In Sarasota in the spring the polo season begins, the tarpon start to run and the sun allows you play through the mid-day heat. Ms. Deborah and I took a diversion from the beach, golf and stomping divots to break some clays this past spring at the Sarasota Trap Skeet and Clays. This facility has every type of clay shooting you could want: trap, skeet, 5-stand and sporting clays. We had started out with intention of a quick round of clays and then lunch on the beach. I was anxious to break in a new over and under 20 gauge. Well a lot did break, not so many clays though. Here’s what happened. As we rented a golf cart, the proprietress explained that the sporting clay stations wrapped around the trap and skeet fields between the fields and a canal. Maybe you’ll get to see the resident gator, she offered. Where I come from we measure reptiles in inches not feet. I made sure Ms. Deborah was well acquainted with the cart’s controls. The first station was a report pair, simulating crossing quail. As Ms. Deborah manned the trap control the first pair went off without a hitch.
Pull! Boom. Boom. The second pair is where the breaking started to begin.
Pull! Boom. Click. Click? Yes click. I broken open the over and under and tried again but the trigger was frozen and safety was musher than a rotten apple. Anyone care to guess the manufacturer of the ill-fated over-and-under? Here’s a clue:
Il fucile da caccia è inceppato. Riding back to the clubhouse, we rented a 20 gauge since I had boxes of 20 gauge shells. I opted for a Beretta Urika. Driving back to the stations, Ms. Deborah’s gave me her impression of Mister Toad’s Wild Ride. The spiny palmetto scratching as we whizzed to station 2.
Pull! Boom--ouch. Pull! Boom-ouch. The semi-automatic worked like a dream but the stock was short and the recoil jammed my thumb into my nose on each shot. I needed to figure out a way to stop rapping my nose with my thumb. On to station 3 the cart died like a cell phone when you really need it. We had to go back to the clubhouse again. Fortunately two gents who had caught up to our movable feast offered their ride to return to the clubhouse. The two wore dungarees held up with suspenders. Pith helmets topped their heads. With their beards they looked like protégés of the Duck Commander or two members of a ZZ Top cover band. One’s beard tapered to a point and tickled his belt buckle while the other’s was cut off straight so that every time he turned his head from side to side he brushed off his belly. I can only imagine what Ms. Deborah and I looked like to them. I thanked them and warned them about the canal and gator. They smiled. They could tell we were out-of-towners. Back yet again to the clubhouse, where the proprietress eyed me like a troublemaker. She was quick to find another cart and get us on our way. So back to the Duck Commander crews with a thank you and handshake. On to station 4 with me hanging on to the cart’s handgrip, dodging the palmetto and wondering when the gator would appear. So I would like to end this post by saying the gator bite the golf cart tire. Or I broke a clean 100. But the Urika coughed out the last empty and Ms. Deborah remarked: Now didn’t you make that look easy.
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