The dashboard clock clicked over to 2 a.m. as a weary-eyed waterfowler exited onto the east-bound ramp of Interstate 26.
Hour and a half, he thought as he eased his rig onto the road that would take him to South Carolinas Lowcountry. This late in the season he had high hopes for some good shooting, even though it just didnt seem like the ducks flew like they used to.
Driving to the boat ramp in fog as thick as she-crab soup, I thought I might be an idiot.
It was January and the air at the ramps parking lot was damp and clammy. Sitting in a deer stand or duck blind in these sorts of conditions is no problem, but the idea of running nearly 20 miles offshore gave me the chills.