It
is often asked, do you remember where you were and what you were doing
when certain events took place. It’s usually pretty easy to recall, in
perfect detail, those memories formed when JFK was shot, when the
Challenger exploded or when those events unfolded on that fateful day in
September 2001. However, being shooters, hunters and gun lovers I bet
there is something else squirreled away in the back of your mind,
something special, something sacred -- that precise moment when you took
that first shot that changed you forever.
I remember that event vividly, I may have been seven years old, and we
were attending a small party at my uncle’s place. I had one of those
uncles, the kind that was easy to idolize as a child, the kind that
could produce some manner of amazing gadget at the drop of a hat, the
kind that drew a crowd of wide-eyed children whenever he reached into
his pocket. A family gathering never went past without the appearance of
a deactivated hand grenade, or a switchblade, or the ever-popular
pyrotechnics of questionable legality. Yeah, I had that kind of uncle,
it was pretty awesome. Did I mention the guns?
He
was a bit of a gun nut, or maybe just a nut, although hindsight is
20/20, it’s also biased so it’s safest just to say he was an interesting
fellow with a decent collection of firearms. Getting back to my story,
on that evening in question in the dwindling light of a chill late
summer evening a gun was introduced to the crowd. It was a strange
contraption, a .22 rimfire that was fed by a sizable magazine and fired
from an open bolt. Later in life I discovered this to be a French Gevarm
semi-automatic, an interesting firearm to say the least. I should also
say I use the term “semi-automatic” loosely, as most who have had the
Gevarm experience will understand.
My
uncle’s house sat near a cliff and a couple Javex bottles had been
tossed down into the surging wash of the Great Lake below. Bobbing in
the surf, the bottles made for frustrating targets. Several men took
turns alternately sniping and cursing at the elusive quarry as my cousin
and I looked on in eager anticipation. To my astonishment, I was also
to get a turn. I got the usual coaching you receive as a young,
first-time shooter -- butt-stock to shoulder, hand here, hand there, look
down the sights, shoot the bottle.
The
small firearm was heavy and unwieldy to my younger self, I think the
stock ended up in my armpit as I struggled to gain a sight picture of
the small, white blob, floating so far below. My small finger squeezed,
the bolt slammed forward and a small lead projectile spat forth to the
water below. To this day I swear I hit the bottle, but more importantly,
I fell in love. I was never to be the same from that point onward, I
was hooked and guns would forever have a special place in my heart. It
was a defining moment that I remember like it was yesterday, a moment
that is largely responsible for who I am today.
What
was your first gun experience, what made you love guns? Share your
story with the Beretta Nation or shoot us a tweet or comment on
Facebook, we would love to hear from you.
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Rick Chisholm is an IT Security Officer and guest contributor for the Beretta Blog. He can be reached on Twitter
This post and its contents are the views and opinions of the author only, and do not represent those of Beretta.
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