San Felipe, California slept in until the parade of saxophone ghosts grew impossible to ignore.
After a breakfast of tetelas, huevos rancheros and chilaquiles, the six oilmen were driven to a nearby golf course.
Their clubs were put on carts and the oilmen gathered on the tee of the second hole, an elevated par three.
The tee was 200 yards above the green, stamped onto a ledge protruding from a cliff. They couldn’t see the cart path carved into sandstone. It twisted down a sheer escarpment to the green and from there to a valley below.
The man who had been in the shotgun seat of the van the night before awaited them at the tee box.
“If you are fortunate enough to land on the green, you go home. You’ll be back in California for lunch. Should you miss, you remain here as our esteemed guest.”
The pin placement was back right. Each of the oilmen decided to play to the middle.
Across the border in San Felipe, California, the parade of saxophone ghosts marched into a long-shuttered saloon and took their usual seats at a long-forgotten bar.
