21st Century Sinkboxing

Making like a market hunter on the St. Lawrence River

"Holy moley, George!" I shouted. "That duck wasn't 15 feet away! I think you knocked that bluebill backward." Three seconds earlier a big scaup drake had been zipping full bore through the decoys, wingtips mere inches from cresting rollers, the lead bird in a sortie of divers locked onto our decoy set. My buddy George Dixon was up and shooting before I could even get a hand on my gun. Dixon grinned. "Man, what a sight," he said, wiping rain and whitecap spray from his face. "Where else could you look at birds coming through the waves like that? Those ducks actually swooped under the swells.

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