Venturing out on the bays of the North Atlantic in December is serious business. Subfreezing temps, snow, ice, stiff-to-gale force winds, anchors, decoy lines, and shotguns can make for a deadly combination. To succeed at this business of seaducking…indeed, to survive it…requires teamwork, teamwork founded in clear communications. And that's why we paid close attention to Todd Jackson's first orders of the day.

Eiders on the move.

"When I say drop the anchor," he instructed authoritatively, "I mean drop it imediately."

So when our man in the bow, good buddy Duncan Price, responded to Todd's command with "Huh? You mean now?" I kinda cringed.

The disgusted look on Todd's face said it all. Duncan grinned in reply. Then he mumbled, "Well, if he's goin' to dish it out, it's comin' right back at him. I can take it. Let's see if Todd can."

A charter captain on Lake Superior who routinely fishes 50 miles offshore in an environment every bit as potentially hostile as the ocean; Duncan is a patient man who calmly deals with his share of customer-induced woes. He would prove a worthy adversary for our host.

Deploying the rig with nary another hiccup after that rocky start, our first day's hunt began to unfold. I had gunned with Todd and his operation before, and had a fair idea of what to expect. For Duncan and my son Bill, this was a whole new, open water ballgame. With the players…the eiders, oldsquaws, and scoters…characteristically, unlike any birds they'd ever hunted.

Things were quiet at first, and with no one talking, the silence was deafening. But then, Todd, ever-the-eagle-eyed one, piped up in his Mainer tongue, "Heah! Here they come. Five white drakes sandwiching one hen."

As the big, graceful ducks sliced fully broadside and in bright, stunning contrast to our otherwise dull gray world, wave-topping between the boat and the stark, granite ledge we were anchored in front of, the good captain ordered, "Take the white birds!" We rose in unison. Since they came from my end I worked on tail-end Charley, cannonballing him into the surf; while Billy and Duncan vollied on the rest. But when the smoke cleared we had only one bird down.

"Aw, man," Todd groaned. "You guys whiffed?" he questioned my partners in disbelief.

"Eider fever, I guess," replied Duncan with an antagonizing grin. "Not to worry. Now that we've got the range we'll pound 'em next time."

And they did, sort of. Both Duncan and Billy had to learn the cripple lesson the hard way. After they each knocked a drake out of the next decoying flock, both lowered their guns to admire their work. As they did, the two still heads-up, powerful swimmers seized the moment and headed out to sea, leading us on a not-so-merry, ammo-depleting chase. All the time during which flock after flock of eiders, at the peak of the morning feed flight, poured tantalizingly into our unguarded decoys.