My hair flipped around from the breeze rushing over the window cracks in Lausanne’s Jeep. We were headed to Little Talbot Island, and I absorbed the beach scene passing on my right. I hadn’t seen Lausanne since Thanksgiving break, so we had a lot of catching up to do. Currently, she was filling me in on James’ boar hunting trip.
“He was trying to be so careful. He knew there was a big difference between shooting a female over a male, so he used the scope to try to pinpoint a female.”
“What’s the difference between the two other than the obvious?”
“About 250 dollars, from what I can tell. A female only skims 150 out of your pockets.”
“And a male is 400? Geez. That’s an expensive hobby.”
“Tell me about it. So he sits and waits until he has one in sight. He lines it up and scrutinizes the snout. No tusks. He looks again. No tusks. He pulls the trigger and strolls over . . . tusks.” She sighed. “We’re now the proud owners of the most expensive pork in the world. Me? I’m a writer. So what does that cost?”
“Besides generous slices of your sanity and soul?”
“There is that.” We rolled through a Wendy’s drive-thru and stocked up on necessary frozen supplies.
As we journeyed onward, I pondered the issue of hunting. I’ve grown up in the South and have family members who indulge in some form of firearms recreation almost every weekend. When we hit those rare lulls when nothing is in season, enthusiasts become so depressed they have to resort to spending time with family or watching bass fishing on television. And for those of you out there who’ve never seen a fishing tournament on a 52 inch flat screen, let me just say that for kicks and giggles it ranks right below scooping out wilted lettuce from the crisper.
Personally, I’ve never wanted to shoot anything other than the breeze, although I’m a huge fan of the spoils my nephew brings home. I think it’s an issue of guilt. I just can’t see those large, liquid eyes and not think of that animal as a statistic of woodland crime. Even when I dine at Texas Roadhouse, I have the hostess seat me away from that giant elk head that stares you down while you’re trying to enjoy your sirloin tips in mushroom gravy. It’s also an issue of courage. I simply lack the ability for combat. I can’t even take out a spider with a shoe, so arachnids have reigned unopposed beneath my kitchen cabinets and live a life of contentment . . . unless high-pitched shrieking gets on their nerves and then I’m certain they feel annoyed on occasion.
I put these reflections aside as we pulled into Little Talbot Park and Lausanne paid the fee. We were soon strolling along a nearly deserted beach enjoying flawless Florida weather and discussing the big quandaries of life: global female subjugation, the quality of a private school education, 7th century Syria and historical inaccuracies, and the merits of a vanilla versus a chocolate Frosty. We solved all of them except for that last one, but some parts of life are simply meant to stay shrouded in mystery. All in all, it was an exemplary vacation day.
© 2013 – Traci Carver