Published: Sunday, Mar. 30, 2008 / Updated: Sunday, Mar. 30, 2008 01:42 AM

It's all about feeling safe and protecting yourself

Reporter pursues concealed weapons permit

Editor's Note: Herald reporter Toya Graham practiced at a York County firing range before attempting to qualify for a concealed weapons permit -- a document that allows individuals to carry concealed weapons. Getting into the concealed weapons class was a feat, since most were booked. Still, for a first-time shooter, that wasn't half the battle.

I slid five bullets into the chamber of a .38-caliber revolver, wrapped my right hand around the grip and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened -- I'd held the gun wrong.

Oops.

I planted my feet on the ground and readjusted my grip, holding my arm and the revolver as straight as possible. Then I squeezed the trigger again.

This time, a bullet whizzed out of the gun, flew about 10 feet and ripped a hole in a red and white paper target.

The sound of the shot echoed in my ears. The smell of gun powder assaulted my nose.

Then I saw the impact of this virgin gun shooter. The bullet had torn the paper on the right side of what would have been the target's neck. I mean, no one told me to aim for the X.

Still, firing that bullet set the stage for what I hoped would be the successful completion of a concealed weapons permit class -- a prerequisite to qualify for a concealed weapons permit. The document, which expires after four years, resembles a South Carolina driver's license.

To pass the class, I must complete a 50-question test and fire 50 bullets at a firing range. At least 35 of the shots, or 70 percent, must hit the target.

"It's hit or miss," said my instructor, Billy Mumaw. "You either hit the target or you don't."

During class, the shooter stands three yards from the target and fires 10 bullets. Another 10 bullets are fired at a distance of five yards. The shooter fires 10 more bullets at seven and 10 yards, Mumaw said. Five additional shots are fired at 12 and 15 yards.

That mid-March morning, my paper target in the shape of a person's head and upper body was 10 feet away. Hitting a target at that distance could be life or death, a stand-in instructor said.

"Most of your self-defenses occur within 10 feet," he said.

Properly coached, I popped on clear plastic safety glasses -- just in case a bullet or bullet fragments went astray and hit my eyes -- and neon yellow ear phones to buffer the overwhelming sound of the gun firing.

I turned the gun chamber with my left thumb and slid in five more bullets, trying to remember the steps my coach had taught. I settled the gun's grip in my right hand and cradled it with my left palm.

Just before my focus shifted to the X in the middle of the target, I stretched my arm and willed it to stay straight as I leveled the gun.

Then my index finger found the trigger and squeezed. I must have pulled the gun a little to the left because the bullet missed its mark and hit a white surface too far above the target to mention.

I felt my face redden in embarrassment. A sense of failure set in. I mean, what was I thinking? Me, fire a gun?

My coach was kind enough not to mention my debacle. Instead, he offered more instruction. Ever grateful, I listened.

Moments later, I relaxed my grip, readjusted my right hand and fired. The bullet hit the target. I straightened my arm again, lowered the gun and peered at the X. That bullet and a second tore another hole through the target near the X.

Progress.

My coach congratulated me as I lowered the gun to empty the shell casings.

"You still have one," he said.

I counted five shots, but I gripped the gun, pointed and fired.

Nothing happened. I swallowed hard. This wasn't good. Why didn't the bullet come out?

"Got you," he quipped.

The first session ended moments later. I left the range with about 15 bullets, all that remained from 50 that I purchased for target practice, and the promise to return four days later.

While I knew I could hit the target and pass the concealed weapons permit class, I worried. Firing a gun could mean hurting someone, even taking a life.

But wasn't this about self-preservation and protecting my family? That was the question I asked myself as I walked out to my car. I surveyed the back seat before I slid behind the wheel and popped a knob to lock the doors.