James Woods
Active member
A recent e-mail from my friend Keith Dolbeck about scale-model duckboats brought back this memory from September 1966. I was 17, and engaged in all things duck hunting. I lived on the North Shore of Long Island in New York. My friend Jack and I had hunted the last year on our own walking into our local North Shore duck marshes at low tide and hunting at dusk—commonly called “dusking”- quite illegal, but we did not know much better. But, years before I was old enough to hunt, I had haunted the salt marshes and watched the gunners who used the marsh. I also lived across from the local mill pond where the black ducks congregated in late September, and the local birds rested, and where the flight birds visited each fall. Jack and I knew - even before we could legally hunt – that we would need duckboats. On the North Shore of the Island there were many designs, but the most built and effective were decked over 9-10 Ft craft which best resembled decked over row boats of that length with less freeboard. A cockpit and an after deck. Weight was an issue because you had to drag across sand bars, lift boats onto the bog and drag through mud potholes. So each week I picked up the “Want Ad Digest” and went through the boat and sporting goods sections in study hall. In the second week of September, I came across a duck boat for sale for $100 in toward the City but on the North Shore. The price was right. Working nights at the local restaurant made the price viable. I called the number and was greeted by a highball salutation which went on and on, and then finally a gruff “hello.” I explained that I had called about the 100 dollar duck boat. “Great for rigging broadbill” was his terse reply, followed by a few feeding chuckles. Between the intermittent calling I got the address somewhere in Westbury – in Nassau County off Route 25. I told him I would be over after school, around 5:30.
Mid-September on Long Island is a lot like summer—true we get some clear cool days with perfect blue skies, but we also get summer weather, hot and humid, and that day I went to Westbury it was hot and humid. I was dressed in cutoffs and a t-shirt. I had borrowed my mother’s VW bug because my ancient truck, although good around town, was not a reliable trip vehicle.
The directions were a little vague—find a road on the left (south side) of Rt 25 about two miles after getting onto Rt 25 from the Long Island Expressway, and go down the road about 3/4 mile and a house will be on the right. I got into Westbury and Rt 25 in the vicinity, and saw housing on the North side of the road, but the South side was a high boxwood hedge which seemed to go on forever. I drove past an entrance road on the South side but it looked like a private drive. There was an open, high wrought iron gate and a beautiful white quartz pebble road. So I turned around, went by it again, turned around one more time and started down it, feeling very much like a trespasser. The road was edged by bricks and to my left and right were perfectly low cut lawns, populated by interesting trees and bushes. I drove about a half mile and there was very neat clapboard house on the right with Essex green shutters and what looked like perhaps two to three bedrooms. The pebble road continued past the house and I pulled into the parking space before a brick garage with twin barn doors. A perfectly preserved 1954 Chevrolet sedan was in the spot next to where I pulled in.
I still felt like I was trespassing but I went to the door. There was brass duck head knocker on the door which I lifted and let go twice. A handsome young couple came to the door, and I told them I had come about the duck boat. They were a little perplexed and then the woman, said, “Oh, it's Dad.” At that point I heard a highball from somewhere deep in the house—followed by a few feeding chuckles. They ushered me into the home and to the room from which the highballs were coming.
The house was incredible. It looked like something out of a Martha Stewart Magazine or Architectural Digest. I was ushered into the “den” where the calls were coming from. Again, as I entered I was greeted by a highball from a man in about his mid 70s. Craggy face dressed in full duck gear-back then. Duxback pants, a new Jones hat sat cocked slightly on his head, Bean boots, Bean hunting field coat; three lanyards, mallard call, goose Olt call and some whistles. It was hot, no air conditioning. A few more incantations from the call and he stopped and I told him I was here about the duckboat.
But after having said that I was taken aback by the room. A large den - now we might call it a man-cave but far too elegant in a masculine way. It was probably 20 feet by 30 feet. Son-in-law and daughter retreated to another part of the house. There were bookshelves bracketing a fireplace and dark, fine cherry paneling between the shelves and throughout the rest of the room. Up on the upper shelves were decoys as well as on the mantel of the fireplace. Easily recognizable styles from Barnegat Bay, black ducks, brant and broadbill. Fine Connecticut birds—I didn’t ask but I am sure some were Laings or Wheelers. And representative Long Island birds, black ducks, broadbill and more brant. All brant had the wonderful tilted forward heads and impressionistic bodies that convey movement. Populating the lower 12 inches on the lowest shelf extending into the room were shorebird decoys. Black bellied plovers and yellow legs mostly. And resting on the same 12-inch shelf before the bookshelves began were three scaled-down duckboats - don’t know to what scale, but they were about 14 inches to 16 inches long. A Banrnegat Bay Sneak Box, a Great South Bay punt, and a Merrymeeting Scull boat. All were exquisite recreations. The Sneak Box had a rig of perfect broadbill decoys stacked on the aft deck between the stool racks; oars where shipped. Thatch covered the front to the cockpit. A spray shield was up. The punt also was thatched, and again with perfect reproductions of a black duck rig stacked between the decoy racks. A sprit rig was stowed in the cockpit. And a shoving oar was placed lengthwise from the end of the cockpit to half way to the bow. The scull boat was not thatched. A few decoys were stored beneath the deck, visible from the cockpit. A sculling oar was placed off-center through the transom. I was totally transfixed. The Sneak Box or the punt was a boat I wanted bad — life-size though. (I might add that, about ten years later, I was looking for a job in New York City, and to alleviate the depression—that is trying to find a job in the recession of 1975—I went to the Cross Roads of Sport, a high end sporting shop. There I saw what appeared to be the same replicas. I wondered then and now. )
But that night I continued through the den. The lower two book shelves were filled with shooting books. Barber’s book on Decoys, “Duck Shooting along the Eastern Tidewater," “Duck Shooting," “Gunnerman’s Gold,” The Forrester books and others, some I recognized and others were not then familiar to me. On the open spaces on the paneled walls without book shelves were original watercolors by Weiler, a small oil by Roland Clark, and Benson etchings. It was “Night in the Long Island Gunner’s Museum” for me. I went through the room slowly examining it in detail—and I must have been rude - but I was just so taken. He watched me out of the corner of his eye while he continued to blow intermittently on the call, mostly chuckles— and I was certainly hoping that he would not get started on the goose call in that small room. He said, “Hey kid, how’s this” and emitted the low guttural grunt of a circling male black duck. Then he said, “and the girls” and the long single low quack of a hen mallard or black followed by another. “Pretty good, huh” and it was. And he finally got kinda of winded and I asked where he hunted. He told me he hunted across the Island and up and down the East Coast. He mentioned the Bay, and many private clubs and properties, Flanders, Wertheim’s, Hard’s, the South Side Club, Wyandanch and others. The names familiar to most Long Island gunners - even though most of us never hunted there - certainly not me. “So, who did you hunt with?” I was impertinently curious. He welcomed the question. “Lynn Hunt, Kip Farrington, and I knew most of the others, Connett and Heilner,” and he mentioned others I did not recognize. So, my deduction then and now was that he moved in that circle of wealthy sportsman that populated Long Island and owned large properties or belonged to early sporting clubs. I had no way to test the veracity of his claims and today happy that I could not - if for no other purpose than this reminiscence. “So, I came to see about the boat.” He said, “Yes, lets go” and he led me down a corridor out to a door to a large patio and as we left the house he serenaded the warm humid night with another highball.
When I was in the house, I had gotten very excited about this boat, having seen the “Museum.” Could this be a Sneak Box? A North Shore boat? A punt? What? Well, he directed me to what can only be described as a large tub. A vessel about 8 feet long and 4 feet wide, with grass boards on the side. “You just pull it up the side of the bog and set your broadbill stool and get in the box. My son and I have killed many birds out of this rig.” It begged the question how do you cross the Bay in this? Two men in a bath tub? So it was not for me. I indicated that I needed a rig I could propel and that was seaworthy, not a small barge that apparently was towed across to the bog—though I did not tell him that. We had an amicable parting and I walked around the patio, and by the garage and got into the VW, started it, and before I left a parting highball echoed from the back of the house and I made my way down the exquisite pebble driveway to the noisy highway. I wondered then about the sanity of the man, and have so wondered over many years. Dementia we call it now, and my old boss, a German carpenter called it “brain fever.” But now, come September each year, when I think back and consider this man and my behavior and the behavior of friends, I wonder whether he was any different from any of us
Be well.
Mid-September on Long Island is a lot like summer—true we get some clear cool days with perfect blue skies, but we also get summer weather, hot and humid, and that day I went to Westbury it was hot and humid. I was dressed in cutoffs and a t-shirt. I had borrowed my mother’s VW bug because my ancient truck, although good around town, was not a reliable trip vehicle.
The directions were a little vague—find a road on the left (south side) of Rt 25 about two miles after getting onto Rt 25 from the Long Island Expressway, and go down the road about 3/4 mile and a house will be on the right. I got into Westbury and Rt 25 in the vicinity, and saw housing on the North side of the road, but the South side was a high boxwood hedge which seemed to go on forever. I drove past an entrance road on the South side but it looked like a private drive. There was an open, high wrought iron gate and a beautiful white quartz pebble road. So I turned around, went by it again, turned around one more time and started down it, feeling very much like a trespasser. The road was edged by bricks and to my left and right were perfectly low cut lawns, populated by interesting trees and bushes. I drove about a half mile and there was very neat clapboard house on the right with Essex green shutters and what looked like perhaps two to three bedrooms. The pebble road continued past the house and I pulled into the parking space before a brick garage with twin barn doors. A perfectly preserved 1954 Chevrolet sedan was in the spot next to where I pulled in.
I still felt like I was trespassing but I went to the door. There was brass duck head knocker on the door which I lifted and let go twice. A handsome young couple came to the door, and I told them I had come about the duck boat. They were a little perplexed and then the woman, said, “Oh, it's Dad.” At that point I heard a highball from somewhere deep in the house—followed by a few feeding chuckles. They ushered me into the home and to the room from which the highballs were coming.
The house was incredible. It looked like something out of a Martha Stewart Magazine or Architectural Digest. I was ushered into the “den” where the calls were coming from. Again, as I entered I was greeted by a highball from a man in about his mid 70s. Craggy face dressed in full duck gear-back then. Duxback pants, a new Jones hat sat cocked slightly on his head, Bean boots, Bean hunting field coat; three lanyards, mallard call, goose Olt call and some whistles. It was hot, no air conditioning. A few more incantations from the call and he stopped and I told him I was here about the duckboat.
But after having said that I was taken aback by the room. A large den - now we might call it a man-cave but far too elegant in a masculine way. It was probably 20 feet by 30 feet. Son-in-law and daughter retreated to another part of the house. There were bookshelves bracketing a fireplace and dark, fine cherry paneling between the shelves and throughout the rest of the room. Up on the upper shelves were decoys as well as on the mantel of the fireplace. Easily recognizable styles from Barnegat Bay, black ducks, brant and broadbill. Fine Connecticut birds—I didn’t ask but I am sure some were Laings or Wheelers. And representative Long Island birds, black ducks, broadbill and more brant. All brant had the wonderful tilted forward heads and impressionistic bodies that convey movement. Populating the lower 12 inches on the lowest shelf extending into the room were shorebird decoys. Black bellied plovers and yellow legs mostly. And resting on the same 12-inch shelf before the bookshelves began were three scaled-down duckboats - don’t know to what scale, but they were about 14 inches to 16 inches long. A Banrnegat Bay Sneak Box, a Great South Bay punt, and a Merrymeeting Scull boat. All were exquisite recreations. The Sneak Box had a rig of perfect broadbill decoys stacked on the aft deck between the stool racks; oars where shipped. Thatch covered the front to the cockpit. A spray shield was up. The punt also was thatched, and again with perfect reproductions of a black duck rig stacked between the decoy racks. A sprit rig was stowed in the cockpit. And a shoving oar was placed lengthwise from the end of the cockpit to half way to the bow. The scull boat was not thatched. A few decoys were stored beneath the deck, visible from the cockpit. A sculling oar was placed off-center through the transom. I was totally transfixed. The Sneak Box or the punt was a boat I wanted bad — life-size though. (I might add that, about ten years later, I was looking for a job in New York City, and to alleviate the depression—that is trying to find a job in the recession of 1975—I went to the Cross Roads of Sport, a high end sporting shop. There I saw what appeared to be the same replicas. I wondered then and now. )
But that night I continued through the den. The lower two book shelves were filled with shooting books. Barber’s book on Decoys, “Duck Shooting along the Eastern Tidewater," “Duck Shooting," “Gunnerman’s Gold,” The Forrester books and others, some I recognized and others were not then familiar to me. On the open spaces on the paneled walls without book shelves were original watercolors by Weiler, a small oil by Roland Clark, and Benson etchings. It was “Night in the Long Island Gunner’s Museum” for me. I went through the room slowly examining it in detail—and I must have been rude - but I was just so taken. He watched me out of the corner of his eye while he continued to blow intermittently on the call, mostly chuckles— and I was certainly hoping that he would not get started on the goose call in that small room. He said, “Hey kid, how’s this” and emitted the low guttural grunt of a circling male black duck. Then he said, “and the girls” and the long single low quack of a hen mallard or black followed by another. “Pretty good, huh” and it was. And he finally got kinda of winded and I asked where he hunted. He told me he hunted across the Island and up and down the East Coast. He mentioned the Bay, and many private clubs and properties, Flanders, Wertheim’s, Hard’s, the South Side Club, Wyandanch and others. The names familiar to most Long Island gunners - even though most of us never hunted there - certainly not me. “So, who did you hunt with?” I was impertinently curious. He welcomed the question. “Lynn Hunt, Kip Farrington, and I knew most of the others, Connett and Heilner,” and he mentioned others I did not recognize. So, my deduction then and now was that he moved in that circle of wealthy sportsman that populated Long Island and owned large properties or belonged to early sporting clubs. I had no way to test the veracity of his claims and today happy that I could not - if for no other purpose than this reminiscence. “So, I came to see about the boat.” He said, “Yes, lets go” and he led me down a corridor out to a door to a large patio and as we left the house he serenaded the warm humid night with another highball.
When I was in the house, I had gotten very excited about this boat, having seen the “Museum.” Could this be a Sneak Box? A North Shore boat? A punt? What? Well, he directed me to what can only be described as a large tub. A vessel about 8 feet long and 4 feet wide, with grass boards on the side. “You just pull it up the side of the bog and set your broadbill stool and get in the box. My son and I have killed many birds out of this rig.” It begged the question how do you cross the Bay in this? Two men in a bath tub? So it was not for me. I indicated that I needed a rig I could propel and that was seaworthy, not a small barge that apparently was towed across to the bog—though I did not tell him that. We had an amicable parting and I walked around the patio, and by the garage and got into the VW, started it, and before I left a parting highball echoed from the back of the house and I made my way down the exquisite pebble driveway to the noisy highway. I wondered then about the sanity of the man, and have so wondered over many years. Dementia we call it now, and my old boss, a German carpenter called it “brain fever.” But now, come September each year, when I think back and consider this man and my behavior and the behavior of friends, I wonder whether he was any different from any of us
Be well.
