There was further consolation in the cosseting luxury of the Inn, but, alas, I had to fly out the next morning. I remembered, however, my first encounter with Pete Dye's masterpiece, the 17th hole. I looked out at the green, surrounded by sand, Pete's signature railroad ties, and Lowcountry marsh and thought: "No way. I plunked down a ball, pulled out a seven iron and was so relaxed by the surety of that ball being lost that I knocked it stiff. Easiest birdie I ever made.