Chuck, I grew up in a fishing village of subsistence hunting with poachers as mentors and every shot had to count. They were good shots and a rally started with letting the ducks land in the tollers and "wait until they bring their heads together" to sluice as many as we could.
Gunning from tubs in the open ocean for Christmas meat was really something, nothing to bring in 125 sea ducks at a time--- mostly whitewings and scoters. In the harbour shooting from blinds, if a bird was crippled with the first or last rally we shoved off the skiff to finish it, every bird was retrieved. No matter what.
I may err in retrospect, a frailty of old men I guess, but looking back nearly 70 years I realize that I haven't had the pleasure of knowing such a breed of sportsmen since, compared to the gang today of sky busters, no dogs for retrieval, damned steel, letting cripples get away. Sportsman, bah!
There was another thing about those I grew up with before I went off to the big city as a pimply-faced kid. They were safe to gun with, pinched together in a rock blind, in a tub on the heaving Atlantic, crawling behind, snaking through brush and grass to get a shot on an exposed point.
Now I spend the best part of the first hunt or two looking sideways at a new comer to the party with get-up right off Cabela's cover. Only rarely do they not scare the pants off me. My village cousin/poacher was acclaimed best shot on our Eastern Shore, his last 40 years as consummate sportsman; I delivered his eulogy.
Last edited by King Brown; 01/15/10 11:58 PM.
