On the Waterfront
My dad said we lived on the water which conjures up visions of endless horizons, calm breezes and seabirds soaring about with nary a care in the world.
In fact, only seventy feet of our home’s property was “waterfront,” and it awkwardly abutted a dead-end canal maybe twenty feet wide — and on a strong tidal day, waist deep at most.
The canal was a squiggly offshoot of the western branch of the Elizabeth River which connects to the Chesapeake Bay. In theory, one could launch a boat from our backyard and set sail for Great Britain, South America or points unknown. As kids, we didn’t harbor dreams of world exploration but rather focused our attentions on the canal and what lurked in the murky not-so-deep beyond. When the tide was low as tides do, it exposed a pudding brown goop that burped and hissed like a volatile lava field.
It was a glorious place to find a meal.
This was decades before streaming TV, video games, internet and coffee that’s not really coffee. My older brother, sister and a group of carefully chosen friends spent quality time tying strings around raw chicken necks and dipping them in the water in hopes of snagging a cantankerous crustacean or two.
We called it crabbin’ because we lived in the south where the “g” is silent, like “drankin,” “shoppin” and “protestin.” It was the early 1970’s. Plus, that’s what my mom told inquiring parents as to why their kids were tangled up in twine and chicken parts along the canal’s bulkhead.
For us, it was more than just crabbin.’
Crabbing on the canal with cousins
We were proud hunter gatherers in blue jean cutoffs and tank tops. Summer tans and bleached blond hair. A disco-era group think where everyone possessed technical expertise and strong opinions on the best way to catch crab. And my neighbor Christy, added cuteness to the mix.
“Blue crabs like the taste of masking tape,” my brother Mike claimed. His theory was based on his tried and questionably true practice of using tape to secure the string’s knot to the chicken neck.
“You watch, they start to nibble at the tape, and it prevents the crabs from chewing through your line,” he’d say before lowering the bait slowly as if he was performing delicate surgery – an complicated extraction of the Callinectes Sapidus. Latin for blue crab.
Christy would twirl the string and bait like she was roping cattle, coating the other crabbers in a fine mist of raw chicken spray. Most of the time her bait would almost hit the other side of the canal with a resounding splash, frightening crabs, minnows and other sea creatures our way. On the other hand, my sister Gena took a hands-off approach only touching the string if need be.
While casting techniques varied, the method for reeling in a crab was identical. Thumb and forefinger held firm on the line to detect the slightest tug. When this happened, you quietly alerted your friends with a declarative “got one.” Then ever so gently, you pulled the line up until you had visual confirmation which wasn’t easy considering the water was the color of a medium roast blend.
Half the time it was only minnows pecking away at the bait. The other half, crab. Some had two claws; others, just one due to fights with other crabs or battles on bulkheads with excited kids. When a crab did clutch a chicken neck, crabbing became a team sport. One person did the reeling, and the other manned a fishing net and slowly scooped crab, bait, string and all. If high fives existed back in the 70’s, high fives would’ve ensued. Gena just screamed.
Crabs don’t like getting caught, and they hate getting dumped in a bucket with other crabs which was understandable. They snapped at each other like old married couples. Their bulging eyes looked a lot like the front end of a VW beetle.
The boy crabs are called “Jimmies” my brother would explain. The girl crabs were called “Sooks” or Sallies. We didn’t ask why, and I still don’t know why. He could’ve told me they were called Fred and Ginger and I would’ve believed him. I received my first sexual anatomy on the banks of that canal. If you flip over a crab and see a mark that resembles the Washington Monument, it’s a boy crab. If you see a mark that looks like the dome of the US Capitol, it’s a girl. Lastly, females have red tip claws like painted fingernails. Google it.
We threw back the girl crabs and kept the boys because my brother told us to. The boys were destined for old bay and melted butter. And us kids, we would crab again and again. And Gena would scream — again.