Feeling Crabby

In a last ditch effort to enjoy summer, my folks decided to escape to the coast. Things are different now, compared with the long-passed summers....when my family would rent a house near Rockaway Beach. Life revolved around hauling in crab from Garibaldi and Nahalem Bay, and generally forgetting the world for a week.

The feeling of drying sand on my feet as I climbed the graying wood steps to the sliding glass door. Sand dollars in a shoebox. Sneaking cigarettes behind the sand dunes. Baba sitting in a chair - with her small feet on the ottoman - reading a book. Playing ping-pong in the garage with my Papa. Sandcastle fortresses by the dozen.

So I was happy that Greer and I could join them - if only for a couple days. The folks were situated in an RV park about a stones' throw from our old stomping grounds....between Nadonna Beach and Wheeler.

And of course, we would be going crabbing.

My folks are great at spoiling us with good food. Upon our arrival on Friday afternoon, Mom casually mentioned that we would be having razor clams for dinner. While this didn't count much in Greer's sphere....I was very pleased. And so it went, some time for visiting and fun with Greer.....and then the food. Mmmmmm....and discussion of our crabbing plans for Saturday. This would be Greer's introduction to the hunt.

After some fiddling around, Dad and I determined to rent an aluminum boat, crab nets and bait from a nearby dock for $65....a tidy sum for the two-hour privilege of working your tail off for a few pounds (hopefully) of crab meat.

After idling into the bay, we quickly realized something. This was not my father's 26-foot Bayliner. That boat had been sold a while back. We were two big men (and one little guy) in a smallish, moderately stable boat. So be it.

Greer was very anxious to hold a crab, and made sure we understood the urgency. The rings and traps went in, and we waited as long as we could (about five minutes) before making a run. Rings up....nothing but oversize females and kelp. Rings down. Trap up....two old keepers with a deep purple/brown shells. Trap down. Into the long Styrofoam cooler go two future crab louies.

Greer eagerly grabbed at one of the small ones - on his way back to the ocean. Instead of tossing him back, Greer sought to examine - to his undoing.

Pinch pinch....and then the howling.

No matter what I did to try and draw him back in, his interest in our adventure had receded - and he now eyed our harvest with a certain fear. Every ten minutes would hear a pointed question about when we were going home. Sorry, son....buy the ticket, take the ride.

Two hours later, we returned home tired and soaked to the bone - with nine of the crabby buggers. Dad cleaned them and I boiled them near the dock. As the afternoon waned, all four of us sat out on a picnic bench next to the RV and cracked our hard earned crab.

Greer speared the shell of a leg with one of his utensils - as if exacting a measure of revenge. Then he got bored, and went back to coloring.

High times on the coast indeed.