Popping Balloons on Sunday Mornings
By David Pambianchi
Of flying things, birds, planes and helicopters, Brooklyn’s
Floyd Bennett Field still belongs. But the first, Airport of the
East, launch site of The Berlin Airlift, made famous with
flying legends, Howard Hughes, Amelia Earhart, Charles
Lindberg, John Glenn, “Wrong Way” Corrigan, gives way to
overgrown, empty runways, and now makes home to
Model plane and car enthusiasts and evening astronomy
club fascinations. Yet near Jamaica Bay, where Police
chopper pilots train and thunder overhead, hidden to
others, soar different flights of fancy, arrows.
On any day, see complex compound bows, Rambo style,
power and technology, precision and speed, efficiency for
the hunt. Watch colorful target bows, more like traditional
with continuous draw weight, still with sights for the one-
eyed shooter. But the only outdoor range in the city makes
it possible for traditional recurve and long bowmen to feed
their delight.
It is Sunday, sunrise. Soon, wax and string, leather grips
and woods of red cedar, yellow osage, hickory, ebony,
maple, yew, and other bows with their natural grain and
beauty decorate the racks. Beaver tail, snake, seal, black
and brown leather everywhere, sometimes embossed for
quivers and armguards, or protection to keep the skin on
fingers. Arrows stand out simple or fancy painted, and
with a lesson from the sea gulls and geese, need three
white or colored feathers.
Truly an oddity of mind, a 7’ bow weighing only a few
pounds can concentrate intense force. The draw ancient,
the process simple but irresistible, a stick bent with a
string propels another stick to create a sport, hunting
machine and primitive weapon of mass destruction.
Sharpen your instincts as if in Sherwood Forest.
Traditional shooting calls on the natural ability of your
body, eyes-tell-brain-tells-body what to do through
repeated practice, more like pitching a ball than shooting
a rifle. A Red-tailed hawk perched high to the right of the
range concentrates on a rabbit crossing the field. So too,
archers take aim at targets of foam, paper, canvas, rubber
animals, or a moving object in the breeze. Though a
distance from fishing area and roads, a barrier 100 yards
off helps protect against over-shoots and ricochets.
Balloons, something inside you feels amazingly good
when you burst one, does not matter what color, twenty
feet, forty feet, eighty feet the further the better, if you can hit
it. During the week, with cool, sunny weather, a sandwich
and drink, when the range lay empty, tranquil, and quiet,
archery resembles meditation. However, the hodgepodge
line up on Sunday, the usual crew jesting as Medieval
bowmen might, leaning and shooting from every angle
wont of their style, remains anything but peaceful. As one
partner endearingly complains, “ They’re a bunch of
rascals and scallywags!” much to everyone’s
amusement. For upon returning from the targets, the “ALL
CLEAR” called, before he could notch his bow, swish,
swish, swish, pop, a dozen arrows occupied the spot
where his balloon used to be. Keeping with tradition, as
“Wrong Way” Corrigan, forbidden to fly East, took off West
on a foggy day, then accidentally turned up in Ireland,
excuses soar. “Sorry, was that your target?” “The sun was
in my eyes.” “A dog bit me.”
Somehow finding this corner of a forgotten airstrip, a food
vendor makes rounds, while companions barter
equipment and accessories and share stories,
adventures, technique and knowledge, some satisfied
just to watch others practice. Friendship abounds over the
flights of arrows. Anxieties release as arms and chest and
string, transfer tension and stress into a shaft that
vanishes with a wisp. Back
By David Pambianchi
Of flying things, birds, planes and helicopters, Brooklyn’s
Floyd Bennett Field still belongs. But the first, Airport of the
East, launch site of The Berlin Airlift, made famous with
flying legends, Howard Hughes, Amelia Earhart, Charles
Lindberg, John Glenn, “Wrong Way” Corrigan, gives way to
overgrown, empty runways, and now makes home to
Model plane and car enthusiasts and evening astronomy
club fascinations. Yet near Jamaica Bay, where Police
chopper pilots train and thunder overhead, hidden to
others, soar different flights of fancy, arrows.
On any day, see complex compound bows, Rambo style,
power and technology, precision and speed, efficiency for
the hunt. Watch colorful target bows, more like traditional
with continuous draw weight, still with sights for the one-
eyed shooter. But the only outdoor range in the city makes
it possible for traditional recurve and long bowmen to feed
their delight.
It is Sunday, sunrise. Soon, wax and string, leather grips
and woods of red cedar, yellow osage, hickory, ebony,
maple, yew, and other bows with their natural grain and
beauty decorate the racks. Beaver tail, snake, seal, black
and brown leather everywhere, sometimes embossed for
quivers and armguards, or protection to keep the skin on
fingers. Arrows stand out simple or fancy painted, and
with a lesson from the sea gulls and geese, need three
white or colored feathers.
Truly an oddity of mind, a 7’ bow weighing only a few
pounds can concentrate intense force. The draw ancient,
the process simple but irresistible, a stick bent with a
string propels another stick to create a sport, hunting
machine and primitive weapon of mass destruction.
Sharpen your instincts as if in Sherwood Forest.
Traditional shooting calls on the natural ability of your
body, eyes-tell-brain-tells-body what to do through
repeated practice, more like pitching a ball than shooting
a rifle. A Red-tailed hawk perched high to the right of the
range concentrates on a rabbit crossing the field. So too,
archers take aim at targets of foam, paper, canvas, rubber
animals, or a moving object in the breeze. Though a
distance from fishing area and roads, a barrier 100 yards
off helps protect against over-shoots and ricochets.
Balloons, something inside you feels amazingly good
when you burst one, does not matter what color, twenty
feet, forty feet, eighty feet the further the better, if you can hit
it. During the week, with cool, sunny weather, a sandwich
and drink, when the range lay empty, tranquil, and quiet,
archery resembles meditation. However, the hodgepodge
line up on Sunday, the usual crew jesting as Medieval
bowmen might, leaning and shooting from every angle
wont of their style, remains anything but peaceful. As one
partner endearingly complains, “ They’re a bunch of
rascals and scallywags!” much to everyone’s
amusement. For upon returning from the targets, the “ALL
CLEAR” called, before he could notch his bow, swish,
swish, swish, pop, a dozen arrows occupied the spot
where his balloon used to be. Keeping with tradition, as
“Wrong Way” Corrigan, forbidden to fly East, took off West
on a foggy day, then accidentally turned up in Ireland,
excuses soar. “Sorry, was that your target?” “The sun was
in my eyes.” “A dog bit me.”
Somehow finding this corner of a forgotten airstrip, a food
vendor makes rounds, while companions barter
equipment and accessories and share stories,
adventures, technique and knowledge, some satisfied
just to watch others practice. Friendship abounds over the
flights of arrows. Anxieties release as arms and chest and
string, transfer tension and stress into a shaft that
vanishes with a wisp. Back
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