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# Breaking the deep freeze
- URL: https://www.smdp.com/breaking-the-deep-freeze/
- Published: 2006-04-13T15:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T23:53:19.000Z
- Author: Guest Author
- Tags: Opinion, Santa Monica, #archive-import

*By BLAST BY SETH BARNES*

I approached my golf ball grimacing like a hardened professional. Something was amiss. I picked a few blades of grass sprouting up from the muddy, thawed-out slush and absently cast them heavenward. My worst fears were confirmed: a crisp left-to-right breeze that could make mince meat of my hacker’s slice. I would have to compensate. Assuming my stance, I took a breath, took one final look at my target, toggled my club slightly and swung. The shot rose deftly above the trees on the college quad, a lone satellite against the grayish April sky.

The ball cascaded to earth, ricocheted wildly off the blacktop path, and settled on a faraway patch of grass across from the library. I exchanged a celebratory high five with my friend and fellow golfer, Joe. Not bad! I was only about 15 yards from the “hole” (my windbreaker) and although I had required some assistance from the surrounding environment, I could easily make par with a decent chip on my next shot.

We were engaged in the rogue enterprise of golfing on the quad after dinner. It was our traditional homage to the end of winter, our yearly salute to earth’s reawakening. It also was a rebellious cry for attention. How many off-kilter shots could we hit without causing serious consternation and dismay to our classmates streaming into the adjacent library? How many times could we deliver a glancing blow to a nearby building without shattering a window? How long before we found ourselves face-to-face with the dean, having to answer the question, “What in the name of Tiger Woods were you thinking?”

But winter was beginning to relent, and we felt this deserved some recognition. As denizens of the great state of Maine know all too well, spring is an understated late comer. After the marigold tones and lush reflection of autumn pass, winter settles in for months on end with all the swirling cold and artic bombast that can be imagined. Spring is then but a blip in the seasonal ocean before the expansive yawn of summer. Like your misfit cousin at a family reunion, spring in Maine is scruffy, doesn’t have much to say, and slips out the door without saying good-bye.

Your average college student has a fine-tuned nose for the end of winter. Especially in Maine. Perhaps more than any other demographic, the college student possesses a certain mystical sensory perception that months of dark, chilly somnolence are about to break. Wearing beach sandals through charcoal-colored slush and yapping incessantly about the fortune of the upcoming Red Sox season may not directly bring about winter’s demise. But the increase in activity in the middle of any campus is certainly a leading indicator that it’s time to “think spring.” Joe and I were simply trying to do our part, to open the floodgates as it were. Perhaps another intrepid group of outdoors-people would observe our round of golf, and head out for some Frisbee, or a game of catch. We knew that as the weather improved, droves of students would lol-lygag for hours napping, reading, and chatting away the afternoon. That was the easy work. Joe and I were willing to do the heavy lifting to get the ball rolling, to sing the siren song of spring. Even if it required turning the highest traffic area at school into a temporary driving range.

Living in Southern California now, I don’t have to worry about waiting for the deep freeze to break. I can golf anytime I please without worrying about frost heaves. But for East Coast transplants like me, this is somewhat bittersweet. We’re used to “toughing” out winter, to “surviving” until spring. In our past lives, springtime was a well-deserved reward. Lasting through the winter months was a true test of character. Or so we thought.

Maybe it’s high time we got over ourselves. After all, living through crummy weather for eight months of the year does-n’t prove anything.

But have you ever hit a perfect chip shot out of a melting snow bank? There’s nothing quite like it. (Seth Barnes)

*Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on April 13, 2006.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/041306.pdf?ref=smdp.com)