Bullseye

M y husband Gene and I stopped giving each other wrapped birthday presents a few years back. We’re at that stage of life where we pretty much have what we want and need, and what we don’t have, we tend to go ahead and buy for ourselves. So instead of trading gift bags, we started using our birthdays as an excuse to do something we’ve never done before—together.

We’ve blown glass, gone ziplining, flown in an air tunnel, crawled through caves, and splattered paint at one of those splash art studios. So when Gene’s 63rd birthday crept up on the calendar, I was racking my brain for something new, affordable, and close enough that we wouldn’t need to pack a suitcase.

That’s when I landed on archery.

Now, I want you to know I wasn’t walking in completely blind. Growing up in Bonaire in the 1970s, my father and brother both shot bows—they were hunters— and I have fond memories of plinking away at backyard targets as a kid. It was fun. Gene, on the other hand, had never shot a bow in his life. Maybe a toy one back when elementary school children still played cowboys and Indians, but nothing serious. When his birthday rolled around this past Monday, and I announced the plan, I watched his face carefully for some flicker of excitement.

There was none. Zero. Oh well. You win some, and you lose some, and that’s what I had planned and paid for, so we got in the car and headed to a nearby range.

“You never know,” I said. “One of us may be really good and qualify for the Olympics. It may not be too late for us. Stranger things have happened.”

About twenty minutes later, we pulled into Barnsley Resort, where we met our instructor, Gavin. He handed us each a traditional bow and then walked us through the basics— how to stand, how to hold the bow, how to load the arrows, and how to aim. “Pull the string back with two fingers to about your cheek,” he said, “look down the arrow, lock onto your target, and release.” He demonstrated, making it look effortless—his arrow landing close to the yellow bullseye in the center.

Gene shot first. His arrow pierced the red ring very close to the center. He looked up and smiled, and I thought, “Well, there it is…” His very next shot, though, skidded right into the dirt. I stepped up, and my first shot hit the bale of hay but missed every scoring ring entirely. We had over an hour, I reminded myself. Plenty of time to learn and improve. By my fourth shot, my fingers were on fire. Gavin suggested an adjustment, and that helped considerably. He also pointed out that I was holding my aim too long— causing shakiness —and pulling the string back farther than necessary. Once I corrected those things, my continued from page

shots started finding their mark.

I kept us entertained with survival scenarios. “We haven’t eaten in two weeks,” I’d announce, “and it’s up to me to take down that buffalo.” Then I’d miss the target completely. “Well, our starvation continues.”

But I had some good shots, too. Both of us did.

Gavin eventually brought out a compound bow, too, which was noticeably easier to control and awfully satisfying to shoot.

About seventy-five minutes in, both our arms were tired and our fingers were sore, but we had both improved dramatically in the time we were there. We thanked Gavin and headed for the car.

“Well, what do you think? Do we have a chance?” I asked Gene.

He looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Competing in the Olympics,” I teased.

He didn’t answer, which was an answer in itself. No medals, no buffalo, no Olympics—just a good hour and a half on a Monday with the man I married all those years ago. That’s a bullseye in my book.

From the PorchBy Amber Nagle