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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 9 but Larry wishes us there. So we fold up, pile in the boat and hurry. On the stilts at the yawn of the creek, the wind is stiff, cruel and keen, but who's to care. On come the cans. We have another big bull on the water in moments. Even as another band tears by on the gale. Ha! . . . the lead drake tilts an eye. "He gave us a look," C.D. cajoles hopefully. On knifes the flock, carrying fast away until you can barely see, until maybe they swing and turn, so that for a moment they are lost to uncertainty. Then . . . C.D. . . . "Here they come, here they come." Do they ever, hard on, the rush of their wings like ripping sails, bunching, stooping and scorching over the set in a blinding black-rust- white flash. We needed only the one bird. Nothing had fallen. I had the final, starboard, fast and away shot – tried mightily for a drake and dropped the hen behind. No sooner done, almost, than the window began to close. In the following half-hour the past retreated, the clouds parted and the sun filtered through. Father Time had gained his legs again, had turned closed the old ledger, was rushing on. How difficult to grasp perfection sometimes, even when it is laid in your hand. We were a bit numb really. While still the big birds flew, but less profusely. Until, come 10:30, they waned, and we gathered the blocks and turned the bow for home. On the deck lay a three-man limit of cans, a brace apiece bull and hen. Onboard, back to the future, traveled four happy men. T he evening was most memorable. Melancholy too. All had enjoyed grand sport, and with the dawning, all would part for home. Deeply grateful to have been there and for the fertile graciousness of our hosts. As Nash Buckingham once said, "Supper was a delicious memory" . . . of salutations of good wines and appetizers of breaded mallard medallions and lusciously broiled shrimp, entrees of oyster stew, roast tenderloin, asparagus tips, steamed carrots and new broiled potatoes, before a finish of German chocolate cake . . . when later Larry, Bob, C.D. and I, along with the resident Labs, retreated to an intimate corner of the old lodge. Among us, no word was spoken. We simply raised four glasses, leaving the truth of it all to pass between our eyes. For this one thing we knew. That this day, in this way, would never be again. Author's Note: Dedicated to the Crew of the Black Pearl, and a lingering Maryland melody. Editor's Note: The author's new book, Turning for Home, is available at www.sporting classics.com.