Looking down the line.

It was a fast, but thankfully short boatride to the ledge Todd planned to hunt. We worked quickly and efficiently, with everyone finally being on the same page. And we spoke only in hushed tones, as if to not disturb the unusually quiet and surprisingly comfortable atmosphere, while we rigged the decoy strings. With the eider rig set Todd idled out to the center of the passage, as he called it, where we dropped anchor to hopefully do some pass-shooting at the early-flying oldsquaws.

It was downright bare-handed pleasant as we sat there watching predawn's eastern sky come ablaze in an amazing, layered display of yellows and fluorescent oranges in every shade imaginable. Being on the thermally pleasant 48-degree ocean water, in the total absence of a chilling breeze was the place to be, even with the low ambient temps.

We were congratulating ourselves on our good fortune when I spotted a pair of blurry-winged rockets low over the water, bearing down on us from the east.

"'Squaws. Load up. Here they come," Todd blurted out the obvious.

Billy and I were not ready, but ol' Duncan was on the ball, already locked and loaded. He popped up, swung hard on the screaming incomers and pounded the spike-tailed drake, sending it skipping across the flat water like a stone. It was a pretty shot.

The trophy duck had no sooner lay still than my Yooper (a fellow from Michigan's Upper Penninsula) buddy was on his game, taking full advantage of his 15 seconds, if not 15 minutes of fame. Puffing out his chest like a banty rooster and almost breaking his arm patting himself on the back, he came out smokin', directing his comments at any of us who'd listen, but most specifically at Todd. Figuring he finally had the upper hand, Duncan began a loud, rambling discourse, the point of which was that he'd finally gotten the program down.

"So there. Now what ya got to say? Huh?" Duncan, not so seriously challenged, defying Todd to respond.

"Here they come again!" Todd replied, avoiding, thankfully I'm sure, the baited question.

It was Duncan's shot again. But being more premeditated and not just reacting, he aimed, committing the major sin of shotgunning. One, two, three shots geyersed behind, behind-er, and even farther behind the fortunate, but rangy longtails.

"More lead. More lead. more lead!" Todd cheered happily after each hapless pull of the trigger.

I was almost relieved. Had Duncan connected again so quickly it could have gotten really ugly.

Flock after 30- to 40-bird flock lifted off the open water to the east only to work their way down through the passage to our welcoming set. The majority of the spectacular morning flight passed us by. But enough birds committed, gliding in on a locked wing final approach, that we could easily have shot out, finishing our combined seven bird sea duck bags in the first half hour. We passed on the big flocks in an effort to prevent collateral damage to hens on our intended drakes-only hunt, and to avoid needlessly educating so many birds. Instead we shot only singles, pairs, and small groups. And even then we had problems. Along with the three mature drakes one volley produced, floated two unlucky hens. After that unintentional miscue we finished up one gun, one bird at a time.