Having witnessed the power of nature and tides, my partner, Chris, and I felt we were ready for bigger challenges. From the time we purchased our first boat, a used homemade flat bottom with a Sears Gamefisher motor, our collective spirits began entertaining thoughts of flight birds from the wilds of northern lakes. Having spent a decade in Vermont and now relegated to the gentrified suburbs of Fairfield County. Connecticut, we wanted to pursue the wily arctic birds of waterfowl lore, the canvasback, the goldeneye, bluebills, and the red-legged black ducks from Hudson Bay. We even adopted nicknames for the CB radio in the truck as “Saddletramp” and “Canvasback.” Looking back now, it seems sophomoric to embrace such childish names. But perhaps that’s what Chris and I were really seeking: to recapture some of that adolescent humor and adventure of our days in boarding school. As we drove north through the suburban countryside of Connecticut on I-91, we peered down over the Housatonic bridge in Bridgeport when we experienced a simultaneous shiver, looking down into the dark wetland of Nell’s Island. This is where we had almost lost our lives in the maelstrom of a full moon’s tide after a powerful rainstorm. It was a ride across the river in the dark we would never forget.

But now, with this maritime lesson in the rear-view mirror, we continued our trek north to Vermont. The plan had been to leave my home in New Canaan around 8 pm and arrive in Mallets Bay, in the town of Colchester, by 2 am, ahead of any crowds of intrepid waterfowlers. In White River Junction, where we merged onto I-89, the cloud cover was building in the distance, further than the headlights of the old Ford pickup could shine. As we rolled into Waterbury, the name of the town brought a chuckle and a sense of foreboding trepidation. How ironic a name for a town where hundred-year floods inundate the landscape. And here we were, eyes squinting through the windshield while the wipers could barely keep up. We looked at one another, and having read too many stories about inclement weather being the most productive for duck hunting, we cheered the rain as it pelted in a thrumming rhythm on the truck’s hood and roof. Chris kept a close eye on the boat and trailer behind us, trying to avoid the concave asphalt ruts made by thousands of tourists.

Approaching the exit for Colchester, the winds had picked up to a blustery fifteen knots from the south. When we pulled into the state access, we laughed aloud and agreed, “This looks good!” The wind was at our backs. As we loaded the shallow flat bottom, we piled in decoys, my springer spaniel, Winston, the gas can, oars, blankets, and our make-shift blind of 2x4’s wrapped with chicken wire and cattails woven through. They were rolled up neatly and stashed on both sides. By this time, in our minds, we were proud mariners who knew how to call out “starboard,” “port,” “bow,” and “aft” commands. Chris was to drive from the aft bench, and I was in charge of maintaining our ballast and keeping my pup safe. Our destination was a long concourse to the north of Mallets Bay that led through Sandbar Refuge toward the Islands. When we looked at it on the maps of Lake Champlain, which we had printed out and laminated, it appeared to be a reasonable passage across the outer bay of about one mile north. This was to be our next lesson as novice mariners and beginner waterfowlers. From this lesson and the other eight episodes, I formulated my hypothesis for anyone taking up the sport of duck hunting: if they were to survive their first ten years, they might live long enough to make a career of it.

We set out from the access with the wind at our backs, sure that our ten inches of freeboard were sufficient for the crossing. The rain was pelting us on our backs, but we were smiling because we had invested in new waterproof waterfowler’s coats. So proud and foolish as to believe that this is what it means to be a “real” duck hunter. Our hoods were pulled over our heads as we rounded the western shoreline of the inner bay. The wind was building, but it could not bend our naïve self-confidence to its will. As we motored out into the broad bay, we could see the lights of the causeway in the distance. It represented all that we desired. A beacon unto the night. A gauntlet to match our wits and experience. Rounding the point, the temperature suddenly dropped several degrees, which, in our professed status of meteorological knowledge, we proclaimed as “snain” – half snow, half rain. To us, it meant that new birds would be moving in from the north for shelter, never considering that we, in our tiny craft, might be a siren for reason.

We were now mid-bay, and the wind and waves began broaching the transom, our little Sears 7.5 hp Gamefisher unable to keep up. It was still dark, but neither of us wanted to take our eyes off the developing situation long enough to look at our watches. We were in the middle of a storm-tossed lake, in the dark, with needle-like precipitation pelting us, and the waves beginning to challenge the height of our transom’s freeboard. There was a moment when the motor sputtered as we crested a wave, and Chris and I looked at each other. “What was that?” I asked. Chris answered, “The motor almost stalled.” Then, each time we crested a wave, it would gasp for air. It felt like we were watching a patient in surgery who could not get enough oxygen. It was then that we decided that we must surrender and turn around. This would require true mastery of a boat to facilitate a turn into the waves without getting turned broadside to the wind.

Chris spun the small boat around precariously and faced us into the wind. The whitecaps were now spitting their thin arrows of ice in our faces. Winston crawled under the blankets. We began to take on water, and I had only a small hand pump, which I worked furiously on the starboard side. The motor continued its fitful aspiration, choking at the top of each wave then pitching the bow downward into the next trough. They say that “there are no atheists in foxholes,” and I submit that this is true for anyone who has ever been in the throes of nature’s power on water. I will admit it. I prayed. Quietly. To myself. I occasionally looked back at Chris, whose face bore the focused intensity of a ship’s captain when he must refrain from making any comments to his crew that might reveal his doubts or that his confidence has been shaken. So, into the wind and battering rain we continued, back to the inner bay.

As we approached the western shoreline of the inner bay, the sun began to wrestle the pummeling clouds, trying desperately to find just one hole in the atmosphere to provide a semblance of hope for the world that this day would be complete as it should. Chris never looked anywhere but straight ahead and focused all his energy and thoughts on keeping the motor running. If it were to stall, we would be spun around broadside to the wind and capsize in seconds. But his gaze did not wander.

As we approached the craggy cliffs of the shoreline, large rafts of bluebills, goldeneyes, mallards, and blacks launched into the wind next to shore. Hundreds, Thousands, even. All of them reminded us that we needed to seek that same refuge they had found. We hugged the rocky cliffs, following the birds around the bend to the Inner Bay. Once inside the bay, I began to tear up. Of course, Chris, nor anyone else, would ever see my emotional display of gratitude. I felt the tears roll down my face as I sat facing into the wind, my back turned to my partner, whom I now saw in a new light. The right partner possesses the characteristics of absolute trust and faith in their ability to remain calm while navigating treacherous situations. Chris was all that.

As we pulled ashore, the old steel flatbottom scraped the cement platform of the access. We both looked at one another and, without uttering a word, dropped to our knees in silence. This was our second year of duck hunting, and already we had cheated death thrice. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted three large mallards resting in the weeds in the corner of the access. But that’s a story for another time.