Cypress Point: This Golf Paradise is Heaven on Earth

Cypress Point Club is likely the purest golfing experience you’ll ever have – if you can score an invitation.

And that’s the tricky part. I somehow found myself standing on the first tee last week. How I got there is neither interesting nor important. But what I experienced at Cypress Point was nothing short of golfing heaven on earth.

A few paces from the 17th tee box at Cypress Point, nestled among the plump ice plants, lies the only plaque on the entirety of the course. It doesn’t mark a particular shot or event. It’s just a short quote. And despite the illustrious membership and countless celebrities, statesmen, and bon vivant who’ve teed it up at Cypress Point, you probably don’t know the author.

It reads:

"“Gentleman, I suggest that we pause for a moment, admire the beautiful view and count our blessings. Very few of us are privileged to pass this way.”Boney’s Pulpit. The 17th Tee.– Clarke W. Bearden 1911-1998"

As you survey the view back to the shoreline from that spot, you see the most beautiful three-hole stretch in golf. The two par-3s to the left and the glorious 17th to the right. In the distance up the hill, obscured by ageless Cypress trees, sits the modest clubhouse. On your left, right, and behind you, giant waves pound the cliff walls, seals bark in the distance, and the Pacific cascades over the horizon.

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It’s other-worldly.

These three holes – the 15th, 16th, and 17th – make Cypress Point the most beautiful golf course in the world. The debate is over. Save your breath.

But these are simply the crescendo to an operatic experience that starts before you leave your car.

The entrance is easy to miss. There are no gates, no security guards. There’s just an unassuming 3×3 wooden sign that reads,

CYPRESS POINT CLUB – MEMBERS ONLY

Where Augusta has Magnolia Lane, Cypress Point has an unintentional speed bump as 17 Mile Drive gives way to a modest entrance and parking lot. The clubhouse looks like a nicely kept ranch home. The pro shop could fit in a coat closet. The Men’s locker room could fit in an attic. Everything is impossibly quaint and perfectly coiffed. A caddy pointed us to the front desk to check-in. There were exactly six other golfers there.

Our caddies looked like they just happened to walk by and decided to make a loop. There were no pressed white coveralls. Not even a bib. They just walked up, introduced themselves, and asked if there was anything we needed.

My partners that day were friends from my home club in Kansas City. One of our group, Gary, had played Cypress Point before. The rest of us – Pat, Jake, and I – were newbies. I tried not to touch anything.

I had to go to the bathroom before the round but decided against using the locker room in fear I might break something. Better to wander off into the woods of an inland hole. That seems ridiculous now but made perfect sense to me at the time.

And then we were off. It’s tough to rekindle the feelings and emotions of youth – especially at 48-years old. I’d long forgotten the feeling of Christmas morning as a child, still believing the big fat guy had just come down my chimney, eaten my cookies, and left me a stack of toys.

Standing on the first tee at Cypress may be the last time in my life I recapture that feeling long hibernating inside me for some 40 years. Middle-aged men don’t get giddy very often. I was giddy. We all were.

Our caddies, Brennan and Kevin, had a combined 77 years of experience at Cypress Point. They weren’t old, they’d just discovered – many years ago – that walking Cypress Point a few times a week, carrying a couple of bags, and enjoying the company of Presidents, celebrities, titans of industry, and sundry other dignitaries was a pretty good gig.

My group was none of those. My dog doesn’t even know who I am half the time.

I’d like to think our veteran caddies got a kick out of our wonderment at the place. They likely won’t carry for a more anonymous foursome than ours this season. We took Southwest Airlines, not a G5, to get there.

I’ll spare you the hole-by-hole breakdown. Suffice it to say the course is wonderfully maintained. The fact that we were one of five groups to play the entire day tells you every fairway and green is immaculate. The bunkers are, too. I had the opportunity to inspect more than my share throughout the day.

Our group played “Flips” – a game where each player flips a coin after their tee shot. Heads play with heads, tails with tails. On the off-chance everyone is the same, you play solo against the others.

I relay this because, even when I lost a hole, I was high-fiving the winner, fist-bumping the caddy, and giggling like a little kid. We all were. It’s that kind of experience. There is something inebriating about Cypress Point. It’s in the air and rises from the turf. On the day we played – 70 degrees and crystal clear – we were happily drunk on the stuff.

Crossing 17 Mile Drive to get our first glimpse of the closing stretch along the shore cliffs felt like entering a different plane of reality. It was like Field of Dreams when Shoeless Joe comes out of the corn. I had the same look on my face as he did. I didn’t know where to look first. Every angle along my sightline was impossibly, inconceivably… perfect.

Our wives joined us to walk in the last three holes. I played my worst golf along that stretch. When I saw her, I was a bit frustrated and it showed on my face.

One look at me and she said, “Stop being a poopie-pants. Look where you are!”

There is a reason Pros don’t employ their wives as their sports psychologists. But she was right. She usually is. I snapped out of it quickly, even as I snap-hooked my next drive.

On the 18th green, we all hugged and let out a big exhale like we’d been holding our collective breath for four hours. We were “Cypress Brothers” now. Each time we see the other at our club in KC, we’ll immediately think of that day we spent together at Cypress Point. It will bond us forever.

The Pro Shop guy, Riley, treated us as if we were long-time members. He seemed tickled by how excited we all were. He sincerely thanked me for blowing a mortgage payment on Cypress Point swag. If I’d had immediate access to my child’s college fund – and the use of a U-Haul truck – I’d have bought the whole place.

Then it was time to go.

There’s an unwritten rule at Cypress Point for guests. After your round, you can buy some stuff, use the locker room (if you dare), and leisurely make your way to the car. But lingering too long is frowned upon. And once you leave, you can’t re-enter. That’s it, you’re done.

Field of Dreams, indeed.

I doubt I’ll ever play there again. And that might be for the best. Only a few days since I left, I’m still feeling my Cypress Point buzz. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a lightweight. It feels right that I had my one day in the sun, among friends, the course to ourselves, the sun shining, the wind refreshing but not harsh, and the most gorgeous piece of golfing real estate in the world beneath my spikes.

I want another crack at Cypress Point, but I don’t need it.

Next. The Golfing Bucket List: Add Whistling Straits to Your List Right Now. dark

“I suggest that we pause for a moment, admire the beautiful view and count our blessings. Very few of us are privileged to pass this way.”

Boney was right. And taking the time to do just that made all the difference.

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