The Only Thing I Want To Do For The Rest of My Life Is Hunt
I still remember it like it was yesterday. Rolled out of bed at 4:30 a.m., layered up for sub-40 temps that felt like the Arctic to a Florida kid. Hopped out of my dad’s truck, watched him back the boat in, then dragged it to the bank, loaded the decoys, and gave one last shove into the Glades. Dad handed me a thermos of blistering hot, sugar bombed coffee. I poured a cup, the sun started creeping up, and the hunt was on.
That’s when my phone buzzed. A text from my ex, a topless pic with the caption “wish you stayed over last night.”
Instant regret. FOMO and teenage testosterone hit me like a brick. Suddenly the last place on earth I wanted to be was a bass boat in the middle of nowhere, choking on Dad’s second hand Marlboro smoke. I’d just started sneaking into clubs and chasing girls. Looking back, 15 is insane, but when you grow up in Florida, life runs on fast forward. The more I tasted nightlife and pussy, the less I cared about ducks.
When we got back to the ramp I told him, “Dad, this was my last hunt. I’m just tired of waking up early on weekends.”
I braced for disappointment. Instead he smiled and said, “I knew this day was coming.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me and said, “Happens to every guy. You hunt as a kid, then you discover women and going out, so you quit. But once you get tired of both, you come crawling back.”
Eleven years later… he was right.
I’d sit at my desk watching coworker after coworker get invited on these unreal Barstool Outdoors trips. Started taking it personal. Did I piss off Sydnie and Jack? Why wasn’t I on the bass fishing guest list? One day I cornered Jack, showed him an old picture of me and my dad covered in ducks, and he just laughed. “Relax, we’ve got something special for you.”
Last weekend they flew me to Missouri for a duck hunt, and it was the best 48 hours of my life.
For the first time in years I felt completely at peace. There’s something magical about sitting in a pit with seven people talking shit, watching the sunrise paint the sky, listening to the birds chirp, and then the sky absolutely erupting in gunfire and falling mallards. The smell of burnt powder hanging thick. Dogs going jumping in the water to track down the duck you just plucked from the sky. Pure chaos and calm at the same time.
It slammed me straight back to those mornings with my dad. Back to who I actually am when I strip away the doom scrolling, the thirst traps, and the endless chase for shit that doesn’t matter.
Out there, the only thing that exists is right in front of you. No notifications. No exes. No bullshit.
I haven’t been able to think about anything else since we got home. Already have my next two hunts booked.
Dad called it all those years ago. I’m back, baby.
Sydnie, Jack, Divebomb, thank you for dragging me home.