River turf
Marsh fringe hides a dead wall until the ball comes out wet.
Cape Fear lies are rarely clean. A rounded groove that still looked fine on a mat will throw a flyer from the fringe and a knuckle from the sand.
We do not own a marsh. We own a tympan and a memory of how Wilmington grass actually sits: rye in winter, bermuda that goes slick after a lunch rain, live-oak shade that never dries the ball.
If your ticket says you live in the fringe, the depth call gets stricter. Furniture walls on a scoring iron are a wet shot waiting for the next Greenfield evening.