We were hiding in a flaxbush under a denim-blue sky on a hilltop dam near Aramoana Beach. With us were the theatrical fantails, a tui chorus, a lone grey warbler and the sun highlighting the surface of the water.
And, as dusk neared, a fullmoon rose over the tree tops.
That's why going home with an empty bag matters little in the annual pastime of duck shooting.
We'd felled a mallard from the sky beforehand - but other than that not a single bird landed near us.
At about 4.45pm onwards, heading into the magic rush-hour window where fowl take to the wing to scout for somewhere to stay for the night, the distant shotgun thuds echoed from neighbouring stations. How many Kiwis in maimais were hiding at this moment the length of the country?
It was a nice feeling.
Since my father took me shooting as a kid, much has stayed the same.
The Spanish shotgun, a pocket of Barley Sugars, barbed wire fences, the peppery smell of gunpowder and the sensory opposites of silence and 12-gauge thunder. So too the young ones cupping hands over their ears and the ready sip of something to warm the belly.
Then there were new traditions.
My brother and I performed a pre-hunt ritual dance for luck. A mix of Masai and Sioux Indian. (Apt lunacy given the full moon - plus it keeps the kids guessing). Another deviation from tradition was a cellphone duck-call download Bluetoothed to a small speaker.
The final novelty was the dish; my brother took the bird back to Wellington on ice to attempt the extremely complex duck confit.
Both the new and aged traditions remind me, again, that duck shooting has very little to do with shooting ducks.
