Some of my finest shots have been made with my finger on diving seagulls at the local beach.
I’m in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, standing on the battlement of Castillo de San Felipe del Morro, a striking military fortification built between 1540 and 1783. I have been visiting my son Matthew who is in the U.S. Coast Guard, stationed across the island in Aguadilla, but at the moment we’re just hanging out, soaking up the sun and the history, doing the touristy thing. Hunting is the last thing on my mind, and then, this pigeon flies by.
Immediately, my left arm extends toward the bird and my right hand comes up beside my nose and curves around an imaginary trigger. Head down, eyes open, my left foot slightly in front of the right, I lean into the gray, feathered blur, sweeping smoothly through it. “Bang!” I say out loud, much to the consternation of the tour guide standing next to me. I drop my arms and look about sheepishly. Matthew is standing there next to me with a knowing grin. Matthew is a bird hunter, too. “Get it?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Probably not enough lead, and I didn’t follow through. They’re tricky.”
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