop the pond. I was neck-deep in the lagoon before I could even register what was happening. Not a clear blue lagoon, no — this was a goose latrine filled almost totally with liquid bird shit. My body was immersed in an excretory pool that was black as motor oil and just as slick. To my unutterable disgust, a little of this muck splashed onto my face. I got used to it.
There was no solid ground to grab onto. Everything that looked like dry grass was just more scum frothing on the water. I was holding my 9-iron aloft while splashing furiously in the black lagoon, struggling to keep my head above water.
In the distance I could hear Crash shouting for me. Ultimately, I had no choice but the most humiliating one: I started waving my 9-iron in the air and said weakly, “Help.” That wouldn’t do. I cleared my throat and tried again, now shrieking: “HELP!” I had never felt more like a movie character: specifically, the comic sidekick in distress: “HELP! HELP!”
What a way to die, in a freak golf accident involving a ton of concentrated THC oil and thousands of gallons of floating crap. Could this really be the end? I heard a voice floating down from heaven.
“What are you doing down there?” the voice said. “Dude, it’s your shot!”
I looked up and was never happier to see Crash’s craggy old face. I feebly shook my 9-iron at him. “Help!” I said again, and he stared at me, like he’d never seen someone swimming in shit before. Finally he grabbed hold of the shaft and tugged me forward, the same way you’d pull someone free from quicksand. I emerged slowly out of the water, an amphibian flopping onto dry land.
I was covered in black muck, soaking wet and smelling like two-day-old carrion. Crash’s eyes went wide, and then I saw that Studs and Geary and the whole crowd of kibitzers were pushing toward me, until the smell drove them back again.
“The ball!” Crash said, urgently. “The ball, where is it? Tell me it’s not lost in the swamp.”
My ball! I had forgotten.
Everyone held their breath, and not only to avoid breathing in my odor. I opened my left hand, and there, encrusted in glistening black muck, was my last golf ball. Somehow I had never let go.
Geary snorted wearily. He was swaying and one of his eyes had developed a tic. “Your shot, then,” he said, and tried to give me an elaborate wave toward the tee, though it looked more like he might be having a seizure. One guy in the crowd was whooping with joy. He had bet that I’d fall in a water hazard.
Studs handed me the vape when I got to the tee, and for once I was grateful. The enormous adrenaline surge from my plunge had cleared my head but left me jittery from the overload. I needed something to calm my body down, and – ah, the irony! – Gorilla Glue was perfect for that. I paused at the tee, feeling wholly alive for one brief moment, and without even thinking I slammed a beautiful shot that landed eight feet from the pin. My best shot of the day.
Geary stepped up for his shot but took tiny tokes from his vape instead of full ones, a bit of a cheat. I could see Crash start to complain, but I waved him off. Instead I spoke softly to Geary as he took a few trembling practice swings.
“Evolution, Geary,” I whispered. “Tiny fish legs. Remember: All golf balls seek to return to the water.”
I saw his hands twitch. Then he gave a mighty swing but topped the shot, smacking a low line drive straight into the murkiness of the pond. The ball skipped twice, then slid to a stop against a goose, who eyed it curiously as it slowly disappeared with a tiny plop.
“Yes!” shouted one of the bettors with a big fist-pump. “Goose shot! I knew it!”
The match was over. It was over! We stared at each other for a moment. Then Geary dropped his club and fell heavily to the ground. He lay with his hands over his face. Crash strolled over to him, looked down, and sadly shook his head. “You kids. Can’t hold your weed at all.”
I stood off to the side, hoping the Ghost Train Haze hadn’t done Geary any permanent psychological damage. I particularly hoped he remembered that he owed me some money.
I had won, but at what cost? The muck had started to dry and harden on my body, encrusting me in a chocolate poop shell that was beginning to itch like crazy. My head was throbbing. Around me the crowd was laughing and cheering, but I wanted to collapse. As I started to sink down, Crash came up and pulled me off the green and away from the hole.
“You can’t stop, boss,” he croaked in my ear. “Leave on your steam. Be the legend.”
The two of us shambled into the sunset together. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving me exhausted. I wanted a long shower and to sleep for days. Crash took note of my low mood as we walked.
“Here,” he said kindly, handing me a giant blunt. “This’ll perk you right up.” I looked at the joint, swayed dizzily, and threw up on his shoes. In the distance behind us, I heard a sudden shout: “Yes! I had puking! Pay up!”
