Three days before my 36th birthday, I found myself caught between being a child and being a man.

It seems as though it was just yesterday when my father took me down to the river and began teaching me everything good about waterfowl hunting. In the next three days, I was going to have the unique opportunity to go duck hunting with my dad, age 71, and my son, who was about to turn 5.

As I pulled into my parents' home at 5:15 a.m., I saw my father standing in waders on the front porch, clutching a cup of coffee. As he got into my truck, he cracked a joke about why I was late, and how I could never get out of bed on time. We made the two-minute drive, past the old Arnett farmhouse, and slid our canoe into the river. It was the same river -- and duck blind -- my father had taken me to for my very first hunt. The blind, although weathered and worn, fixed up and torn down, was the same blind I shot my first duck from at age 12.

Once the boat was launched, my father made his way to the front of the canoe. His balance was unsteady and his knees were somewhat weary as he grasped the sides of the boat and sat down.

No matter how many more times we canoe together, it will never feel right with him riding in front of me. From little on, I have logged hundreds of hours in a canoe with that man sitting behind me. Guiding me on how to paddle a duck skiff through the duck marsh, on how to properly set out a decoy spread, and most importantly, how to balance a canoe when your overexcited retriever decides to switch sides.

We paddled upstream to the blind. I dropped Dad off in the blind, and he climbed into position. I began to set out the decoys under my father's close watch. He advised me I had set them a little too far apart and way too close to the blind. I soon found my place at his side in the blind, and we sat silently in the dark for moments at a time. The sun rose and the ducks began to fly.

The first round of mallards decoyed. I fired three shots without touching a feather. My dad only smiled at me, but I knew what he was thinking. As the morning crept on, I had several more opportunities to cash in, but as Dad was quick to point out, I was always too far in front or too far behind.

My father would not carry a gun into the marsh this year. Recovering from open-heart surgery only six months before, he was there as what he called "support staff." We spent the rest of the morning talking about our many hunts together, and the adventures we got ourselves into. We shared a chocolate pudding, ate crackers and washed them down with whatever coffee we had left over. We finished the morning without bagging a duck.

As we paddled back to the truck, my father told me his waterfowling days were pretty much over. Even if the birds did decoy as planned, he would not be able to rise from a seated position quickly enough to engage his gun.

The next day, at 3 p.m., I picked up my son from pre-kindergarten. Dressed in camouflage and wearing rubber boots, I walked through the grade school, enduring glances from those who would never understand the life of a true waterfowler.