I shot my first duck just over a year ago. I can still remember the anticipation, the excitement, and the moment. The freshness of that memory made watching him shoot his first duck all the more special.
He’s 10. All my boys caught their first fish as toddlers. All my boys caught their first fish on a fly rod as toddlers. Those are fun moments and great memories. But the moment is fun for them like pretty much any exciting moment is fun. That is the joy of being a toddler. And the memories are great for me. For them? The memories exist only as far as they are stories I tell them and pictures they see.
But for him, at 10, there was that anticipation. I didn’t have my license in a state in which he could hunt last season. He watched as friends got their first duck earlier this season. He sat through some early, cold mornings with high flying birds. He watched YouTube videos, helped my process birds I took, and practiced calling in the basement.
That big mallard drake represented something of a unique accomplishment in his decade of life. And it was great, as his dad, to watch it happen.
There are layers at work here. First, he wanted it. Like I said earlier, he threw himself into camo and calling for the past year. Certainly there was the camaraderie that he saw among my friends. Neither am I discounting the allure of doing something with Dad. But he asked questions about migration routes, sexual dimorphism in waterfowl, and the difference in regulations between Massachusetts and New Hampshire. (This last facet reflects the fact that in MA, even with all of the other issues going on in the commonwealth, they don’t trust kids under 14 to use a firearm to hunt.)
Second, he made it happen. He was always willing to get up. He was always willing to wait his turn, as there was a few kids that rotated using a 20-gauge. When the time came, just after shooting light, he sighted up the bird as it dropped into the decoys. One shell, one duck.
Third, we did it together. Yes, I was there when he shot it. My good friend was actually closer, giving my son the critical last minute insights (be quiet, wait, check your safety, aim right below him). But we woke up early. We enjoyed the quiet, desolate interstate. We admired his duck. Later, we plucked, prepped, smoked, and ate the duck. We got coffee and hot chocolate on the drive home. We hugged as he gripped his first bird tight to his chest.
I know I have more of these moments ahead of me. There are three more boys, after all. But there are also other firsts. Firsts in hunting. Firsts in fly fishing. Firsts in things that are much, much more important. Firsts they’ll remember; that we’ll remember together.