Having been an avid stream and pond waterfowler since my teens, it only took one fast and furious sea duck hunt to get me hooked. I learned that even after the regular duck and goose seasons close I could gun eider, scoter and old Squaw on the ocean until the end of January, thereby extending my favorite fall wingshooting sport for two extra months. Never mind that I’m more than three hours from the nearest huntable coastline, from the first day of November until the last day of January at least two Saturdays per month are now allocated to salt water shooting.

Each species of sea duck is uniquely beautiful with its own shape, color and style of flying, and so much different to hunt than puddle ducks. Puddlers are wary, even skittish by nature, and flare from the slightest hint of danger, while their hearty sea-going cousins are tough, sturdy specimens that skim the waves straight and fast undaunted by wind, weather, and waterfowlers. Sea ducks are deceivingly fast, often difficult to hit and prevent from diving when knocked down, and always demanding to locate and retrieve when wounded.

Gunning conditions are often blustery, wet and bitter cold as shooters hunker down on exposed islands of ledge or toss about in an anchored camouflage-colored boat, tossing and dipping at the mercy of the wind and waves. On the best of winter days an ocean outing in pursuit of sea ducks is exciting, challenging and invigorating, but let Mother Nature suddenly take a hand and any enjoyable outing can turn dangerous, even deadly. This can happen abruptly, without warning and regardless of what the local weather channel says. I know. Four of us found out the hard way, a lesson we’ll never forget.

Dawn delight

At 4:15 a.m. the temperature hovered at 23 degrees and any short-night drowsiness was quickly expelled with each crisp breath and cloudy exhalation. Light from a nearly perfect moon and a sky full of stars glistened on two inches of fresh powdered snow as my trio of camo-clad gunning buddies loaded gear into the truck and boat. Minutes later Steve Huff of Lucerne, Jim Stout of Bangor, and Buddy Horr of Dedham were buckled in and we were ocean bound amidst the smell of fresh doughnuts and eye-opening coffee.

Through Brewer, on to Blue Hill and the village of Brooklin we drove with my sturdy and stable 20-foot Lund Alaskan with its dependable Honda 75 HP four stroke right behind. Traffic was sparse and stories of past outings combined with formulations of a plan of attack for the morning’s hunt helped the 90-minute drive fly by. At Naskeag Harbor we transferred all gear and equipment to the boat, Jim backed us into the water and I started the boat motor and let it warm up. Steve held us in place, water up past the waist of his chest waders, as Jim parked the truck.

Trucks and trailers of two hunting guides and one lobsterman’s pickup were already parked, and another duck boat and two more fishermen were lining up to launch as we pushed off. Hints of dawn fighting off the darkness tinged the horizon as I maneuvered us among the fishing boats and dories and then hooked west around the end of Harbor Island. We were two hours into a falling tide and our destination was Devil’s Head Ledge, winds were light at about 5 mph and seas were rolling slow and even at a foot or so as I motored up onto plane pulling a long iridescent wake.

From experience we knew that dawn and a dropping tide would send hordes of ducks past Devil’s Head toward Deer Isle and Stonington. Hunters on other nearby islands would keep the birds moving for at least three hours, so a promising morning of shooting was likely. Once the sun came up, conditions would be as perfect as cold weather waterfowlers could hope for on a December day of sea ducking. Four sets of eyes eagerly scanned the ledge for movement as we motored closer, ardently hoping no one had beat us to this prime spot, forcing us to revert to a more distant, likely less- productive hack up island.

Since only a third of the ledge was exposed at that point in the tide cycle we quickly realized the small rocky atoll was unoccupied and was now our quartet’s own hunting haven for the morning. I maneuvered the boat as Jim, Steve and Buddy performed a carefully synchronized ballet, setting out decoy rigs from the small stage of the aft deck. Two parallel lines of a dozen eider blocks were set off the ledge’s eastern point, offering a perfect approach runway and landing strip between the lines. Another string of eider and a half dozen scoter dekes were strung out from the western tip.

We anchored the boat in the shadows behind the rocky isle and clamored over slippery, uneven rocks, boulders and sharp ledges to take up shooting positions on both points overlooking decoys. Jim and I drew the far superior seaward point, but we would switch places once we downed birds, Steve and Buddy would take our place as we motored out to retrieve our downed ducks. Even as we were stuffing shells into our guns the dawn deluge of ducks got under way.

Great gunning

The first skein of birds came from off shore, a wavering line fading in and out of dawn’s dim light and sea smoke like an apparition. As the line of ducks drew near, the white and black formal wear of male eiders stood out, and when Jim waved our white attractor flag to imitate landing birds the flock changed direction. Five burly birds button hooked right into the landing zone and three stayed behind as two cinnamon- colored females winged away to catch the rest of the passing flock.

As we reloaded, getting ready to head for the boat and retrieve our ducks, six white-wing scoter suddenly appeared from behind us and buzzed the outer string of decoys. Since they were the only ones taking the chances, Jim and I opened fire, emptying each autoloader, yet somehow four survived the hail of pellets. Buddy and Steve moved into our hot spot, as we headed for the boat to pick up our five ducks.

No more than five minutes passed before the two of us boarded and pushed off from the ledge, yet a barrage of shots drowned out the motor. I maneuvered the boat while Jim used a long-handled salmon net to scoop in our eider and scoter, and then we picked up a pair the boys had tumbled into the decoys. I noticed the wind had picked up and changed direction and the slow rolling seas were now higher and somewhat rougher despite the ebbing tide.

Over the next hour our foursome picked and chose our shots, accounting for two old squaw, a couple of more scoter and six more eider, one of which dived and was never found despite 20 minutes of searching. In the steady shooting excitement and rotating of retrieval boat crews, the dropping temperature, rising winds and rougher seas seemed incidental. Then, within a 20-minute period, drastic changes took place. Buddy and Steve were picking up ducks when I pointed out to Jim that one second we could see the boat and then it would disappear for several seconds in a wave trough. Jim noted that despite most of Devil’s Head being exposed due to the dropping tide, waves were suddenly pounding in so hard we were getting splashed 30 feet from the water’s edge.

Sudden storm

By the time Buddy and Steve worked their way back behind the island, Jim and I were waiting on the lee shoreline with all the gear ready to load. This freak storm had caught us completely by surprise and was worsening by the minute, so it was get off now or ride it out on the ledge and hope it ended before the tide came back in and covered our rock. Even on the sheltered side of Devil’s Head the seas had gotten so rough we couldn’t beach the boat or even hold onto the bow from the rocks. Buddy worked the motor to hold the big Lund in place while Jim and I threw gun cases, gear and equipment to Steve on the tossing deck.

Once everything was loaded on board, it took five attempts to get Jim and then me on board without being knocked into the ocean or crushed by the wildly bucking bow. Even with Steve pulling and tugging, Jim and I still got cut, scraped and bruised clamoring on board. When I took the controls and attempted to reach the closest string of decoys, the white-capped waves bounced us like a cork, dumping a bathtub full of water over the bow with every dip. We retreated behind the ledge, Buddy took the wheel and Jim, Steve and I moved into the bow. We figured with all the weight forward the hull would ride flatter and steadier.

We no sooner got ready to grab the first decoy line with a boat hook when a heavy wave pivoted the entire boat toward the ledge. We rose like an elevator, then dropped like a rock as the white-capped peak of water hit the tip of the island and collapsed under us. Only the size and weight of the big Lund saved us from capsizing as the boat crashed down sideways on a slanted rock outcropping breaking the motor skeg and shipping a waterfall of sea over the tilted port gunnel. Another incoming wave righted the boat. Soaked, badly shaken and smarter, we took cover behind the ledge once again.

I told the boys that my $500 worth of decoys and rigging wasn’t worth risking our lives over in my opinion, and got a quick quorum to try and reach the harbor. I attempted to sneak around the far end of Devil’s Head, moving with the flow, but had to turn back within a few hundred yards. Our turn about was harrowing and we took on a lot of water, but wave and wind direction had worsened as we moved into the open sea and it was apparent we would never reach the mouth of Harbor Island on the same course we had arrived.

There was a back way into the harbor, but at low tide it was impassible, and we were near that ebb. We had to attempt it anyway, so rolling and dipping, our drenched crew fought our way through the pass between Hog and Harbor Islands. Everyone was soaked and chilled despite their rain gear, and the bilge pump ran constantly, but finally we got a limited reprieve from the beating. Kind of like moving from a typhoon into a mere hurricane. I had the motor tilted so much the prop was just churning in the shallow water, and several times we grounded on mussel flats and had to help the motor with push pole and paddles. Finally after half an hour of maneuvering we reached the beach. I was so happy I could have kissed one of the lobster traps stacked up there.

We secured the boat and hurried to the truck to strip off wet outer layers and warm numb fingers, toes, and faces. Not one other vehicle was still at the launch site as we loaded the boat on the trailer and stowed all our gear and ducks. We were all a bit shaken, but realized that sometimes no matter how closely you watch the weather a freak storm can surprise you on the ocean.

Steve and Buddy returned early the next morning to salvage our decoys. It was bright, beautiful and calm. Of the 40 dekes, only 28 were located. Many were headless, some were sunken but still attached to the anchor lines and several were located on the shoreline of two nearby islands. The rest were lost at sea. All I could rationalize was, better the decoys than us. Two weeks later we were back at it again, another location, a different ledge, but the same enthusiasm that only seas duck gunning can offer.

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