Rite of Passage

Liam’s rites of passage began when he was old enough to walk into my shop to watch wooden calls be made and learn how to use them. Wanting to experience more, he graduated to joining me afield where we live in Virginia or neighboring Maryland, carrying a piece of the present and the past in his pocket in the form of a duck call I made and the Olt 77 goose call my Dad gave me when I was his age. Like my early days afield, it is more than just hanging out in the blind and eating cinnamon rolls. These are times for him to observe safe handling of firearms, to pick up decoys, and to learn the necessary points of hunting etiquette my father passed to me. Even though I have mentored friends in waterfowling, preparing my sons for their days in the blind is a father’s rite of passage. 

I could foresee Liam’s ride in the jon boat through the slough lined with moss-covered trees in the graying light of dawn; the thunderous roar of wings from ducks, geese, and swans in flooded corn as my Dad edged us towards a floating blind. Liam’s heartbeat would be in his throat with his first cautious step onto the wooden deck, his mind eagerly wondering what would ride the wind back. Goose bumps rise on my arms at the flashback of holding the edge of the same cold aluminum boat witnessing similar scenarios unfold from my formative years.

But Mother Nature changes the best of plans. 

Dave’s floating blind was dry-docked along the edge of his corn field so we made the most of less than ideal conditions. Instead of a boat ride, we walked the muddy three-quarters of a mile along the slough shrouded in a heavy mist; Liam stepping in the shadow of footprints made when I was his age. Three generations of Swearingens stood with Dave in the muddy corn field, each with calls I had made, hoping one of the many dawn flights of pintails, teal, mallards, and geese would pass over close enough for a decoying look. Circling below the clouds, the birds eventually landed on the neighboring farm to loaf and feed unmolested. The melody from trumpeter swans, along with the murmur of feeding ducks and Canada geese, sang across the shallow waters of the adjacent field. 

As the sprinkles grew to a steady rain, the four of us took shelter in the dry-docked blind, sitting along the same bench I shared with my mentors when I was Liam’s age. Moss as thick as my memories clung to the back of the simple wooden structure. The dripping of rain on the roof and the brush of the blind kept a steady rhythm while my Dad started a propane heater. It wasn’t a bitterly cold day, but the old-timer came prepared to warm home-smoked bratwurst and Grandma’s cinnamon rolls. It is a ritual he has perfected over countless hunts, keeping friends and a young mentee fed during mid-morning lulls.

Sitting on the blind’s bench, I would be lying if I said I didn’t relive all the other times sitting between my Dad and Dave, listening to them bust one another’s chops over missed shots, as quacking mallards departed unscathed. Watching my son, I remembered every time I donned knee boots that were too big, along with a green, hard rubber rain jacket and pants with the cuffs rolled up, uncomfortable but all while enjoying just being one of them.

The only trigger Liam pulled that day was for target practice on a corn stalk with the same single-shot 20 gauge I used thirty years ago. Then, it was my dad standing behind me as I thumbed back the hammer, steadying my aim on a corn stalk for my first target practice. I stood behind my son as my Dad watched, the single shot’s echo fading into the trees. Liam wouldn’t have his first bird but he carries the memories of geese cackling overhead, just being one of the guys with his Dad, and the guys that showed him the ropes. 

It is my responsibility to carry the lessons instilled in me, to leave them for the next generation.Living on the East Coast, almost 3,000 miles away, it feels like I’ve stolen from my Dad these opportunities to see and help guide the next in line. That stress subsides when I see them sit together on the bench worn by the three generations of hunters.  Eventually, I will trust myself enough that I’m passing along the best that I’ve learned to those who want to continue down the path my Dad and mentors started for me. 

There will be other times when the stars and the forecasts align for Liam’s first bird. I hope my Dad will be there to witness it when the time comes. It may not be perfect or how I envision it, but the thread continues as long as those who came before me are linked through lessons and stories to those coming after.

Photography by Kelly Warren