Dawn Patrol

In true Poverty Bay fashion, we celebrated our club’s centennial a year late. A hundred years of history, and somehow we overshot the gross total. No one caught it at first—golf was played, speeches were made, drinks were poured. By the time someone figured it out, the clubhouse had closed. Word got around eventually, but by then it was just another chapter in the club’s lore, right up there with the mystery bunker.

By 2018, another milestone had come around: our 125th jubilee. This time, we had the date right—progress. An email went out to members: How should we celebrate this landmark year? The first suggestion: a barbecue. Oh, for crying out loud! 

Don’t get me wrong—I love a good barbecue as much as the next Kiwi. But 125 years of one of New Zealand’s oldest clubs deserved more than a few sausages on white bread. This was a club with history, with soul—older than all but a handful of clubs in the United States. It had been around long before all of us, and, if we did things right, it would remain long after we were gone. This was a chance to do something significant, to leave a mark.

So, I put forward an idea. A bold one, sure, but one I believed in.

When Captain Cook sailed into Aotearoa’s waters in 1769, his cabin boy, Young Nick, was the first to catch sight of the headlands—the final horizon before the HMS Endeavour came to rest in the bay. In the grand tradition of explorers slapping their own labels on places already rich with names and meaning, they arrived and took it upon themselves to rename it. They could have called it anything. Anything at all. Somehow, they chose Poverty Bay. They took one look at the land, the people, the culture—abundant in nearly every conceivable way—and decided it had nothing to offer. The irony, of course, is that this region has been proving them wrong ever since. 

The name unfortunately stuck, spreading across businesses, schools, rugby teams—and, eventually, our golf club when it was formed more than a century later, in 1893. It wasn’t a name that made you wince, but it never quite sat right, either. The club was always Poverty Bay Golf Club, but the course itself, after a couple early site changes, began as Awapuni Links, reflecting the Māori name for the stream running through it and the area where it lies. Somewhere along the way, however, “Awapuni” fell off the scorecard, and it became widely referred to as “Poverty Bay Golf Course.”

One hundred and twenty-five years in, it was time to set that right.

My home, Tairāwhiti/Gisborne, sits within Poverty Bay on the far eastern point of New Zealand’s North Island. Its unique location means that our city is the first in the world to see the sun each day. As such, our links at Awapuni—not any of the much more well-known links of Scotland—is the first to greet each new dawn. First to see the light, first to celebrate with sausages.

We don’t claim to have a Picasso, but we know we have a true golf course—not some highly manufactured, over-groomed operation with posh members and bougie entry gates, but something raw and real. Farm-style fences, likely remnants of a time when they were needed to keep the livestock out, continue to mark the land. The course is part of the community, a place where dogs are walked, roosters crow their persistent anthem, chainsaws harmonize with the neighboring airport runway, and the thunderous rumble of logging trucks drifts over the dunes. It’s chaotic and unpolished, but get me out with a single strap and enough bats to get the job done, and I’m right at home.

There’s a serenity at twilight, a familiar stillness I’ve come to love. It’s the time of day when I’ll often spot my father-in-law carrying a wedge and a bag to collect pine cones while walking his pooch, Toby. Surf culture infuses everything—salty sandals scattered around the car park, sand lingering in the grooves of my wedges, quiet fairways when the swell is on. Looks simple enough at first glance, but every lie tells a different story. It’s a flat property without a flat stance, except for the 18 tee boxes. Make that 17—the sixth has always been on tilt. 

Despite the club’s low-key nature—no strict tee bookings, no dress code (gum boots not uncommon), and a greens fee best categorized as loose change—our course holds its own. The bones of a true links are there, hidden beneath a few too many trees that get a bit bigger each year. It’s barely changed over the decades, although a bunker magically appeared on the edge of the 16th fairway one dry spring. Club legend says that it began as an unrepaired divot, gradually growing until it demanded a rake.

I’m proud of this place. The conditioning still carries its surprises—miss the fairway, and you’re wrestling with the rat’s tail grass, a nasty leveler where locals have mastered hard-earned escape routes while visitors hopelessly get their hosels tangled. Despite limited resources, a greens team of just three strong, and a constant call for volunteers, our track can dial up to championship conditions in a matter of days, ready to humble the best.

Just ask Stuart Appleby, who held the course record for more than two decades. On my travels working in golf media and TV, I ran into him and had a burning question. His round of 66 strokes from our course’s tips, set during the 1991 New Zealand Amateur, had been framed on the clubhouse wall for years—a treasured relic of my junior days, studied with equal parts awe and curiosity. I took the opportunity to ask him about it. He laughed and let me in on a messy secret: He’d been battling an upset stomach that week and, regrettably, had a very low ability to fart with confidence. On his way off the 18th to sign his card, he soiled his pants. Turns out, the fastest way off a golf course is to set the course record. 

As Appleby so perfectly demonstrated, our place is a contradiction. Casual but elite. Scrappy but sacred. And that’s exactly why it deserved more than just a barbecue for its 125th birthday. When the club put out that email asking for celebration ideas, I saw an opportunity.

My pitch was simple: The club could stay as Poverty Bay Golf Club for tradition’s sake, but the course itself deserved to reclaim its rightful name, Awapuni Links. We didn’t need to rewrite history or ruffle too many feathers. Dual names aren’t unusual here; the water is referred to as Tūranganui-a-Kiwa/Poverty Bay. I listed a further catalog of examples for extra oomph. Why not us?

I’d taken my swing, but I wasn’t exactly pulling the strings at the club, so I didn’t hold out much hope. From the rumblings I heard, there were hesitations. Too hard, they said. There’d be pushback, no doubt—especially from the old guard, who’d known it as Poverty Bay Golf Course since metal spikes and kilties.

Then, a few weeks later, while I was away on business, word came through: “You’ll be happy to know the club has decided to move forward with a name change to the course—or rather, a return to the original.” Back to the future we went. Awapuni Links was back. 

Not a complete rebrand, not the full removal of “Poverty Bay” (not yet, anyway), but a meaningful step forward. A one-up win. And I’ll take that over a gathering around the grill any day.

I’ve spent my life moving—a transient human and wayfaring golfer, working in the auld game, chasing courses across the world. Like plenty before me, I’ve been lucky enough to tee it up at some of the greats, even the Home of Golf. But there’s only one home of golf for me.

Out east, we’re perched at the edge of the world, where the mainland surrenders to the South Pacific. Renowned surf breaks, golden sands and gusting winds. Scorching summers morph into cyclone seasons—but the old girl always pulls through. She’s taken a pounding in recent years; life on a Pacific island means you get used to biblical rain and the scars it leaves behind. But she can handle her drinks, steady as ever after every downpour. It’s not a dropped pin you’ll find on the regular tourist trail, and that’s how we like it.

It’s the type of home that only a golfer knows. It’s not just the history, or because I played a small role in nudging it back toward its rightful name. It’s something deeper that I share with so many others and their clubs. Maybe it’s the way I can still feel my 13-year-old self here—sneaking balls from Mr. Keast’s trundler (my best mate’s old man forever oblivious), slipping out of school assembly for legendary putting competitions, biking down with my mates and squeezing in five holes over lunch. Maybe it’s the fact that my daughter might one day do the same.

And, like any home, it’s not just about the comfort. It’s about the heartache, too. This place has had its fair share—unexpected lost balls, shaved edges, dreams that never quite made it past the lip. They’re all buried somewhere under these mellow dunes. But maybe—just maybe—there’s an ace out there with my name on it. Or par might finally show me some mercy. 

A wooden, picnic-style bench rests on the 17th tee, engraved with “125th Jubilee”—a quiet nod to our long history, without too much fanfare. Just our style. A good spot to catch the first light, enjoy a sausage or admire the club’s latest unique fundraising effort: a sweet-potato patch thriving just beyond the tee.

By the 150th, we might finally take that last step and rename the club properly—Tairāwhiti Golf Club, perhaps. I have no doubt many will still debate whether it’s worth the hassle. Either way, I’ll be here for it. 

Until then, we’ll have the barbecue ready and the reminders set. This time, we won’t get the date wrong.