Posted by Steve Bernstein a.k.a. Limitedout on September 05, 2000 at 2:35:09 a.m.:
To my fellow greased oars,
We are all but the forgotten few in waterfowling. A native Californian waterfowling has been apart of my family for over 60 years. Sculling became a specific addiction when my father started in 1974. My internship started as a lunch-packing, coffee-making, hey dad wake-up, truck loading, cripple shooting, truck unloading, boat cleaning, bird cleaning, gun cleaning Ithica Mag 10 shooter at age 11.
By 13, the official Shooter I was training with the oar still fully in charge of all cripple shooting duties. At 16, I could take out the boat and truck by myself. My father presented me with a sister boat to his own, 1 of 4 in existence for my 17th birthday. I was lucky to be tutored by my father and Godfather (sculling/hunting partners) in all types of fishing and hunting. By age 18, I was performing exhibitions on sculling at Bay Area Wildlife refuges. I have spent the last 18 years throwing a motor in and out of the boat. My Godfathers son is now my partner as we continue a second generation of sculling. I'm glad to see there are others as addicted to the oar. My scullboat is also used for halibut, trout, salmon, and stripers. Other interests Upland Birds, Big-Game Hunting, and First Gen Camaros.
Does this sound familiar?
Wake up at 8:00a step on the dog as you walk past your waiters and decoys. Kiss the kids as they stare at Blue's Clues, 45 minutes of blaring Metallica later you hit the water by 10:00a. outfitted in shorts and a camo t-shirt. Load the boat up with greenheads in time to listen to the 1 o'clock 49er kickoff on the way home.
Or does this sound familiar.
Got up at 3:30a and sat at the boat launch from 5a-7a wrestling with the outboard. The boot kept dropping down and my butt is wet and I am cold. Motor now working, I only need to find a flock. Another flock, antoher flock runnning fisherman, okay time to regain composure and find another flock. It's now 3p and my butt is still soaked but the motor is running pretty strong as long as I pump the fuel line every 45 seconds.
Finally on a flock at 70 yds and closing. The wind is coming up and the oar is falling apart, the boat keeps slapping the nose. The birds are getting jumpy, as one side of the raft starts to pick-up. You quickly grab your trusty 1100 only to be greeted by the sound of only 1 of 3 shots. Upon pulling the spent federal shell which is sticking out of your open magazine at 90 degrees you note one downed hen spoonie doing the upside down tap dance. After a minute of meeting with God and commenting on religion, mothers, and other such matters, you throw on the outboard. While marking the downed bird and pumping fuel line you notice the outboard is starting to windmill right into the water. It appears your short meeting with God has kept you from tighting both screws. Exhausted from arm wrestling the motor back onto the boat you pick-up the hen...it's time to come home. As you approach the darkened boat launch, you gaze upon your lone vehicle. While frantically searching your jacket pockets you become overwhelmed by the stark realization that you locked your keys in the truck with the lights on.
Either way I'd like to hear about it!