When one would pop up, a fusillade of rocks and steel would rain down on him creating columns of water and drawled narration.
“Dayum, d’you see that? I almost hit that son-of-a-bitch!” (Christian southern boys try on cussing like their older sisters try on shorter dresses. It’s highly provisional.)
We weren’t very accurate. The turtles reacted to nearby shots but didn’t suffer from them. Despite our efforts, the turtle mortality rate of the mid-eighties remained stubbornly static. At night in bed, I would go over the shots in my head, replaying them in a montage. It helped me to sleep. And still does. My African safari wears my brain down to a sleepy nub these days. Back then, in the montage, I was wildly inconsistent 10 yr old, but in my dreams I could shoot like this old man.