Hawaii

Koʻolau Golf Club — Oʻahu

Hawaii wasn’t the first state I played golf in.

It is not the state I have played in most often.

In fact, I’ve only been to Hawaii once in my life.

But some rounds earn their place in the story not by repetition — but by meaning.

My one and only trip to Hawaii (so far) came during a milestone worth celebrating: my wife and I were marking our 20th wedding anniversary. It was a trip rooted in gratitude — for time, for health, for family, and for the many shared miles behind us.

I had recently undergone back surgery — an L5–S1 micro-discectomy — and wasn’t entirely sure when, or if, I’d ever be back in Hawaii. I wasn’t even sure I should be playing golf yet; the doctor’s recommendation leaned clearly toward not yet.

My wife understands this golf life better than anyone. She’s ridden along for rounds in Cozumel and Puerto Rico, attended two U.S. Opens a President’s Cup and two Ryder Cups, and joined in countless games at Topgolf. She knows what the game gives me, even when she isn’t standing on the tee beside me. Many of my rounds across the states have happened alone, often tied to work trips.

This day was different. While she enjoyed a well-earned day of pampering back at the hotel, she insisted I go play.

“You should go,” she said.

So I did.

We had rented a Jeep Wrangler and so I drove from the JW Marriott Ko Olina — now the Marriott’s Ko Olina Beach Club — into the heart of Oʻahu. The drive alone felt like a pilgrimage: leaving the open coast behind and climbing into the island’s dense, green interior, where mountains rise sharply and the jungle presses close to the road.

The destination was Koʻolau Golf Club — a course that routinely appears on lists of the most difficult public courses in the United States. Literally carved through thick jungle and framed by dramatic mountain ridgelines, Koʻolau doesn’t ask politely. It challenges you immediately, relentlessly, and honestly. Bring some extra balls if you are a little wild off the tee. Thanks to the back surgery, I took it easy and kept it mostly on the short stuff.

As if the course itself wasn’t memorable enough, fate added its own touch of poetry. On the driving range, I ran into my wife’s uncle Steve — an Arizona OB-GYN who had delivered our two youngest children years earlier. Of all places, on an island I’d only visit once, on a course buried deep in the jungle, there he was. We laughed, had a bro hug, caught up, and ended up playing the round together — a small, perfect example of how golf so often brings the right people together at exactly the right time.

The day wasn’t without adventure. On the drive in, I nearly clipped a flock of chickens darting across the road. Later, wild boars came charging out of the jungle lining the fairways — a reminder that at Koʻolau, nature isn’t decorative; it’s dominant (and also a reminder to keep the ball out of the tall stuff). Between the humidity, the terrain, and my still-recovering back, I had no business expecting a great score.

And yet, somehow, I posted a very average 85 — a number that mattered far less than the moment itself.

What I remember most isn’t the scorecard. It’s the color of the mountains under low clouds. The smell of rain in the trees. The laughter with Uncle Steve. The quiet support of my wife — who has been part of so many of these walks, spoiled and otherwise. It’s the feeling that golf, at its best, is never just about the swing. It’s about where you are, who you’re with, and what season of life you’re standing in when you take the shot.

Hawaii may only appear once in my journey across the states.

But it will always hold a permanent place in The Long Game.

Some walks are spoiled only once — and remembered forever.