Day was just beginning to tinge the eastern sky a reddish orange as I made the final adjustments to the spike-grass covering the Aquapod skiff and settled inside the hull, my Remington across the gunwales. In front of me, 18 mixed puddler decoys rocked in the cool coastal breeze, which was slight just then, but would pick up with the tide change. So, too, would the morning flight. Or so I hoped.
My first cup of coffee was interrupted by the sharp sound of pinions cutting the air behind me. There was a flicker of movement to my left as a dozen wigeons cut the edge of my sheet-water puddle
