The Lion's Mouth

The Lion’s Mouth at the 16th is a study in architectural aggression. Seth Raynor wraps the putting surface around a central hazard—a deep, square-cut pit that divides the green into two precarious shelves. It is not a suggestion; it is a mandate. To access the rear pins, the ball must traverse the void. While the center offers a reprieve, the “ears” of the horseshoe tempt the vanity of the player. The geometry demands a high, towering strike. Anything less is swallowed by the sand.

Situated deep in the Lowcountry, the course rests on heavy soil where the air hangs thick. Kyle Franz’s spade has unearthed Raynor’s original intent, sharpening the lines until they cut against the softness of the surrounding marsh. The bunker faces are flashed steep and white, standing in stark relief against the wild growth of South Carolina. Arriving late in the round, the hole acts as a pivot. It offers no sympathy for a tiring swing.

From the tee, the central hazard dominates the eye, exerting a gravitational pull on the mind as much as the ball. The prudent play ignores the flag tucked behind the mouth, favoring the front tongue of the green. But the ego is a loud companion. Attempting the carry requires absolute purity of contact. To fail is to find oneself in the mouth, facing an explosion shot toward a surface running away from the player. It is a place where par feels like theft, and a bogey is merely the cost of doing business with Mr. Raynor.