strange things happen out on the big water

Bill Burkett

Bill Burkett

Active member
When I was a teenager reading the "Big Three" outdoor magazines and absorbing every waterfowling tale into my very DNA until I began to think I WAS a duck hunter (like Don Quixote, poor old guy, reading all those tales about knighthood in flower and beginning to think he was a knight) one of the stories that deeply affected me was by Mel Ellis, "All Ghosts Aren't White." In those days real writers could be found in the outdoor press, and Ellis was one. I kept that tattered magazine for decades before the silverfish finally destroyed it. Later I tried to find what happened to it and followed a convoluted online trail that appeared to indicate that after Mr. Ellis died the rights to the story passed from hand to hand, but I couldn't find a copy.

It was a long time before I had my own possibly supernatural encounter out on the big salt in the bay of the Palix River on the Southwest Washington coast. I was telling my story to a lady duck hunter from Alabama that I encountered in one of those long gone AOL chat rooms when she suggested the supernatural aspect of the adventure and said I ought to write it. So I did, and sent it to her friends at Double Gun Journal (complete with a reference to my old Lefever Nitro Express far-killer.) They asked what I wanted for the story and I named my regular DU price, about a third of the cheapest price of a double advertised in their magazine, and never heard from them again. But it was for the best because I lucked out with the resurrected Saturday Evening Post and they bought it, and supplied remarkably apt illustrations by a talented artist.

I lucked out again in the timing of the thing: my "ghost" story, unlike Mr. Ellis's remains online at the Saturday Evening Post website to this day, complete with those wonderful illustrations. The readership of Saturday Evening Post was kind enough to respond very favorably to the yarn--even non duck hunters. If you are so inclined, you can read "Pea Green Boat" free on their website. My grand daughter asked me how much of that story is true, Grandpa? How much of it do you want to be true, I asked her. Oh, Grandpa!

I hope readers will find that I have honored the tradition of writers like Mel Ellis, Russell Annabel and Robert Ruark in the telling of "Pea Green Boat."
Bill Burkett
 
I sure enjoyed that story, Bill. Wonderfully told. I did chuckle when I read this: "My Labrador, a winter dog named Summer."
Al
 
Given I know those islands, tides, boat ramp and bar...I loved it. You captured the spirit and feel of Western Washington.
 
Bill;

Well written article, you've got a gift for being able to give the reader a vivid picture of the storyline. I've hunted that area of Willapa Bay, and it's not for the faint of heart. The tide ebbs and floods with a vengence. If you have a low barometer, the high tide can be somewhat higher than advertised.

We have not experienced anything like your characters in the story have, but that area gives off the vibe that you should always err on the side of caution..........mistakes are not easily forgiven in that part of the world.

Keep the stories coming

Gibby
 
I want to thank everybody for their comments. A writer can have no better experience than to have readers feel as if he put them there, where they could see the things he saw and feel how the weather was. If is a marvelous bonus that some fellow duckin' men have actually hunted that remote area and recognized it. I dedicated my collection of short stories, "Pea Green Boat," to the men of Bay Center, the actual village out there near the big water. Because if they had not manned their crabbers and come out to rescue a group of duck hunters, including two young boys who have gone on to full lives and now have children of their own, that story would never have been written and the five of us would have represented maybe five column inches in the big Northwest papers: five duck hunters drowned on Palix River. And poor Summer would have been an orphan, wandering that causeway looking for a mallard I sailed before the water kept coming--maybe become the mysterious Labrador like the one in that old Mel Ellis story, duck in mouth, swimming from island to island looking in vain for her hunters...I hope the very-much-alive crabbers who rescued us in two boats and then came to my camper to tell me about Summer, still nosing thorugh every clump of brush along the road, will forgive the artistic license I took. And I sure hope the Alabama duck hunting lady who suggested making a ghost story out of it finally got to read it. Maybe in the magazine in one of those Mexican duck hunting camps she liked to go to. As for Summer, in truth I went to get her because she wouldn't have come with anyone else, and my first glimpse of that sleek black form, busily hunting for that mallard as if all was right with the world, created an emotion I still don't know how to put words too. When I hit her with one whistle blast she instantly turned and sat, waiting for a cast.
She hesitated when I gave the come-in trill--she hadn't found the duck yet for god's sake--but then here she came, bounding and wagging. She wasn't big on displays of affection when she was on the job, but when I knelt and gathered her into my arms and hugged, she didn't disdain the sentimentalism for once and happily licked my face, wiggling like a puppy. God I miss that dog. it's just not right that our good companions have such a shorter lifespan than us...I'll stop before I get maudlin. Thanks again for all the nice comments. BillBurkett
 
Loved this story Bill. It made me remember a story or at least parts of a story I read back when I was a kid in grade school. Seems like this story took place on the Chesapeake where a father, his son, and dog all went hunting on a small island and something happened to their skiff as the tide came up. From what I can remember, the dog ended up making a swim for it and the dad put the boy up on his shoulders as the tide came up. I recall not wanting to read the end of it but had to keep on reading it...just in case. I don't recall the name of that story but it didn't end the way I had hoped...I do remember that much!
Thanks again for the good read.
 
Your memory of that story gives me chills...you happen to remember the author/title? Maybe we could find it on the computer. Reminded me of when we went body-surfing in a hurricane...not the most intelligent thing I've ever done. My uncle was the adult and Iguess he thought he was invincible. My younger brother and me lived in the ocean so much we were damn near mermen, and thought it wouldn't try to kill us. We rode some great waves (who needs a surfboard?) but the roaring wind and windchill (it was October, just like now) and all the swimming back out wore us down--and then we got caught in the rip. Never before or since have I seen such a rip, let alone been in it...My uncle said swim across--well we knew that, but as hard as we swam the rip carried us far away until we couldn't even see the beach houses over those waves. We were just about all in when my uncle's feet touched bottom--he was 6'5"--and he grabbed us and towed us toward shore...and right off into a slough that must have been ten feet deep at that stage of the tide and storm. The waves were somehow splitting around it and flattening so we couldn't hitch a ride but at least the rip wasn't in there, so all we had to do (all!) was keep swimming through the cramps and side-stiches and exhaustion. Didn't notice the tide was going sideways through the slough--just kept thrashing until I kind of lost track of things...and the next I knew we were in knee deep (to us) water and out of it--about a half mile down wind from home. The longest coldest half-mile I ever walked, all duck hunts included. While my uncle kept telling us not to tell our grandmother--his mother--or she might take a fire poker to his ass grown man or no. She took one look at us and knew anyway--he forgot she was mostly witch--and that was the last time we went body surfing in a hurricane...
 
It may be 'The Ledge' by Lawrence Sargent Hall. I am going to read it tonight...stuffing a pair of teal right now. From what I remember...the haunting part of it was the thoughts going through the father's head as the water was coming up...but my mind may have filled that part in...it was back around '73 or so when I read it.


http://www.bowdoin.edu/...2009/the-ledge.shtml

Bill...what story are you referencing by Mel Ellis?
...
 
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Arlington is a long way to go to reach the Palix and environs. I'd think you would work the Skagit. I tried the Skagit a few times with good and bad results. I can report that at least once there was a driftwood stick just about ten gauge that I found in the detritus after I knocked down a snow goose--and myH&R ten failed to eject...hands too cold to work a knife blade under the rim and I lost sight of the goose. Found that stick, punched the empty out, reloaded--and here he came belly up drifting on the tide--a gray glare of a day, you know the kind, all that was easy to see was a pair of black tipped wings curving up on either side of an almost invisble white bulk.
Harry didn't believe me and wouldn't take a line. So I used that shell anyway to lay a pattern across the goose--saw his ears perk, saw him lock in--and then had to find that damn stick again. By the time I looked up, the goose was on his way to shore. Couldn't even see Harry behind the bulk until he reached wading water and it slipped out of his mouth when it cleared the water; he got a better grip and came on. My only bird of the way, but worth the 200-mile round trip.
 
Bill if you saw that then you could probably weave a couple of funny stories about snow goose "hunting" on the Skagit Delta. The farm that rents a true "stake" blind site, dike firing lines and all sorts of different types of "water fowling". Why is it that snow geese make some parts of the hunting community go crazy?

Back to SW Washington for a second. I've spent 20+ years hunting the lower Columbia and Willapa. Now that makes for some interesting hunting.
 
Bill;

Yeah, it's almost a 4 hr drive down to Willapa Bay from my house, but we only do it once a year. It's worth the hassle because the hunting pressure down there is a lot less than up here in Skagit County.

Skagit Bay snow goose story: We were at a popular snow goose pass shooting area. It was a firing line set up with guys stationed every 40-50 yds. A goose made it thru the gauntlet, coming in high, it was directly over me, and I got lucky and folded it. A milisecond after I shot, a young hunter of about 11 or 12, unloaded and yelled " I got it, I got it". He was at least 125 yards away, maybe more. My buddy and I just grinned and yelled " Heck of a shot, you cold cocked that one". His dad came over a little while later, and thanked us. The look on that kids face when he was carrying the snow back was worth a millon bucks,...........I don't think either he or myself will ever forget that "shot" he made that day.

Gibby
 
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