I ask him how he feels.
"How do I feel?" he groans. "How do I feel? Like a ballplayer at the end of a losing season, playing out his string."
30. Gilligan's Island
, 1:11 p.m.
For the finale we drag ourselves back to Gilligan's Isle. Our three-day cruise seems to have lasted an eternity. Diliberto, who normally thrives in the tropics, plays out his string on the Castaways course with a phlegmatic 50, which is still 10 strokes better than tour-winner Moskowitz, whose front-nine 32 sets a new standard for wretched excess. I card a 53. Astonishingly, after 30 courses and 540 holes, we're all within five strokes of each other.
We shuffle out to the car. I slip behind the steering wheel, turn the key and coast blissfully down the Grand Strand. I slow down on curves. I speed up on straightaways. I narrowly miss a truck stalled in the middle of the road. Like a minigolf ball I, too, am a hapless commuter, propelled by the pitch of the path around me.
"Hey, look!" shouts Diliberto. "I think I see a giant clown up ahead. You think maybe we missed a course?"
We whiz by the polka-dot clown, the lime-green waffle house, the cherry-red motor home and lots of other wacky roadside ticky-tacky. Moskowitz was right. The world is a miniature golf course.