The house at Rice Hope Plantation is a huge Victorian style mansion situated in South Carolina among flooded rice levees alive with ducks and surrounded by deer-filled woods. Ten of us relaxed around a formal sitting room large enough for a half-court basketball game and enjoyed post-hunt, pre-dinner libations. I had hosted one of the three owners of Rice Hope for a couple of days of dry fly fishing for brook trout on rivers and streams in the Crown of Maine the previous summer. In return I was enjoying a long autumn weekend of fishing for red drum, called spot tails in the south, and whitetail hunting.

Talk around the crackling flames in the huge fireplace turned to duck hunting, and the stories were spell binding. Many of the sportsmen had gunned waterfowl in Mexico, Argentina, Alaska, south Texas, and several other exotic sites. They recounted exploits that were entertaining and mind boggling in numbers and species of ducks taken. When my turn came around to spin a tale, I knew that as good as Maine’s puddle duck hunting was, it wouldn’t impress these world traveling waterfowlers, so I painted a verbal picture of a late season sea duck hunt on the Maine coast.

Traveling trio

To my amazement, not one of the well-traveled sports had ever gunned sea ducks, and the style of ledge hunting in harsh weather and unpredictable seas astounded them. They had all heard or read stories of thick- feathered, tough-to-stop eiders, fast flying acrobatic old squaw and unpredictable, skittish scoter. There were so many questions the conversation continued through a supper of fresh shrimp and crawfish cocktails, jambalaya, quail breasts over long grain wild rice, hush puppies and a desert of deep dish peach cobbler or six-layer dark forest cake. Sometimes it was a long time between questions and answers as we chewed and savored the mouth-watering meal.

After supper, several of us returned to the comfy chairs by the fire and traded more tales. One of my hosts, Dr. Wright Skinner, a well known orthopedic surgeon, had actually spent a couple of college years at Colby in Waterville. He had enjoyed Maine and had thought often about returning for a visit over the passing years. I took the hint and offered to host him for a return visit and some sea duck hunting. His short, to-the- point response was out almost before I finished the invitation, “This year? When?”

I mentioned some late November and December dates, reminding him that the cold weather brought in more ducks around the off shore islands. He needed time to rearrange his office schedule and get surgical coverage at the hospital and chose the second week of December, less than two months away. Herman Moore, a multi- term U.S. senator, now retired and spending much of his time traveling all over the country to hunt and fish spoke up. If I had room, he was sure he could free up a few days for Maine sea ducks and lobster.

“My big Lund Alaskan hunting boat will hold six and all the riggin.’ I’ve got two friends that will go along to help guide and hunt some too, so I’ve got room for one more, any takers?” I asked. Bob McCarley, a local contractor and frequent hunting partner of Doc Skinner, allowed he’d like to visit Maine and figured the great sea duck gunning would overshadow the cold weather. Over the rest of the weekend I finalized plans with my trio of travelers and advised on guns, ammo, and gear for comfort.

Welcome to Maine

Not only was there snow on the ground when the three visiting hunters arrived at Bangor airport, but big, wet flakes were falling steadily as they crossed the tarmac to meet Buddy Horr and I in the arrival area. The first order of business was to collect luggage, which each man immediately opened in search of heavier jackets. We then loaded my truck and Buddy’s van with gun cases, suitcases and duffels and headed for the nearby Rite Aid to purchase non resident licenses for the visitors.

After unloading at our hotel rooms we headed to Pilots Grill where my southern friends tried to order anything and everything with the word lobster in it. As we ate, I filled them in on our plans for the next day, weather permitting. Back at the hotel, gear was readied for the early morning start and we all went to sleep listening to a steady wind blow snow against the window.

Up a t 4 a.m., Buddy and Jim Stout arrived at 4:15, gear and hunters loaded into two trucks, and we were on the road for the hour drive to Blue Hill and Naskeag Harbor by 4:30. Much to the relief of our squad the snow had stopped, the wind had dropped to a breeze and the sky was filled with stars. By 5:30, the boat was afloat, big Honda 75 purring quietly, as gear and gunners loaded up. During the 20-minute run to Lamp Island, the seas were nearly flat, but the boat speed made the 21-degree temperature breathtaking and skin numbing.

Wright, Bob, Herman and I unloaded all the gear and began trekking it to the end of the island where we would shoot from behind large rocks, while Buddy and Jim took the boat to set out four long trot lines of eider and scoter decoys. Despite the fact that the pink horizon was just welcoming the day, birds were already moving, and at least four groups of sea ducks tried to join the decoys while the boat was still laying out the spread.

The Carolina boys were locked and loaded, and totally aghast as scores of big white eiders straffed the boat. No sooner had Bud and Jim pulled 50 yards away from the spread heading around the island when a patrol of old squaw – with full after burners on -swung by the tip of Lamp Island where Bob and the Doc were hunkered down. They were up like Jack-in-the-boxes and each emptied their autos. The strings of shot could be seen swatting the ocean surface behind the ducks and not one was within six feet of the last bird. Astonished and a bit embarrassed the shooters shook their heads, reloaded and mumbled under their breaths.

I mentioned for all to hear that perhaps slow southern shot shells weren’t made for fast northern ducks. That’s when I learned that southern sportsmen use the same bad words as we do in Maine, but with a drawl. Just then four full-colored eiders came buzzing toward the decoys from the opposite end of the island. Old Herman wailed away and on the third shot the last duck tumbled stone dead to the sea. Herman just stood shaking his head as we all cheered his first ever male eider. Turning, with a stunned look on his face, he moaned, “I’d be a cite prouder if I hadn’t been aiming at the first damn duck!”

When the next string of a dozen eiders set their wings, Doc and Bob each picked out a male and upended them. Each bird actually hit hard and bounced, only to immediately disappear below the surface as the pair of shooters were congratulating each other. When the ducks surfaced again they were already out of range and paddling for open ocean. Jim and I got the boat and finally dispatched the pair of eider after 10 minutes of now you see ’em, now you don’t dive and surface games. Once was all it took to teach the novices that if you don’t see feet or the head is up, keep shooting.

At the time, seven sea ducks a day was the limit, five of which could be eiders. By 8 a.m. all three of the Carolina crew had used a full box of shells and no one had a limit. They did have a lot of fun and a new respect for sea ducks. Everyone got some shooting, and we three residents made our share of misses too – just to make the flatlanders feel better.

When Herman and Doc nodded off for a mid-morning power nap, I gently and quietly unloaded their guns that lay at their side. When a squad of scoter winged into range, we woke them with yells to shoot! Shoot! The pair nearly broke the triggers trying to fire their empty shotguns, and the rest of us laughed so hard at the initiation prank that no one got a shot at the ducks. Warm friendships developed during that cold December sea duck hunt.

Fast friends

On day two we hunted in sleet and even more ducks flew. Doc, Herman and Bob had all switched from 3-inch, No. 4 shells to 31/2-inch, No. 2 shot. They also lead birds more and averages skyrocketed to only five or six shots per bird in the bag. Temperatures on day three never topped 15 degrees and a stiff, steady wind forced us to shoot closer to the harbor, on a partially shielded ledge called Devil’s Head. The southern boys were hooked, and despite the miserable conditions, they layered on more clothes, broke out the hand warmers and gunned most of the day.

Each evening the trio from South Carolina attempted to decimate the lobster population of a different restaurant. For their trip home each man selected and packed a cooler with eider and scoter breasts, as well as a mature pair of male and female eider to be mounted in memory of their first sea duck hunt.

I’m not sure how many lobster were downed, but our group accounted for 91 sea ducks of a possible three-day limit of 126. Bob, Herman and Doc couldn’t stop talking about the challenge and excitement of Maine’s hard flying, tough-to- stop salt water ducks. To further celebrate their visit to Maine a second cooler was stuffed with live lobster and fresh sea scallops. At the airport Herman summed it up for the three visitors, “We’re gonna miss y’all but I can’t wait to git outta this deep freeze you’re livin’ in! Oh, and Bill, call me just as soon as you decide on next year’s hunting dates so I can make plans.” The crew from South Carolina have made sea duck gunning and Maine lobster an annual tradition since that premier visit, and that’s how sea duck hunting invaded the South.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com