Beware the beach massage

By Chris Baldwin

updated 12:53 p.m. ET Dec. 6, 2006

LOS CABOS, Mexico - I thought I knew terror.

I've been turned down for the prom in favor of the strange foreign-exchange student.

I've looked into Dennis Rodman's eyes when he decided that only an impromptu 3 a.m. trip to Tijuana would do.

I've witnessed the depths of “SportsCenter” king Dan Patrick's self-love.

Heck, I've seen Donald Trump's hair up close.

But nothing could prepare me for this. Nothing.

You don't know fear until you find yourself unwittingly walking through a top golf resort wearing nothing but a bathrobe that makes your average hospital gown look like an Iranian chador.

A sudden gust of wind, nay the slightest of ocean breezes — and we're right on the ocean — and some little kid or grandmother from Des Moines could be getting a load of something straight out of “Borat.” Can you imagine if that happens with the things I've written about Michelle Wie? Manic Wie fanatic Ghet Rheel would be flying into Mexico, showing the pure glee that Newman had when he thought he'd caught Jerry in mail fraud.

It was an accident, officer. Really, I didn't mean to flash anyone ...

This is what happens when a golfer-turned-spa guy gets cocky.

Like most self-respecting real golfers, I long viewed those spas that keep popping up at golf resorts the way the kids on “The Wire” view cops. The fancy sweet smells, pastel walls, soothing music — it's all enough to make a hardcore golfer gag.

It's hard for a golfer reared on courses with slope ratings that could make John Wayne cry to wrap his mind around these relaxation shrines.

That was then, this is now. I tried the massage experience — a golfer's massage complete with complex scientific data (i.e. mumbo jumbo) on how it can help your game, but a massage nonetheless. That led to other massages in other sparkling spas.

I tell you, this massage thing is as insidiously addictive as crack.

It starts out with one little massage — research, you know, just to try it — and before you know it you're jonesing for the next, breaking out in cold sweats at the thought that the off-the-beaten-path golf spot you're booked at might not have a spa with a waiting room stocked with gourmet cheeses and crackers.

I recently watched two golf writers from respected publications almost come to slaps over who was going to get the one massage appointment left that day. One was a man, so forget any of that it's-a-girl-thing stereotyping.

Thankfully, it wasn't me. Not that I wasn't secretly jealous of the one who got the appointment.

Along with making you covet your neighbor's stress relief, massages have a way of loosening up your views on that most terrifying type of nudity: your own. I showed up for my first massage in long johns straight from the 1950s, heavy sweats and a bulky winter coat. When the therapist suggested I make myself comfortable, I took off the earmuffs.

By massage three, I rolled in (literally, unfortunately, with that golfer's belly) in my birthday suit — under one of those tasteful, spa-issued thin-mint robes, of course.

This is the spa norm, and it's fine. As long as you don't get upgraded to a beach massage. Then all those spa customs and mores are out the door, and you're just a terrified fool walking into the sunlight, past hundreds of innocent and unsuspecting resort guests and toward (gulp) stairs.

How high is this papier-mache robe going to climb, anyways?

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