We were on the veranda of our river boat, our sliding glass door closed and locked behind us. My now very unhappy wife emphatically declaring that this is my problem to fix. She is correct in her accusation. After all it was I who had insisted the door would not lock if I pushed it shut. And I had, pushed it shut.

I began looking for a way out. There was always jumping into the river. but besides being unappealing, we were on the third deck. I could try peering around the divider hoping to find someone else out on their deck. Tried it, both sides, no luck. My wife, now getting anxious, reminds me once again that we are locked out of our comfortable cabin! Still guilty!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I began yelling, to anyone who would hear me, “Help, anyone, I need help.” And suddenly, a head pops out from two decks down. “What do you need?” I explained that we were locked out, coincidentally without reference to blame. I asked that he find a porter and send them to our room. “Can do” was the answer and the talking head disappeared. Then, as the porter unlocked the door, he pops back out and declares “Hi, I’m Chris.” I replied, “I’m stupid but you can call me Ken.” And that was it, we knew our names and nothing else.

Two days later, I climbed the stairs to the top deck. A gentleman called me by name and said hi. The look on my face must have signaled that I didn’t recognize him. “I’m Chris,” he declares and extends his hand. As I thank him again, he introduces me to the group he is traveling with. One woman, Jada, begins a conversation with me. In short order, we find a connection. Though now from San Diego, she had grown up in Wisconsin. Upon further digging, it turns out she lived next door to my wife’s brother! She had actually babysat our nephews. Once my wife caught up to us, I introduced her, and her surprise was a treat.

There is an important take away from this story. Besides the fact that I had been rescued from an embarrassing situation, we had made new friends. Even if it was just for our week down the river. Experts say that as a culture, we are losing the art of conversation. We don’t know how or don’t want to engage with each other, let alone strangers on a boat. If Chris hadn’t gone beyond the rescue. If he hadn’t made the effort to tell me his name. If he hadn’t taken the risk in stopping to say hello. I would have never, halfway around the world, met the women who babysat my nephews.

Chain of events are funny things. What starts as an introduction, can often result in an interesting connection. But only if we pursue the conversation. In my case, Chris might not have shared his name. I would have thanked the porter and that would have been the end of this story. I would simply remember it as a very uncomfortable situation. Instead, it became a great story with a happy ending.

If I have to be, I will be a soldier in the war to save the art of conversation. Next time you are in the waiting line we were assigned to, be prepared to converse with me. I am betting we can share a great story and even find our connection. But don’t wait for me. See that person ahead of you, try it out. A simple hello might just be the start of a beautiful relationship. My nod to Casablanca.

So I went golfing yesterday. Why not, the weather was perfect, 39 degrees, light rain until it became heavy rain, and a 40 mph wind. The course was in good shape, just a little remnant snow in the sand traps that only made them more of a challenge, which is exactly what they were meant for. At least when I was down in them, the wind seemed less noticeable and the sand had absorbed the standing water.

If you are one of the rare breed of golfers who understand this, you might even be wishing you had been there. If you are not a golfer, you are wondering what in the world I was doing out there. So let me explain.

It would be easy to say it’s just a man thing, but that wouldn’t be true as there were several women out there as well. To think that only men are crazy enough to do this would be sexist. Women golfers can be just as crazy as their counterparts. There’s more to it than just being crazy. True golfers have a passion for the ssport that surpasses sanity. What other explanation would there be for driving out to your favorite course in a downpour, surrounded by lightening, saying I’m sure there will be a window and I can get in a quick 18. Quick 18, that’s another strange description of a round of golf, unless you feel four and a half hours to be quick. And why would these same golfers venture onto a course at midday, with temperatures just below the boiling point and a humidity index nearing the century mark on one day and then golf with the temperature nearing zero and winds gusting at cat one hurricane force the next day? In the case of the later, at least the humidity was down.

The answer lies in the rewards of a good round of golf. There’s the obvious exercise one gets driving that golf cart. Don’t be shaming me, I still had to get in and out ninety to a hundred times, okay a hundred to a hundred and ten times. And then there’s all that shoulder exercise I get. And don’t forget the local flora knowledge I gain as I search through the underbrush and tree thickets, searching for the final resting spot of my drive. In this last case, proper identification of the poisonous plants versus the just plain irritating ones might determine a retrievable shot from a small contribution to the golf industry as I open another sleeve of balls.

So why do golfers seem to ignore the elements, no matter how cruel, to go hit that tiny white ball through eighteen holes, avoiding deep sand traps, ponds full of water, and deep dark woods? It’s the walk. I became a golfer the day I took a servers position in a local private country club. As one of the perks, I was allowed to play the course every Monday morning from 6:00 to 8:00 AM. All I had in my possession was an old wood shafted 2 iron, a sand wedge, and a novelty putter, but they were enough to get me around the course, or at least through a few holes. That experience was enough to hook me on a sport, that at 72, I still play even though I still don’t score much better than when I began. But it’s the walk. Every course is laid out different from the next, but they all have two prime objectives, the first is to challenge you with long holes, short holes, doglegs, sand traps, water and trees. The second objective is to accentuate the beauty of the location with long undulating fairways, so lush and green, followed up by a tabletop, tiered green set into a grove of evergreens or maybe stately oaks. The course begs you to walk it, to take in the views and the smell of new mown grass. This is what brings me back time and time again and begs me to not miss the opportunity to play a new course. The challenges forgive my occasional bad shot or even bad hole and the beauty rewards my willingness to play and allows me to forget the three or four golf balls I donated to the next golfer who finds them.

Golf is not for the faint at heart. It will punish your score almost as often as it rewards it. It will bring you out in days too hot to do anything else or so cold you have so many layers on that it’s difficult to even swing the club. It can wear you out or it can refresh your spirit. The true golfer finds the joy in the challenge and the beauty in the game.

I just noticed the clouds breaking up, temperatures up to 45, and the course is open. Time for a quick eighteen holes.

God, I love golf!