The following is a fictional tale based entirely on local myths and the Rumour Clipboard post entitled "The Hawk facts and figures" submitted by Knots of Nubbin.

There was a flock of geese, creeping out of the horizon. There were two fifty-horse motors accelerating past the slower boats on opening day. There was a duck that wouldn't die, and one that was so dead he couldn't be eaten. There was a stew pot heaping with vegetables floating where a table should be, and three shining, steaming teal with little baked bodies glazed to perfection. Then there was a spelling bee, two choices of curtains, and the cute new employee at the Superstore. Finally, there was the sound of shotgun shells on the sideboard, my cue to wake up.

Bubba had finished his Tim Horton's coffee and was pouring some of mine into his empty cup when I walked in. His gun was on the kitchen table, along with a camoflauge tuke, a bunch of wrapperless Halls, two packages of Players Filter, and a zippo engraved "It flies, it dies". I could tell by looking at how Bubba was dressed that it wasn't too chilly, so I took a doe-skin shirt off and slipped my jacket back on. It was four-thirty in the morning, but Bubba was quickly shuffling through his gear without a hint of fatigue.

"You braced?" he asked, knowing I'd say, "Almost."

"We'll get 'em today, guaranteed. Not blowin' as much as last week."

I smeared some peanut butter on some Ben's white bread, grabbed the keys to the Hemi, mumbled a goodbye to the cat, and we headed out. It was September 2nd, and the duck hunting season would not open for another month.

We put in next to the W. Sears Seafoods building, a popular spot for guerilla fisherman and hunters to sneak in and out. We knew the tide was almost full, making the cross to open sea a cinch. The Evinrude echoed over the shallow water as we slowly passed The Cape and jostled over the ledge breakers. There was very little light, so we hunkered down and had a cigarette. Bubba had a flask and took a swig. I loaded five shells into my 12-gauge pump-action, gave it a look, and let a string of duck tollers drift out from the boat.

"You eat that loon yet? You'll like it. Not as tough as a sea-duck."

"Nope. Been meanin' to."

"Figure those shits will be out after us again? Like there ain't nothin' better for 'em to do."

"Hope not."

Bubba never stopped talking while it was dark. When morning lit the skies though, small choppy waves on the aluminum boat was the only sound until the click on a gun's safety. Bubba was the best shot I knew, and the biggest eater, too. Rumour had it that he and Lionel Atwood had once eaten eight black ducks and then asked Marilyn if there was any pie.

Around seven o'clock we got our first shot. Five coots darted in towards our fake birds, realized their error, and veered sharply left and up. Bubba had three rounds off before my first, and two of the small birds cart-wheeled down from a burst of feathers. We puttered over and retrieved them, one of them still flailing until Bubba rung its neck like a dish towel. Bubba whispered to them like he always did as he inspected them, and although I have never heard this secret prayer, I sometimes imagine the words: "You have fallen. I tricked you, and you have paid with your life. You will fill my belly, and your brothers and sisters will live another day because of your sacrifice. I can only hope, in another life, that I can be as free as you, and meet my death with the honour and purpose that you have today." In truth, Bubba probably tells them he's going to suck every morsel of meat from their bones, and that they'd better not give him heartburn or else. Whatever his words, Bubba respects the birds he kills, and eats every last one that his steel shot doesn't taint. Like most hunters, we are both out bobbing on the ocean because we can think of no better place we'd rather be.

We had just settled back into the boat again when a distant noise caught our attention. We both knew right away it was a helicopter, and we waited for proof that it was just another passing flight along the coast. It appeared over The Hawk mainland and seemed to hover for a second.

"What do ya think? They here for us or to take them students out to The Cape again?"

"Don't know."

The chopper dipped sideways a bit, then leaned forward in our direction.

"Shit. They ain't gonna try and scare us home again, are they? Those fuckers ain't got a clue."

As predicted, they flew right at us. I cut the toller line and pulled at the motor cord. By then they were almost on us.

"Get 'er goin'. Let's head for The Pass."

This was not a new thing for Bubba and I. Usually, the helicopter radios in to the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, and they rush out from their breakfast to catch us before we reach land. Bubba's got a reputation of sorts, and his door usually gets knocked on before mine. We keep our equipment and boat at Bubba's uncle's, so they can never make their accusations stick. There are many out-of-season hunters in this small place, and on any given day they could be chasing our neighbours instead of us.

This time seemed different, though, as the chopper descended to within two hundred feet of our speeding boat. Then it flew a hundred yards ahead, and turned side-on. A few seconds later, as we passed under its black belly, we heard a shot ring out above the sound of roaring blades.

"Christ almighty!" I thought I heard Bubba say.

Then he reached for his gun.

Before I could release my throttle grip, Bubba had shouldered his shotgun and fired. I let go of the motor handle, and the wake of water behind caught up, lifting the boat slightly from stern to bow.

"What are you doin'? I yelled.

Bubba was still looking at the helicopter with a strange bewilderment, and when I turned around, the metal bird was wavering from side to side. Its engine sounded different, like it was gasping for air. Then its tail dipped and the machine slid neatly backwards. The tail hit the water and the blade cut into the surface with a sharp crack. The engine died, and there was a brief moment where the only noise was the heartbeat in my ears.

"Shit, Bub! What did ya do? You shot it!"

"No I didn't! I aimed at the landing braces...that wouldn't hurt it none."

I turned the throttle handle hard over and accelerated, turning the bow around.

"What are you doing? Let 'em sink, the bastards. They shot at us. Good for the goose, good for the gander."

I ignored him and approached the bobbing dome. Water was entering the cockpit, and bubbles rose around the lifeless machine. When our boat was within twenty feet, a body could be seen lunging at the door facing us, the water pressure apparently trapping the pilots inside. The chopper was sinking quickly, and I turned to Bubba.

"Let 'em out, Bub! They're gonna drown and we're gonna be murderers. Get in there!"

"Why should I? Huh? They shot at us, man. Those assholes deserve to die."

"Bubba! Do it!"

We coasted to the front glass of the cockpit and Bubba jumped in. The door handle could just be reached, but even after bracing his feet against the side, his head underwater, Bubba couldn't open it. I grabbed my gun and pumped the shells out. After a few adrenaline-filled jabs of the butt on the clear, thick casing, a crack formed. The next hit spread the crack further, and the last one pierced a hole. One of the pilots kicked at the hole's edges, and just as the helicopter sank, they both crawled out with faces painted in fear.

The pilots told their superiors that they were trying to pierce a hole in our boat to slow us down. Bubba had to be dragged from the room by four policemen when he was told this. When he was gone, one of the pilot's told me that there was an engine malfunction, and Bubba's shot hadn't hit them at all. I never told Bubba that. We were charged with hunting out of season, and had our boat and guns confiscated along with a stiff fine. To this day, Bubba brings the whole thing up after a bottle of rum. He says we should have let them drown, even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean it.

I look back sometimes and smile. Time has played with the facts, and already there are tales spoken by younger gunners that add glamour and twists to our experience. When Bubba had a stroke, and I was told he would not recover, I visited him in his last hours. Barely conscious, I recalled the story for him. I told him that he had downed the greatest bird of them all...that he would soon be sailing just inches above the crests of the waves, and that if I saw him I would lower my gun. Bubba smiled, squeezed my hand, and passed away.

If I sit in my boat these days with a loaded gun across my knees and the hunting season happens to be closed...I can be sure there will be nothing flying that I can't eat.