After piling into a Suburban with three duck hunting veterans, I felt very much unprepared as we headed east on I-40 on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Our destination – Cedar Island, North 
Carolina. It was going to be my very first duck hunt and I really didn’t know what to expect. Borrowing most of my gear from these three friends I felt like a freeloader and a fifth wheel, but the relationship and camaraderie that had built up over the past few years with these guys lessened my feelings of ineptitude as we drove into the night.We arrived late and got settled in. By 4:30 the next morning we were up and pulling on waders before loading guns, ammo, and other gear into Ken’s Suburban that would take us to the dock where our guide, David, would take us to our blinds.
It wasn’t cold at all as you might expect in January, but the wind was relentless as we set off for the outer banks and our plywood box home for the next six hours. David had the foresight to construct a “dog box”, a wooden shed on his boat, to protect us from the elements for the 30 minute boat ride. We talked with water flying by the only viewing area at the back of our shelter. It seemed like I was talking only to keep my mind off the growing sickness that comes from riding in those conditions for a prolonged period of time.I felt surprisingly well as we stopped at the first blind. It was still dark, but as I stepped out of the box I saw that our guide already had the decoys out around our blind. We climbed into our blind and loaded up with the anticipation of some action. As light started to appear a lonely sea duck
flew just overhead and just to get the feel of the gun I pulled up and shot at the struggling bird missing painfully high but feeling the rush of adrenaline. Anticipating more I waited patiently for another chance, but none came before lunch. Ken and I sat for a good bit shielding ourselves from the wind and rain as it seemed every bird knew just how far to keep itself from our range. Still the scenery was beautiful and the time spent talking and laughing was priceless.After lunch we went to the “back bay” and were set up in a shore blind looking out toward the northeast with the sun setting in brilliant fashion behind us. Once again, we failed to experience the rush of a shooting spree despite witnessing the painfully slow advance on our position of a
thousand very cautious ducks. These veteran hunters looked like kids in candy store as the fickle fowl moved toward us but, “unexpectedly,” as they were just coming into our range – they fled.What a letdown. We did manage to bag a few birds before sundown, but I could tell from the hunter’s faces that it wasn’t looked upon as a good day with only five or six birds between four hunters. Just as we were leaving, though, six or seven ducks came within touching distance and landed in the water as if they knew when the shooting curfew was The next day was far more rewarding as we shot our limit before 11:00 am. It was a joy to see grown men smiling like they did when they were little kids. It seems we’ve forgotten how these days.
