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Mulak Reader - Naming of Sawbuck PointThis one appeared in Gray’s Journal, then was reprinted a half-dozen times in various places, including a collection called “The Best of Gray’s.” It’s a funny story, true, but it fairly accurately details sea duck hunting. Like all the really good ones, this story holds back the punch line until the very last line. THE NAMING OF SAWBUCK POINT
Sylvia's mother Says Sylvia's busy, Too busy to come to the phone... Doctor Hook
We leaned into the wind as we walked back across the sand flat. It seemed no matter how we twisted around and ducked our faces behind our hat visors, there was no escaping the sting of the blowing sand in the January wind. Finally, John stopped and unslung the load of eiders from his shoulder and pulled the hood of his parka over his head. He tightened the drawstring until there was only a tiny opening around his eyes. I followed suit. It was when we started off again that we first noticed the car parked next to my brother's old Blazer far ahead of us, and the person standing next to it watching us through binoculars. Earlier, the trip out to the beach had gone much easier. In the pre-dawn darkness the wind had been at our backs, and all that we carried were our shotguns. Without all our usual duck hunting equipment, John's dog must have thought we were just out for an early jaunt along the beach. I should say here that one of the attractions waterfowling holds for me is all the nifty paraphernalia connected with the sport; camouflaged boats and decoys and blinds and canvas bags full of "stuff", all of it the heavy-duty kind, guaranteed never to let you down. I like it all. But it's refreshing to go pass shooting every so often where none of the above is necessary—Just hunker down and blast away and have a ball. And bring plenty of shells. Eiders, being true sea ducks, have a disinclination to fly over land. They will usually take the long way around a sand spit or a breakwater if it means they can remain over water. Predictably, they were following the surf line around our gunning point as they funneled through a narrows on their way into a little bay. For this sort of pass shooting we didn't need a real blind, just a place to blend into the beachscape. Beached ice floes had made for perfect hiding places in times past, but the morning's wind and tide had combined to completely clear the shore of ice. There were a few pieces of eroded salt marsh on the point, looking like great hunks of sod. They put us farther from the water's edge than we would have liked to be, but we crouched behind them and waited. Unlike hunting for blacks and other "civilized" ducks, there is a certain prehistoric aspect to eider shooting, founded in the not-remote possibility that we might actually be the first humans ever seen by these ducks. It must be something like what all waterfowling was like a century ago. Some flights stayed farther out over deep water, but most cut the corner sharply and passed right in front of us, just a few feet above the breakers as they fought the wind. It was easy to pick out the strikingly black-and-white drakes from the drab hens and v-neck-sweatered immatures, but much tougher to hit them in the conditions of high wind and maximum range. They're far from wary, but they do have something of a collective instinct that will cause a flock to ease away from the beach if we were up and moving around as they approached. Deliberate and in cadence, their formations paraded by. When we'd spill one of the big birds the rest of the passing flock wouldn't flare off—Indeed, the other eiders hardly missed a wing beat. Rather, like the 18th century soldiers they so reminded me of, they would simply close ranks and push onward. Fife and drum music would not have been out of place. Despite the cold, despite the wind, despite the blowing sand that turned our automatics into single-shot guns that complained "Clean me!" in a gritty voice each time the action was worked, despite my needing nearly two boxes of shells to take seven ducks, despite my having to put up with my brother singing snatches of "Sylvia's Mother" all morning long—Despite all that, I managed to have a wonderful time. There is something rare and spectacular about duck shooting on a clear day, and the sky was the sort of cold blue that goes all the way to the horizon. The morning was full of visual images and Technicolor memories of big ducks and long distances and full choke words like "wallop" and "magnum". On one shot, I dropped a drake in the surf that was down but not out. When John's dog went after him, the duck dived into an oncoming breaker and I could see the duck swimming inside the rising curve of the transparent wave. The birds were plentiful: Enough so that the serious fun that waterfowling usually is, with its long waits between too-few shots, became the whoop-'n-holler sort of fun normally associated with catching pumpkinseeds and plinking rats at the dump. Eiders are big, durable ducks, and in the wind even our tightly-choked loads of fours didn't always kill them outright and we had to chase several. We limited out before ten. At this point I should say something about the table qualities of eiders: They are nonexistent. Eiders are the ducks they were talking about when they made up the "cook 'em with a brick" joke. Once we tried preparing them as dog food, but all we got was a dirty look from John's retriever. But if you'd like to try them, send me your address. I warn you though, there'll be no backing out: Once I've got your name, you've got my eiders. "Who's that?" I had to raise my voice to be heard in the wind. John squinted a fast look at the person who had parked next to his rusted-out Blazer and shook his head. We plodded on toward the foot of the beach road, walking the Neanderthal-like walk of wader-wearers everywhere. In spite of the recent popularity of camouflage clothes and all things outdoor, we hardly looked like a page out of a fashion magazine; Our parkas were tattered and bleached-out from one too-many seasons on the salt marshes, our guns looked the way once-lovely guns always do after spending a few hours near salt water, our noses were running, and even John's dog was fighting off a late-season case of the mange. As we approached the parking area it became clear that the person who had been watching us was a middle-aged woman, and that she was very unhappy about something: Her frown radiated anger from 100 yards away. As if in juxtaposition to our appearance, she was nattily dressed in an expensive-looking trench coat with a matched set of Icelandic wool accessories. And, conspicuous by its absence was the duck blood, sand, and feathers we both wore. Even her Saab seemed to make John's old duck hunting car seem all the more dilapidated. We stepped across the wire cable at the road's end and she came forward and lit into John: "You men are a disgrace! I've been watching you. There is no useful purpose in killing eider ducks. I should turn you both in! I even saw that one..." She pointed at me, but I didn't look. "...kill a duck that the dog retrieved by slamming its head on his gun butt. You're a disgrace! Both of you! Eiders are peaceful ducks..." She pronounced "eider" with a long "e", but other than that she was right: My shooting had been disgraceful. And maybe I should be reported: If the guys at the skeet club ever found out how lousy I'd shot, they'd ban me to the trap range forever. We were in every way legitimate; in season, within the limits, legally licensed, sufficiently stamped, properly plugged, earnest, square, and forthright—even if we didn't look it. But hunters everywhere are on the defensive when they encounter someone like the Binocular Lady. I muttered a little prayer of thanks that she had cornered John and not me. Then I snuck around and opened the tailgate of the old Blazer through the broken rear window and piled both shoulder-loads of ducks into the back. Right on the top, one of the eiders had his tongue protruding from his beak at a right angle, almost in a cartoon imitation of a duck that was down for the count. Another looked like we'd bludgeoned him to death. I closed the tailgate quickly. Understand that my older brother is the sort of fellow who is so quiet that at times he seems to be killing time, waiting for something else to happen. I'm usually the one who asks permission to hunt or talks with game wardens or makes inquiries. He owns a restaurant and should get used to dealing with people. At least, that's what I told myself as I cowered in the car, not daring to glance at the abusive scene playing outside the side window. Right around the time I was beginning to seriously contemplate driving off by myself, John got in. He turned the ignition key (He leaves the keys in the Blazer, hoping someone will steal the old heap.) and slid a ten-dollar bill behind the overhead visor. He spoke without looking at me. "Don't say a word. Just look straight ahead." I didn't and I did. We drove off. A quarter of a mile down the road John took a corner and pulled to the shoulder. "Listen to this..." He turned to me and the expression on his face contained the boyish delight I recalled from long ago—a look reminiscent of a time when little boys shared great secret plots and jokes together. He nearly giggled. "We'll have to give this sawbuck to DU, but you should have seen the look on that woman's face! Did you see it? It was great!" "What?" I held up my hand. "I don't know what you're talking about." "This..." He held out the ten-dollar bill. "That woman gave it to me—I mean, gave it to me, for Chrissake!" He laughed out loud. "Why?" "Why? Because she thought we were poor or on relief or something. She said, 'I wish it could be more.' Why weren't you watching? It was beautiful!" He laughed again. I was certain I had missed something in the conversation. "Wait a minute: The last I heard, she was calling you a 'wanton murderer', for God's sake. Now, I'm well aware we both look like ragamuffins, but it's a big jump from being a murderer to being somebody a do-gooder gives money to. What the hell did you say to her?" "I said..." He paused for effect, trying to look smug, but ruined it when he started giggling. "I said, 'Honestly, Lady, me and my retarded brother there only shoot enough to feed our family.'"
This site was last updated 09/21/06 |
