Note. The following photos were taken at PGA National Resort commissioned by Salamander Collection and #shotoniPhone (16 Pro Max)
Over the past week, I’ve spent my mornings in a golf cart. Not playing—just riding. Camera in hand. Silence in the air. Miles of manicured fairway stretching out in front of me. Five different golf courses, all part of the resort I was photographing.
Most mornings, I was out before the sun crested the trees. Dew still clung to the grass. The air held its breath. The only sounds were birdsong, distant geese, and the occasional hum of a groundskeeper’s mower.
It was beautiful.
Peaceful.
And, unexpectedly, haunting.
Because every time I rounded a corner—especially on holes six through nine—my mind went elsewhere. Back in time. Back to Bass River Golf Course, Cape Cod. Back to you. To us. To those endless late afternoons with you, me, Kenny, and sometimes Pammy, chasing sunlight and golf balls down narrow fairways.
You were patient—until you weren’t.
I was obedient—until I wasn’t.
But we walked. We played. We talked.
We shared something I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.
Now I do.
You had your way of teaching. Direct. Loud. A little salty.
“Keep your god damn head down!”
“Don’t overswing!”
“Shorten your grip!”
“Try not to look like you’re killing snakes!”
You weren’t being cruel. Well, okay—you were a little. But underneath the bark was something more: you were trying. Trying to teach. Trying to toughen me up. Trying, in your own imperfect way, to love me through the game.
And here’s the truth I never said enough—maybe never said at all:
Thank you, Dad.
Thank you for all those countless evenings when we didn’t do anything extraordinary—we just played. Argued about club choice. Swore under our breath (you louder than me). Watched geese scatter like drunks on the green.
Those were the good days.
Before life got complicated.
Before I got complicated.
God, I was a pain in the ass in high school. I know that now. You probably knew it then. I was mouthy, angry, arrogant, and lost. Too smart for my own good. Too stupid to see how much I still had to figure out. You bore the brunt of that. So did Mom. So did anyone who loved me deeply enough to stand close.
And so, Dad—here it is, long overdue: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for being such a little shit.
For picking fights.
For pushing back on everything.
For not knowing how to be soft in a house where softness didn’t come easy for either of us.
I was trying to find my way.
And I know you were, too.
We were two alpha males in a house too small for ego. You had your flaws, and I had mine. You were hard to please—quick with criticism, slow with praise. I resented that. Still do, sometimes. But I’ve lived enough life now to see the humanity beneath the rough edges.
You weren’t trying to be perfect.
You were just trying to be better than your father.
And maybe that’s the best any of us can hope for.
These days, I see more of you in me than I care to admit. Your stubbornness. Your fire. Your need to explain things five different ways. Your delight in work done well. The way you lit up when someone really got you. The way you broke when someone didn’t.
It’s all in me now.
And when I’m out on a course—camera instead of club in hand—it’s like I can feel your hand on my shoulder. Not heavy. Just there. Just present.
Some mornings, I can still smell the Cape.
Low tide. Damp grass. Salt air.
And I can hear your voice, loud and unfiltered:
“Just swing easy, Jack. Let the club do the work.”
That was your advice for golf.
Maybe it was your advice for life, too.
Dad, this letter isn’t about pretending you were perfect. You weren’t. Neither was I.
But it’s about something more important than perfection.
It’s about forgiveness.
It’s about gratitude.
It’s about choosing how I remember you.
I’m not trying to rewrite history.
I’m trying to reclaim it.
Not as the son who rebelled.
But as the man who’s finally ready to say thank you—for the good stuff.
Thank you for giving me golf, grit, nature, repetition.
For teaching me how to love something even when I hated it.
For showing me what it means to wake up early, show up fully, and give your best.
For believing in me, even when I gave you every reason not to.
So this is my love letter, Dad.
Written in the quiet between tee boxes.
Written in the light of hindsight.
Written in peace.
I miss you.
I forgive you.
I thank you.
And I hope, wherever you are—
The geese are still squawking,
The sun is low and golden,
And you’ve finally learned how to keep your god damn head down.
Love always,
Jack
