Early in the turbulent times of middle school, a kid finds the one thing that is constant in his life that brings peace, something he can run to in the middle of chaos and it bring contentment. I found mine in a sixteen-foot aluminum boat, riding through the darkness on the way to the first of many hunts that made the rest of my stressful life melt away.
    

Two years later after that magical first morning in the marsh, I had studied up and was a “more than average” hunter and caller. Most people do not realize the difficulty of making a duck call really “quack”, and sound like the animal. It is an art that has to be skillfully fine tuned. My dream to fool a group of mallards into coming in to our decoy spread. Dad and I set out one afternoon to one of our favorite spots nicknamed “the big water”. I set the decoys to my specifications, hid the boat in the reeds, and made my spot next to an ancient cypress tree and started scanning the sky. Literally moments later, I heard the whistle of the wind on wings. I knew in an instant that they were mallards. I calmly whispered to Dad, “Don’t move.” I began to call at their butts, and they immediately responded by locking their wings and leaning into the wind with grace and ease. They flew over our spread to check things out. “Ticka-ticka-, hut-hut-hut”,  I said into my duck call to imitate the sound of a mallard hen feeding. When they flew over the second time, the lead duck made a slight decrease in altitude, a maneuver that signals to a hunter who knows what he’s looking for that they are about to land, and I said to Dad, “Get ready, they’re about to do it.” He readied his gun and tried to blend in with the tree he was standing beside. The bunch of six ducks swung around our backs and I hit them with a couple more aggressive quacks to turn them back our way. They lined up with the wind, going against it, threw their wings back and dropped down towards the water. Once they were back-peddling their wings I yelled out, “Cut em!” Amazed that I had fooled these birds and googly eyed at watching their acrobatic flight that we managed to miss all six shots we fired. After it was over, even though we hadn’t cut a feather, I yelled with the most excitement I had ever felt. I will never forget the day I had the thrill of coaxing those weary ducks into our hole.
    

I realized quickly after this hunt that this sport was not just about shooting a duck. I could finally appreciate nature and the moments of beauty that took the breath away from seasoned veterans and newbies alike. It was experiencing the sights, smells, and feels of Mother Nature. It was the boat ride, weaving through ancient canals lined with cattail reeds under a sky scattered with the brightest stars I’ve ever seen. It was the funny feel of water pressure hugging the legs of waders while waist deep in frigid water. It was the sunrise that set the sky afire with a blazing orange. It was the sound of a newly discovered world waking up. It was convincing our winged prey into thinking our painted pieces of plastic were their feathered friends.
    

This sport has blessed me with uncountable things. However, two of the most important to me would be the brotherhood and the safe haven that comes from this amazing hobby. When a group of guys spends hours in freezing temperatures, and experiences the voice of God at sunrise together, a bond is formed like none other. Perhaps the most important to me, the hiding place it provides. It doesn’t matter what I’m faced with, what craziness is going on, the sport makes it all drift away with the stiff north wind that blows ducks down southward. In a nutshell, before my discovery of duck hunting I had no constant. Nothing to calm me down and allow me to just escape the hectic world for a few hours. Now, whatever I’m faced with, I can always count on the mighty rivers that flow into marshes that wash away all my troubles and worries, if only for a few hours of sanity and level headed thinking.