Pebble Beach Golf Links - Best Golfing Day in My Life

Gunnar Kobin

Dec 11, 2025

4 min read

Updated: Oct 12

Pebble Beach With My Son

My son has always outdriven me. Since he was sixteen he has kept getting better, while I, with twenty-five years more experience, keep struggling. I have made my peace with it. Mostly.

That is some context worth sharing. In December 2015, after a year of planning and saving, my son and I finally played Pebble Beach, and I remember much more about that December morning than the view and the ocean. I remember the first tee. I remember the ocean and the view, of course, but more than anything I remember knowing that I was about to watch my son play one of the most famous courses in America, and that I had to make my opening drive. It was a strange balancing act. We had earned every right to be there, and it felt good to be at Pebble Beach.

The reliable way to get a tee time is to stay at the resort, and our trip included rounds at Spanish Bay and Spyglass Hill before Pebble. People complain that it is a money grab. I thought so too, but after three days of playing the other two courses and thinking about Pebble the whole time, walking up to that first tee was amazing, and it made the round even better.

The waves are a constant reminder that you are right on the ocean, and the sound of them crashing on almost every hole makes the round feel alive. At one point I was standing over a 7-iron and, for a moment, everything went quiet, just me and the club. I kept catching myself staring at the ocean instead of lining up the shot. I know my son saw me do it a few times. "Dad, your turn." Oh, right. Stop daydreaming about the ocean and play golf.

He took pictures on every hole. I admit that bothered me a bit at first, because I like a round to flow, but by the 5th or 6th it didn't matter at all. Where else would you rather be? What could possibly be more important than this? The answer is nothing.

The air smells of salt and kelp and something else I can't quite place. Maybe just the cold, clean wind off the Pacific. I was a disaster at club selection all day, and so was everyone else. The wind kept changing and neither of us could tell whether it would matter on a given shot.

The 4th Nearly Gave Me a Heart Attack

I thought I had hit a good drive. I watched it land, kick left and start a slow roll towards the edge of the cliff. I was still standing on the tee with my driver, hoping it would stop. It did. Just barely. My son didn't say anything for a second, just gave me that look, and then said: "You got SO lucky." What can I say? I am very aware.

Playing 7 and 8 Back to Back Is Ridiculous

The 7th is a par 3 of barely more than 100 yards, and although it should be easy in theory, it is genuinely terrifying. There are rocks below the tee, the ocean right beside it throwing spray, the wind blowing and a tiny green where missing is far worse than it looks. Everyone looks at it and reaches for a wedge. It is a wedge hole. Knowing that does nothing for your nerves. My son went first and of course hit the green. I stood there trying to calm my racing mind, because I badly wanted to match him, and somehow I hit a decent shot onto the green as well. We both two-putted for par. My hands were shaking afterwards. I couldn't believe I had been that nervous over a WEDGE.

Then there is the 8th. You hit a blind tee shot, walk over the rise and find an approach across a massive chasm, with the ocean crashing underneath and the green on the other side, maybe 180 yards away depending on where your drive finished. I think I just stared at it for about a minute. I hit a 5-iron. The swing felt horrible and I still don't know how it found the green, but my son told me it was the best shot I had hit all year, and I told him it was the best I had hit in my life.

The 18th

Finally, the 18th, the most iconic finishing hole in golf. A par 5 with the ocean down the left that you hear the whole way. No tournament, no money on it, just your own pride, and the pressure is still immense. You know these are the last shots you will hit at Pebble, and you want them to be good ones.

We both made par. Nothing special, two putts each, no heroics. It didn't matter at all. As we walked off the green my son put his arm around my shoulders and said, "We did it, Dad," and it choked me up. I couldn't speak. I just nodded, because it was true.

What I Actually Remember

When I think of Pebble Beach now, the first thing that comes to mind isn't the ocean, the 8th or even the near-disaster on the 4th. It is the two of us carrying our own bags, because we had agreed that walking every hole was the only proper way to do it, even if my knees started protesting around the 12th. It is the fist bumps after the good shots, the pained faces after the bad ones, and him whispering "nice shot" when he thought I couldn't hear. It is the 7th tee, with the wind coming off the rocks, looking over at him and having one of those moments when your mind goes completely clear and you think: this is it. This is what I wanted.

More than Pebble itself, what I had wanted for more than twenty years was to play it with him. That is the memory. That is the day. The greatest round you can play has never really been about the score, the handicap or finding fairways. It was about walking every yard of the most famous course in America with my son. Not many dads get to do that. I won't forget it.