A Place on the Water by Mike Boyle & Charlotte Zang

Waterfront views: inspiring sunrises and unforgettable sunsets. That’s what everyone wants. This place has them, looking out over the West Fork of Langford Creek. It’s not your usual vacation spot and no one would mistake it for being plush or even comfortable. Still, it has been rented out consistently in the high season with many people on the waiting list, hoping for a cancellation that they could seize.

The structure has stood for more than 30 years and it shows. The effects of the wind and rain are etched into the wooden exterior, once the color of the bark of a healthy fir tree and now the same gray as the water in February when the skies cloud up and threaten to snow.

John loved it there. On those occasions when he was fortunate enough to reserve it, this place that the locals call the Taj Mahal was his favorite place to be.  

Built in the shape of a V and only accessible by boat, there was no other blind like it on the Eastern Shore, at least not that he knew about. He had traveled almost all of the tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay and heard about the rest. 

The week after Thanksgiving, John visited the Taj Mahal to get it ready for his stay in January when he would have full use of it for the entire month. He launched his bateau, seated next to the motor and peering over the cedar branches that he loaded that morning. He steered the boat around Cacaway Island, flooded with memories. As he approached his destination, he had that same feeling of adventure that he always got when he was out on the Bay. It’s a sense of freedom that comes from being exposed to the elements – the sun, sky, wind, and water – and yet protected at the same time.

As he got closer, John could see that all the pilings were still standing. A better inspection revealed marks where slabs of ice moving down the creek had pushed against the pilings, grinding against them, but so far, not causing any real damage. 

John saw an osprey nest in the center of the slightly slanted roof, with large sticks protruding from every angle. Most likely the same pair that had been using that spot for the past few years had raised a family there last spring, he thought as he pulled the flat-bottomed boat in behind the Taj Mahal. When he shut off the motor, he heard the sharp cry of an osprey that was circling overhead as if declaring that the space was already occupied.  

From the outside, the building looked the same as he remembered it. Two sections, each sixteen feet long and joined in the center by a kitchen area. He noticed that some of the vertical planks had rotted and would have to be replaced. 

This offshore blind, or booby blind as it was also called, was located in a sheltered lee, protected from the northwest wind. This was the perfect place for ducks because they fly into the wind to land which allows them to control their descent. 

John climbed up into the blind and took it all in. The two-burner propane stove was still there. He could almost smell the hash browns, scrambled eggs, and bacon cooking. Coffee stains marked the square table, reminding him of all the times he had sat there with his buddies while there was a lull in the action or waiting his turn to shoot, eating, telling stories, and playing Pinochle. 

He walked to the shooting area on the west side. The two sides were identical, but the wind and weather determined which one to use. It’s best to have the wind at your back or even a crosswind. In this blind, you could choose which side was most favorable for the conditions. That’s one of the things that made it so special. 

In the front of the blind, the planks rose 4 feet high with a shelf inside, perfectly positioned for shotgun shells and duck calls. Hunting diver ducks (redheads, canvasbacks, and bluebills) doesn’t require calls, but it’s better to be prepared in case a pair of mallards or a flock of geese show up. John always brought a whistle, too, hoping to see some pintails, the acrobats of the sky, or teal which are true speedsters when they buzz by, or even widgeon who love to steal what the divers bring up. 

In the old days, that shelf might have held a pint of brandy to be passed around, but not anymore. The only drinking John’s group did consisted of mugs of steaming black coffee or a cold beer once they got home. 

A wooden bench ran the length of the blind. John took a seat in his familiar spot. The bench was slightly worn but without splinters. Even the dog’s platform was intact. His black Lab Sam had spent many hours there, patiently observing, watching intently through his window, waiting for the birds to fall. Many times John was alerted to approaching divers when he noticed Sam’s ever vigilant eyes trained toward the sky. The dog was poised to leap into the creek when John opened the door and gave the command. Sam was an expert retriever, quickly locating his prize, swimming back in freezing water that was 10 feet deep, and making his way up the icy ramp. He’d proudly deliver the bird and receive his reward: a rousing “Good boy!” with a hearty pat on the head and the occasional treat which could be a Milk Bone, stale donut, or piece of jerky.

John stood up and looked over the water toward the opposite shore, remembering some of his best days in the blind. The reason for being there was the hunt but actually, it was the bond with his friends that brought him back. His group had hunted together for more than 10 years and been through the situations that make life hard. They had stories to tell – mostly true, with some more embellished than others – but they all knew the universal law: What’s said in the blind, stays in the blind. It’s a sacred place when they can speak in confidence. Each person knows that if the stories get shared out in the real world, most likely they won’t be invited back. 

And then there was the Day of Days. Everyone who was part of that shoot years ago remembers every detail: how they arrived at O dark 30 as the sleet stung their faces while they put out 200 decoys before first light, with Sam in his camo vest riding high on the bow of the boat. They could recall how the wind howled from the north, making 25 degrees feel more like ten as the sleet turned to snow and the landscape became silent. Scores of ducks put on a spectacular air show when the sun came up, flying upwind and then turning toward the decoys, tipping their wings and putting out their landing gear as they maneuvered to the open water. ‘

It has been said that canvasbacks are to duck hunting what marlin are to salt water fishing. For those fortunate enough to go after them, they are truly the king of ducks, so beautiful and thrilling to hunt.  

Many hunters are eager to take cans on their first approach. Guys get excited when they hear the roar of those wings as the ducks swoop down but a seasoned hunter knows better. Cans will circle back in a figure 8 pattern. The trick is to be patient enough to wait until the birds complete the third pass and come in feet down to land. That’s how it was on the Day of Days. The cans performed perfectly, as if on cue. Everyone got their limit that day with a bonus: they got to tell the story which would be repeated for years.

John remembered all this as he spent a couple of hours brushing the blind. This would be the last season for him to handle the task. The next one would find him firmly planted down south in a condo using a golf cart to zip around the neighborhood. It was time. But he would always treasure the memories of those bitter cold days he spent sitting in a plain wooden duck blind on Langford Creek. 

Mike Boyle is a lifelong waterfowler. He has done extensive traveling and hunting throughout North America and prefers diver hunting on the Chester River. Photos by Mike Boyle.

Charlotte Zang is a freelance writer who promotes businesses on social media and through magazine articles. She is also a creative writer whose work has been published in a variety of literary journals.