I knew something was wrong when the birds stopped singing over Via de la Valle and the gardeners started speaking in hushed tones usually reserved for water restrictions and suspicious ADU requests.
At first, the rumor arrived in its natural Rancho form…not as information but as landscaping. The dude who trims my hedges that give me some privacy from the golf course leaned over and asked, “Did you hear?”
No details. No names. Just, “Did you hear?”
By noon it had become a 37-comment thread with seventeen “following” replies, one retired hedge fund manager demanding civility, and one woman insisting this never would have happened before the eucalyptus committee lost control in 2018.
By 3:00 PM someone had created a Google Sheet. By sunset it had a suffix.
Not scandal. Not controversy. No…just…
MICKELSON-GATE.
Because Rancho Santa Fe does not experience incidents. Rancho Santa Fe experiences Gates. Private Gates. Guard Gates. Bill Gates. Heaven’s Gate. Silvergate.
That thing with the peacocks. Don’t ask.
And now…Mickelson-Gate.
The reports say there was an allegation, an investigation, and then a departure. Which in Rancho language translates roughly to: “The vibes at pickleball became impossible.”
But this is not merely a story about one golfer. No. This is about the fragile ecosystem of private clubs. You think these places are golf courses. Wrong.
They are reptile sanctuaries. Not literal lizards…although, also, literal lizards. I’m talking about the the ancient HOA reptiles who emerge at twilight wearing Tom Ford and discussing architectural compliance with the cold patience of Galápagos tortoises.
They do not speak. They issue statements.
They do not get angry. They “have concerns.”
They do not exile. The “transition” membership.
When the Club Elders move…they move with the speed of tectonic plates and the finality of medieval kings.
One day you are ordering the Cobb salad. The next day your badge no longer opens the gate and Cheryl at reception suddenly addresses you as “Sir.”
That’s how you know. Not the press. Not the lawyers. Rather…it’s when Cheryl says “Sir.”
Meanwhile the gossip at Nick & G’s explodes: “Anyone know if this affects tee times?”
“Can we talk about the coyote problem instead?”
“Unrelated but does anyone know a stucco guy?”
By nightfall someone blames Sacramento. Someone blames LIV Golf. Someone else blames cell towers. One guy blames low-flow shower heads.
And somewhere beneath all of it…in the hills…past the olive trees and the impossible property values…you can hear the HOA lizards scratching notes into stone tablets:
RULE 48: THOU SHALT NOT BECOME THE THREAD.
Stay safe, Rancho. Lock your gates. Water only on approved days. And for God’s sake… never make Cheryl call you sir.
Thomas D’Allesandro is a sometime Rancho Santa Fe resident who writes about the small, strange moments where everyday life intersects with the wonderfully unexpected. He remains on good terms with Cheryl, the HOA lizards, and anyone carrying a Google Sheet.