The Island Cape

Macdonald’s fifth defines the diagonal hazard. It does not ask for power so much as it demands conviction. The fairway curves around Mangrove Lake like a scythe, a sharp dogleg left that taunts the player to challenge the shoreline. To the right lies safety and a long, blind approach over a shoulder of land. To the left lies the green, accessible only to those who flirt with the water’s edge. The geometry is ruthless. A shorter approach is earned not by muscle, but by the bravery of the line off the tee.

The lore of the hole is inextricably linked to Babe Ruth, who found in Bermuda a foe he could not bludgeon. It is said the Bambino spent an afternoon here, emptying a shag bag of balls into the mangroves in a futile attempt to drive the green. It serves as a grim reminder: the architecture of C.B. Macdonald cares little for athleticism. If the greatest swing in baseball could not force the carry, the amateur should perhaps temper their expectations.

Standing on the tee, the trade winds press against the chest, heavy with salt. The water is a brilliant, distracting turquoise, masking the severity of the penalty. Logic dictates a conservative iron to the elbow of the fairway to secure a view of the pin. But logic rarely travels with golf clubs. The urge is to mimic Ruth. The result, inevitably, is a splash, a reload, and a silent nod to the mangroves that swallowed the ball.