“Ready!” someone calls from behind me. I’m nervous, shaking in that way that is imperceptible to everyone but you; no one else notices, but to you it feels like you’re in an earthquake. “Pull!” I shout and a pair of small orange discs sail into view. I line up the bead of my Benelli pump-action shotgun with the first disc and gently squeeze the trigger. That’s when all hell breaks loose.

If it’s your first time firing a shotgun, you can’t imagine how quickly things happen after you pull the trigger. The loudest bang imaginable is immediately followed by the butt of the gun punching you in the spot where your arm attaches to your shoulder. You screw your eyes shut, half from the bang and half from the pain.

When I open my eyes, to my dismay both discs are still intact. Reluctantly I pump the action of the gun, simultaneously ejecting the spent shell, while loading a fresh one. I line the bead up with the now almost-assuredly out-of-range discs and pull the trigger a second time . . . I miss. The “clay pigeons” fall to the ground, shattering on impact.

In frustration, I pump the action a second time and fire my third, and last, shell into a microwave 30 metres down range. The holes created by the 12 gauge shot are indistinguishable from the hundreds, if not thousands, left there by my predecessors.

Pointing the barrel of the gun straight up in the air, I pump the action a final time. Opening the breech, I engage the safety with my thumb and turn around to face my audience. The group standing in front of me is not what you would expect; most are wearing cargo shorts, plaid and sandals. Nalgene bottles — rather than beer — line the tailgate of our truck. The guns and ammunition sitting amongst the water bottles seem out of place.

Despite the poor performance, this isn’t my first time clay shooting. Years before, faced with a soon-to-be-married friend and the responsibility of planning his bachelor party, I decided that I was unable to stand the typical onslaught of alcohol, strippers and gambling. When someone suggested clay shooting as an alternative, I jumped at the chance to do something different.

Following that initial outing we were hooked, and a few months later all of us were sitting in a firing range off of McPhillips street, writing tests for firearms licenses.

We’d driven for 40 minutes to get to this sandy alley in the middle of nowhere, a place littered with spent shells, casings and household objects turned into Swiss cheese. It’s going to be dusk soon and we still have a full box of clays to get through.

I hand the gun over to the next shooter, always being careful to do so in a way that won’t result in the barrel being pointed at anyone. Lucas turns it over, places a shell in the breech and closes the action. Then he loads two more shells into the magazine and is ready to shoot.

Steadying himself, legs wide apart, he points the barrel of the gun at the ground in front of him and shouts, “Pull!” Two clays soar into view He raises the gun, lines up the shot and before I know it, the first clay is a cloud of dust. Lucas pumps the action and fires a second time. He doesn’t need a third shot.

Having been thoroughly embarrassed, I take the still-smoking gun from Lucas’ hands and load my three shells. This time I’m determined.

I steady my breathing, forcing myself to take long slow breaths. Legs wide apart and perpendicular to the firing line, I bring the gun to my shoulder and pull it in hard — I can feel the bruise from my first attempt already forming under the skin. It will be black before morning.

Looking down the barrel of the gun I can see the red bead at the tip. I yell “pull!” This time there are no tremors.

The clays come into view and I line up the bead with the lower of the two. I remember to aim slightly in front, leading my target, ensuring that the pellets and clay will meet each other in the air. I pull the trigger and the satisfaction of seeing the clay fly apart makes me forget the pain in my shoulder and the assault on my ears.

I pump the action of the gun and line up the next shot. I can already visualize the rapidly-diminishing blaze-orange disc disintegrating from the impact of my shot. I line up the gun, lead the clay and pull the trigger.