duck!

“Living in the moment”, first cousin once removed of meditation is another one of those notions I don’t fully buy. Live in the moment just a tad too long and you could get hit by a bus. That said, there have been a few times when I truly did live in the moment, like it or not.

The OB&C is a dedicated duck hunter and back in the day, once a season he would drag me out to experience the thrill of getting up at 2am, dressing for the antarctic in camo, loading up the truck, driving an hour to god knows where downriver from new orleans, hauling the skiff out of the boat shed, loading it up with a bag of decoys large enough to make santa’s sack look like a kelly bag, one very excited retriever, several guns, a shell bucket and enough shotgun shells to decimate every duck in the central flyway, paddles, a thermos of something to take the chill off (preferably 90 proof), life preservers (although frankly if I fell into that water, life preserver or not, I’d expire tout de suite from hypothermia and sheer terror), then jockeying for position at the launch, getting the thing into the water, and very slowly motoring through the marsh in total darkness in a dinky boat equipped with a motor called a go devil that looks like something a blind person assembled in his garage. After about half an hour, frozen to near death, we then pull into a clump of marsh grass wherein lies the duck blind. Depending on the tide, the wind or the weather, it’s either a few inches under water or a foot or more. Here we disembark, unload the gear onto whatever area is driest, if any. I am tasked with arranging the gear, guns, wet dog, etc. in the blind while the OB&C heads out to set the decoys. Sunrise is not to be seen. He returns, hides the boat and as the poem says, “we sit and shake and shiver waiting for the flight to start.” Well I’ll tell you one thing I was definitely living in every single one of those goddam moments.

And if the flight should appear, we crouch down hoping the the decoys lure them in and they set their wings and he blasts away. Our retriever is whimpering in anticipation, and at the signal, marks the location of the downed duck and launches into the water, living her best day ever. I, on the other hand, am slumped in a corner of the blind, certain that today of all days, dawn will never fully break and I will end my life, sodden, in unattractive and ill-fitting camouflage, clutching a thermos of everclear.

But back in the heyday of gentlemen’s hunting in louisiana, the OB&C’s father would take us to one of several exclusive hunting clubs around the marshes of south louisiana to which he was invited. He was an exceptionally charming man, an academic dean beloved by both the wealthy and the hoi polloi. At the time I really did not fully appreciate the experience. I had never hunted ducks and assumed that a well appointed camp, and a staff of servers, cooks and guides were de rigueur. What a fool I was, what a silly little fool. We were ferried to the camp the night before the hunt, where we were assigned bedrooms and given time to “dress” for dinner. After dinner was a poker game, and I stayed and played with our host and the other guests. I think they were somewhat surprised to see a very young woman in their midst, but it has been my experience that there’s nothing more old horndogs enjoy than a feisty young woman in the mix, especially one who knows nothing about poker and needs a good bit of “hands on” instruction.

Come time to hunt, we were awakened by a servant with demitasse cups of black coffee and chicory and assigned our boats and guides. We were then transported to our blinds where the decoys had been set out and once we were settled, the guide called in the ducks. After we shot our limit we were carted back to the club house where a beautiful breakfast was served. As we left we were given a sack of plucked and cleaned ducks. Honey chile, if mama’s gonna hunt ducks that’s how I want to do it.

Ah, those were the glory days, but little did we know it. Ducks may not be the brightest creatures on earth but they know enough that if it’s like miami beach in manitoba they don’t need to fly a thousand miles south to stay warm. Now no matter the level of genteel extravagance of the hunting clubs, they ain’t no ducks. The washing away of the marsh and the changing salinity of the water from saltwater diversion canals and hurricanes has made south louisiana a less than desirable destination for both ducks and duck hunters.

Addendum: south louisianians have their own names for various duck species: french duck, black duck, smiling mallard, d’eau gris, grey duck, and poule d’eau…hunters out there, you figure it out.