The sun creeps around the edges of my sunglasses and forces me to squint. I don’t even care because there is a coconut in my hand filled with an elixir of the islands and a little umbrella. I’m on a cruise to the Bahama’s where I will spend five glorious fun-filled days.

We were given free drink tickets when we boarded and mine are safely in my pocket. I’m sporting short shorts, a tank top, tennis shoes, extremely long and very permed hair. After all, it is the ’90s and I’m in my early thirties. 

I am in my happy place. What more could a girl ask for? And then, over the intercom I hear, “There will be skeet shooting off the stern of the ship; all interested parties take the stairs to the lower deck.” Now we’re talking. I loved shooting my M-16 while in the Army, but I’ve never fired a shotgun. 

I’m quick to hop in line, my competitive spirit zinging through me like the steel bearing in a pinball machine. It doesn’t go unnoticed that the fella in line ahead of me is in excellent shape, somewhat handsome, and yes, perhaps a tad bit cocky. 

Mr. Smug-and-Cocky sizes me up before making his offer. Apparently, I don’t look too intimidating. “Would you like to make a little wager? A drink to whoever hits the most birds?”

Well, this is a no-brainer. I’ve got free drink tickets, so I respond with a sunny smile and a perky “Sure.” He gleefully nudges his buddy. It’s written all over him…he’s leading the lamb to slaughter.

The line moves forward erratically, like a Chinese dragon in a parade. As we are about to descend the ladder to the shooting area, he turns to face me but can’t make eye contact. He looks at his feet and confesses, “I guess I should have told you ... I’m a cop.”

I smile politely, somewhat demurely even. “It’s okay,” I tell him.

He’s all about being a gentleman now. “Go ahead, you can shoot first.” 

I put on the earmuffs and inform the deckhand I’ve never fired a shotgun before. So, he gives me a quick lesson and hands me the shotgun. The first bird is released, I track it, exhale, hold my breath, squeeze the trigger and ... I miss. 

We get two birds, and I quickly figure out that I need to lead the bird with my aim, and fire with my site just in front to make up for the trajectory of the bird.

Remember your training, I coach myself. The second bird is released. Aim, exhale, hold your breath, and squeeze that trigger. 

In an instant orange shrapnel from that clay pigeon is flying against the backdrop of a clear blue sky and bouncing off the ocean like skipping rocks at a pond. I shout a resounding “Yes!” followed by an enthusiastic fist pump as I engage in my signature happy dance.

I nod to my competitor on my way to the viewing area. He smiles at me condescendingly conveying, “This isn’t over.” He swaggers over to the deckhand, his confidence apparent.

He shoulders the shotgun and glances back at me. The bird is released, he takes aim, fires, and ... he misses. Another bird is released and again he takes aim, fires, and ... it’s a miss! I do not respond with my happy dance. I want to, but I don’t.

The stranger stomps over to me and slams the drink ticket into my hand. As he turns away, I touch his arm. “I’m sorry, I guess I should have told you ... I was a soldier.”