The promised day of joy came but there were only two, Paul and
I and Mollie. Mr. Barnes, not terribly pleased at
the small turnout, was kind enough to cajole
his wife into cooking us a sumptuous breakfast
and at 6 AM, on the dot and in
the dark, we were motoring out at
an obscene rate of speed on a skiff that might
have last seen service on the Mekong delta,
into the far reaches of
Currituck sound.
The blind was located southeast of
The blind, like the hunting lodge,
was built initially by Mr. Barnes’ father
after WWI and was continually maintained
and updated by father and son.
Mr. Barnes son continues on with this legacy.
Approximately twelve foot by five the blind was
supported above the water
by six logs and contained three stools,
all the comforts of home-- if you were
a surf in the middle ages,
well, I take that back, it did not have a roof.
The ply board walls were five foot high and
this entire oblong box
plus an extension that contained the Mekong
flyer was covered with pine boughs.
To any flying creatures on the Atlantic Flyway
it must have appeared festive, indeed!
Dawn’s rosy fingered-glow illuminated the
bay and cloudless sky while
Mollie slept and Mr. Barnes set out decoys.
(What rosy finger Dawn used I know not but after
encountering very few
in-season birds I could hazard a guess.)
Decoys, as the name implies,
are set randomly next to the blind in a vain hope
of attracting live waterfowl.
Just like putting a rubber duck in the bath water
to attract all the neighborhood
one year olds for their nightly cleanings.
Both theories seem sound
at the time but as we stood in that blind
more work in welcoming waterfowl
needed to be done.
As if answering my unsaid request
Mr. Barnes sang forth, (read bellowed),
a number of vociferous duck sounds which,
coming from behind and
three inches from my left ear,
scared the absolute poop out of me and
awoke Mollie who thought we were facing
the wrath of Duckzilla and
tried to bound from our cover into the sound.
From somewhere out to the east came a
halfhearted response and then silence.
We were in for a dreaded “bluebird day”.
We encountered some birds just not any
we were allowed to shoot.
A large flock of what Mr. Barnes called
" Canadian Geese”,
landed near by. I suggested we shoot a
few and check passports—If we
found American Geese we would keep them
and let the Canadians wing it away.
No one laughed. A number of fish ducks
paid us a call and black ducks followed by
cormorants or “Watermelon Geese” honked a hello.
Alas, they were all off limits.
Our day went by with alternate long periods
of tranquility and brief
moments of panic, Mollie slept and I
drank coffee. On ce in a great while
we would all stoop down while Mr. Barnes
called to an errant stray on
the horizon to come over for a visit.
Shots welcomed the newcomers but
all was in vain. We missed. A theme was
starting to play out in my mind but I
kept my council. Finally in a moment of
frustration I vowed that the next five ducks
would be allowed to pass our post unmolested.
The Mr. Barnes and Paul both
laughed and claimed they would make
no promise of that sort.
During that discussion five buffleheads,
fair game, flew over our little
cuckoo’s nest and on into the west.
Guns were brought up, too late,
but then duck with a black streak around the
eyes appeared and landed
between the farthest decoys. Paul and Mr. Barnes
blasted away but the shot
patterns were too broad. The shot fell all around him.
The duck defiantly stared
at us, raised a wing as if to say ‘is that rain/’
and then flew away into the setting sun.
“Who was that masked Duck?” I thought Paul said.
“The Lone Widgeon.” I said.
Mollie growled at me and the other two
become uncommunicative.
Later Mr. Barnes tried to console us.
“Sorry, no ducks,” He said, “But I can tell-- you’ll be back.”
Mollie glanced at Paul with that -next time just you and I, look.
I pretended not to see Paul’s nod.
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