No. 229 - The Granddaddy of ‘em All

Ohhh, the .50 cal… the granddaddy of 'em all. The line to shoot one stretches around the block — and the handful who'd pass are likely descendants of the Kingdom of Milquetoast, or, in the nomenclature of the times, Buzzkilliosus.

I myself have "shopped" for them (similar to shopping for a Gulfstream). I've also waited with bated breath to befriend a fellow lunatic trying to win the arms race. But these brutes don't come cheap — they average around ten grand, and a single bullet can cost upwards of ten bucks.

There's also the issue of where to shoot them. This isn't a .308. Nor is it an AR. To put things in perspective, here's their punch:

• AR-15 — 1,300 ft-lbs
• .308 — 2,600 ft-lbs
• .50 caliber — 12,000 ft-lbs (WTF!)

Yeah, it’s no joke. All three were designed for warfare, but the .50 cal, and I quote, “can knock down hovering helicopters, penetrate armored limousines, and ignite fuel tanks from a distance of 10 football fields.”

Okay, we've established that the .50 caliber is the Refrigerator Perry of firearms. Now let's get to the nitty-gritty: how did a knucklehead like me get to fire one?

A buddy introduced me to a friend of his, and in no time I was invited to his ranch in Texas Hill Country for deer steaks.

True to form, this native Texan welcomed me from the get-go. I got a tour of his ranch, which includes a river lined with cypress trees. If Huckleberry Finn were from the Lone Star State, he'd make his home on those banks.

I got a look inside his compound, the centerpiece of which was the main home, cut from the cloth of Texas aristocracy: a mix of Spanish architecture with classical notes — as if McKim, Mead & White had a baby with Addison Mizner.

For a guy with my tastes, this ranch was checking every box.

We hopped in his pickup and drove for miles through emerald pastures and rutted dirt roads. Deer were everywhere — bucks too.

We passed a quail farm, a dry riverbed, and even more houses until he called his ranch hand to get us set up.

We arrived on a bluff to a blanket-covered trailer overlooking a valley. Over a mile away — 1,800 yards to be exact — was our target: a 3'x3' piece of white metal, impossible to see with the naked eye.

My host loaded the magazine, lay down on his belly, and got it sighted in. I attempted to disguise my excitement with a stoic countenance, but the 12-year-old boy inside me couldn't stop smiling.

There's something about weapons that brings me back to my youth. Whether it's shooting a bow and arrow with my kids or shooting a .50 cal, I morph into a wide-eyed little boy.

My host was first to pull the trigger, and when he did, the energy reverberated through my boots. It felt like I'd mainlined a quart of adrenaline — and I hadn't even shot yet.

And then it was my turn. I'd been dreaming about shooting this rifle since college. I'd spent plenty of evenings researching different models and watching YouTube videos — from dingbats to Delta Force guys — and here I was on a Texas ranch, locked and loaded.

So I lay down, put the stock to my shoulder, and closed my left eye. I worried the scope would give me a black eye, but I was assured it didn't kick too much.

I found the target — over a mile away — and placed the crosshairs dead center. I took a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate. The entire planet went silent.

I flipped the safety with my thumb — a thrill in itself — and gently squeezed off a .50 caliber demon.

BAM!!!

I felt the recoil through my guts, even in my skull. Every nerve ending in my body came alive. Yet I didn't want to move. I could've stayed in that position all day.

A smile broke across my face that hasn't left. Pure, unadulterated joy. I went from Team Six sniper to little kid opening birthday presents in a split second.

Few things in life live up to the hype we build in our heads — but this did.

I ended up firing three shots from the hip; straight from the Rambo playbook. And let me tell you, that son of a bitch feels as heavy as The Fridge when it's not on a bipod, and it kicks like a damn mule.

So there you go — that's what it's like to shoot a .50 cal. It's everything you dreamed it up to be, and then some.

If you ever have the opportunity to be a pretend sniper for a day — jump on it. Your 12-year-old self will thank you. Your wallet won’t, though — a round at Pebble Beach is cheaper.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA