The Bullet
It was during winter break that my friend Obert came over with his brand-new western-style .22 caliber pistol and suggested we go target shooting. All we needed was some empty land out in the county near the bay, and we could plink to our hearts’ content. My father had given me a .22 Ruger revolver years earlier, along with a real nice leather rig to carry it in. He had also purchased a .38/.357 Ruger at the same time. So we packed up the weapons (even the .38), bought a half-dozen boxes of ammo, and headed for a secluded part of the bayshore.
We parked as close as we could, then hiked over several hills until we reached the railroad tracks and the shoreline beyond. We knew this area well from a previous four-wheeling trip in my dad’s Land Cruiser. Obert’s Ford station wagon, of course, was limited to the dirt parking lot.
We found a little cove with a small pond formed by winter rain. It was a secluded spot—perfect. The sound of gunfire would reflect out across the bay rather than toward the nearest house, which wasn’t particularly close anyway.
The pond was muddy around the edges, rimmed with tule reeds, and filled with floating bottles—perfect targets. We added more debris from around the area until the pond was a dense, bobbing mass of cans and glass.
Soon we were firing away, emptying rounds into the mess, sending cans to the bottom and saving bottles for their satisfying shatter. Periodically, we’d fire my dad’s powerful .38, just for the kick of it.
After a long while, we were down to the last rounds—a strange mix of .22 shorts, regulars, and long rifles. Coincidentally, we were also down to the last bottle. We’d take turns firing until it was gone. I reloaded faster than Obert and was waiting for him to finish so we could shoot together. I noticed a half-submerged can, and—on impulse—decided to quick-draw for practice, just to see how fast and close I could get a shot off.
Now, a typical holster rig has a leather thong that ties the bottom to your leg. It keeps the holster rigid during a draw. My Ruger was a single-action revolver: cock the hammer, aim, fire. Everything must be perfectly timed—draw, cock, aim, shoot.
I’d practiced thousands of times, with and without live rounds. But that day, I had failed to tie the holster to my leg.
The holster twisted. The barrel caught. The gun turned awkwardly in my hand. My thumb slipped off the hammer before it was fully cocked, and it snapped back onto a chambered round. Normally, it might not fire—but this time, it did.
The bullet went through the holster leather, through the belt section, and again through the lower fold of leather—three layers total. It then tore through the ridges of my corduroy jeans, entered my thigh, hit the bone, fragmented into six or seven pieces, and lodged lower in the muscle.
All I knew was this: I drew, I heard a bang, and suddenly I was airborne, flying forward in a somersault and landing in the mud, feet in the pond, gun still in hand.
I was very confused. How did I get down here? Maybe the recoil hit my leg? Seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t move my right leg. I called out: “Obert! I’m shot!”
He was still loading rounds and glanced over. Seeing no one standing, he looked down. “Um, no you’re not. I didn’t hear anything.”
Still lying in the muck, I insisted, “I’m shot!”
“No blood,” he observed. “Where’s the hole?”
Fair point. I couldn’t see any blood, and my pants seemed intact. But I couldn’t move my leg. I removed my belt and holster. Sure enough, there was a hole through all three layers of leather. I hoped I’d find a flattened bullet stopped by the final layer—but no. It had gone in.
We still couldn’t find the hole in my pants. Finally, I rolled down my jeans and saw it: a small round entrance wound, ringed in what looked like charcoal. “See? There it is!”
“Okay,” he admitted. “But where’s the exit?”
I looked, unsure what angle the bullet had taken. Maybe it was lower, maybe higher—possibly alarmingly higher. No exit. It was in there.
I rolled my jeans back up. “Get me out of here.”
And that’s when Obert began to dance. Not from panic—he had to go to the bathroom. So I waited, alone, in the mud.
Eventually, he dragged me to higher ground and debated whether he could carry me over the steep hills back to the car. Not a chance. Instead, he’d go find the access road used by maintenance and fishermen. If it was open, he could drive straight to me.
So I lay there, alone. Occasionally Max—a German shepherd being walked by a local—would come by and drip pond water on me. The dog’s owner approached, looked at me with disinterest, and said, “Yeah, I used to shoot down here too,” before resuming his game of fetch.
More minutes passed. Almost an hour later, I heard the rumble of a car. It was Obert’s Ford, barreling down the access road… past me.
It stopped. Reversed. Pulled up.
Obert got out. Calm as ever. “Okay, let’s get going.”
He picked me up, tried to open the passenger door. Locked. The keys were still in the ignition. He set me down, walked around, unlocked the door. Just as he turned to lift me again—Max jumped into the front seat, sopping wet.
The dog’s owner slowly ambled over and extracted him. Obert finally got me into the seat. The ride back was bumpy, muddy, and painful. We slid all over the bench seat, fishtailing onto the main road. Mud covered the windshield. Obert tried the wipers. A terrible idea.
We rolled down the windows and stuck our heads out like dogs. At intersections, Obert honked the horn for safety—until the horn button flew off and struck him in the face. The spring dangled like a broken toy. The horn was stuck. Loudly stuck.
At the hospital, Obert disconnected the battery while I was sent for X-rays. I lay on my back in the ER, wondering how to explain this to my parents and pondering the bloodstain I noticed on the ceiling tiles.
Eventually, the doctor came in, X-rays in hand. “You’ve been shot,” he said. “Bullet broke up against the bone. Five or six pieces lodged in the muscle.”
Okay. And?
“Maybe in twenty years, a piece will work its way to the surface. You’ll scratch your leg and pull out a chunk of lead.”
That was it. No surgery. No hot knife. No medieval probing. Just… go home.
It took a few months to fully recover. When college started, I was walking like a duck, with a cane. I still check my leg for shrapnel.
And I still don’t quick draw.
