The Masters treasures you find on a kayak through Rae’s Creek

AUGUSTA, Ga. — If you’re hoping to earn a glimpse of Masters glory, everybody knows you’re best served keeping your drives away from Rae’s Creek.

But what about your boats?

“Why on earth do you want to go to Rae’s Creek?” Our kayak instructor, Debbie, asked on Tuesday morning in Augusta, Ga., with an eyebrow cocked.

In Debbie’s defense, we did not have a convincing answer. Outside of the Olympic Swimming Pool, Rae’s Creek might be the most fearsome body of water in professional sports. Over the last 88 years, it has starred in more Masters lowlights than any other character, its soul-crushing properties rendering a near-mythical quality of doom. The water is no more than five feet wide at its furthest point, but it pulses with a magnetic current, sucking golf balls (and golfers) to their untimely demise like a Dyson vacuum.

Debbie seemed to be telling us what we already knew: Any effort to climb into Rae’s Creek was, at its core, imperiled. But we seemed to be telling her we didn’t care.

“Are you guys experienced kayakers?” Debbie asked.

“Yes,” I responded. (I wasn’t.)

“Good,” Debbie said. “Because you’re gonna have to paddle upstream, and it’s gonna take you about an hour.”

This, dear reader, was the first time I questioned the merits of our crankpot scheme to journey into the most famous river in golf. But as I felt my feet turn cold standing over a “participant release of liability and assumption of risk” form, Debbie turned to me with a strange metal object and smiled.

“Come here honey,” she said. “I feel like I need to give you one of these things so you can pick up some golf balls.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing on the shore of Lake Olmstead, less than a mile from Augusta National, and sizing up two open-seated kayaks resting against a boat launch.

“Well,” I said, turning to my colleague Darren Riehl and uttering the words that have greeted bad decisions since the beginning of time.

“I guess we’re really doing this.”

We lowered ourselves into our kayaks and set out for the other side of the lake, which narrowed into an overpass, and then another overpass, until the water was little more than 20 feet wide and less than three feet deep. We banked a corner and then, suddenly, it hit us: We were paddling in the middle of the most famous creek in golf.

It was a beautiful spring day in Augusta, Ga., warm and blue — and though recent rainfall had raised the water level on the area’s various rivers and streams, conditions were downright peachy for a paddle. (This was lucky, because we didn’t know the first thing about the water level in the greater Augusta area, and we hadn’t considered what a day of heavy rainfall might have done to our dreams of estuary exploration — to say nothing of our clothes.) We charged upstream past a row of houses until the only things surrounding us were a series of low-hanging branches and trees, and a crop of high grass on either side of the river.

We’d been paddling for a half-hour when a noise interrupted us. It was a roar. A Masters roar. And it was audible all the way down here. I began to wonder how many Masters memories had played to an audience of only snapping turtles in this peaceful corner of Augusta, but only for a moment. The current was picking up now, and we were growing closer to a heavy thicket of creekside trees which seemed to be blocking our passage.

We arrived at the trees to find a surprising development on the other side. It was a golf course, just not the one we wanted. Like Augusta National, its next door neighbor Augusta Country Club has a handful of holes running alongside Rae’s Creek, and unlike Augusta National, security here can turn a blind eye to pleasant paddlers. It is possible, and in fact quite lovely, to enjoy an evening kayak straight onto the Course Next Door. We circled here briefly, but from the looks of the golfers approaching us, we were wearing thin our welcome.

It was no matter, we were 150 yards from the 11th green at Augusta National, and maybe 200 from the Hogan Bridge. We paddled out into the open, where at least three foursomes were visible, and came to a curve in the river that would be the endpoint of our journey. There, within our view, were two overpasses: the first, guiding golfers to the green at ACC, and the second, keeping the rest of the world removed from Augusta National.

News

Some later googling revealed there was a third overpass, on the other side of the fence. We were told this is where club security keeps watch — but it is mostly performative. The current coming off Rae’s Creek from the 11th green would overpower an Olympic kayaker (which Darren and I were not). Our far-fetched dreams of an Augusta National heist-by-boat were dashed.

We turned back, our aching muscles relieved to be moving downstream, and headed toward the lake. But we were still missing something: A souvenir. I kept my eyes trained on the water as we floated, but I’d started to give up hope as we got further downstream. Our chance to find a golf ball had been there, at ACC, not down here with the high grass and snapping turtles.

Then, out of nowhere, I saw it: A flash of white against the green water and the brown riverbed. I plunged my hand into Rae’s Creek and pulled out the ball with an unmistakeable logo adorning the side: The green Augusta National members logo.

Darren and I thought we were lucky, but the truth was that we were not. Later, we would learn from Debbie that golf balls stamped with the ANGC logo are a frequent find on this side of Rae’s Creek.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised. This is the legacy of Rae’s Creek. Not as a friendly visitor, not as a gentle brook, but as an omen of doom. Rae’s Creek steals these dreams — often in Pro V1 form — upstream, and deposits them here, where the snapping turtles and the geese and, yes, the kayakers can find them.

As we paddled back toward the boat launch, I looked at my golf ball and grinned. As it turned out, you could wind up in Rae’s Creek and still have a winning Masters gameplan.

You just had to learn to float.