Thursday, July 12, 2012

Discovery: From Birdies To Barnacles


“That’s a polychaete, which is a marine tube-building worm that helps stabilize tidal sediment.”

“And that’s a southern quahog (a large clam). Over here are hatching baby crown conchs. Oh, and here’s a comb jelly!”

A year ago, those words would have never jumped out of my mouth, let alone, pop out with the joy of discovery on a sandbar in the Indian River Lagoon. But here I stood, leader of a kayak eco-tour, prodding the soil with tourists from Orlando who wanted to see more than Mickey Mouse and the attractions of Central Florida.

As the saying goes, “It’s funny where life takes you.” And indeed, it is.

A year ago, I was dutifully documenting the birdies and bogeys of young women golf professionals from around the world. I jumped into that segment of golf journalism full time 20 years ago and made myself a student of the game.

I covered golf tournaments and learned everything I needed to know to write a record of those competitions on deadline. I knew the players, from rookies to veterans, and took seriously the responsibility of telling their stories right. I knew the history and the context of today’s victories against the broader backdrop of yesterday’s champions. I knew exactly what a Hall-of-Fame career looked like and what it needed to be.

And, as an equipment writer, I learned about the components of a golf club, visiting the factories and learning about the epoxy and graphite of shafts, the rubbers and polymers of grips, and even the metallurgy of clubheads. I visited golf equipment foundries and watched them pour molten metal into molds to create clubheads for the consumer market.

I also learned about agronomy and why certain grasses will grow in certain places. I understood why greens roll faster if mown in a certain way on a particular grass that has been fed a prescribed amount of water. In recent years, I also made myself aware of how course superintendents have found new ways to use less water, less herbicides and pesticides, and to mow less often to make golf courses more friendly to this fine old planet.

I thought I had done my homework. I wrote for three national golf magazines, won a few national awards, met my deadlines, maintained good contacts and sources, operated with a sense of fairness, honesty and professionalism in my work, and recorded history, one day at a time. I blogged, Facebooked, took photos and videos, and did the things that modern communications require.

But I soon learned that regardless of my competency, passion, interest and experience, the truth is, I didn’t have control over my future when my objectives didn’t necessarily match those of new leadership. Just like that, a new boss with new ideas and no great love of the written word, waved his hand and I was gone.

It was a shock, to say the least, and a decision that seemed shortsighted for an organization clamoring for respectability within the industry. When I left, I counted the years of experience among the staff of my former department and shook my head. Immodestly, I had forgotten more than the collective bunch of them had ever known. Of course, that wasn’t the point, and experience isn’t necessarily needed when the treadmill of disseminated information is rote, superficial and sometimes, even contrived.

Still, I wondered if some of the remaining staff would have even recognized the faces or names of Hall of Famers had they walked through the front door? And to be honest, I worried about that for many months -- not because I fretted that those individuals would embarrass themselves, but because I felt that those players who had earned their accolades deserved to be treated better by the organization they helped establish.

Time has passed. My mind is no longer occupied with concerns about the recording of golf history or the matters that once kept me awake at night. At some point, you simply must turn your back and walk away. And in the same stride, you also must ask the universe to provide guidance toward the next frontier.

I still love golf and its rich history, and I still care about the players in the game and their pursuit of records and milestones. But in so many ways, I can now find peace in a place where the constancy of purpose has no relevance to the mercurial nature of man. The tide comes and goes, whether we like it or not.

It’s scary to start over. Suddenly, the competencies that once made me valid in the game have changed to foreign terminologies, baffling biologies and ancient genealogies. Sometimes I am wading in water that is up to my knees. Sometimes I am paddling like crazy in waters that are over my head. And always, always, always, Mother Nature dictates what will happen next -- and when.

Discovery in a new place is both scary and tantalizing. It’s as challenging as leading others in small boats in a torrential rain storm with hammering tides, insisting that what’s next is worth seeing. It’s about believing in what’s out there. And it’s also sometimes about convincing others that what’s out there is worth our interest and involvement on a grander scale.

I guess I’ve started trading in those birdies and bogeys for barnacles and bivalves. It’s a whole different world, but I’m learning again. Truly, the joy of any competency is in the pursuit of discovery and the willingness to wade into unknown waters, one toe at a time.

- Lisa D. Mickey, July 12, 2012

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