Crabbing With Your
Toes
N W Garrett
9/06/2K12v
You never forget
someone who saves your life, especially if they do it twice on the same
day.
I turned nine years
old in the summer of 1947. We lived
in Ida Vesper, Georgia and my
family went to Florida on vacation for the first time since
before the war; my first time ever.
Aunt Nelle and Uncle
Pete lived in Panama
City. My uncle’s momma didn't name him Pete but that’s
what everybody called him. He and
my aunt moved there shortly before World War II and over the years owned and
operated a number of small businesses. Though not a large man from a physical
standpoint, Uncle Pete’s personality and sense
of humor completely filled whatever space he occupied.
Uncle Pete’s eyes
didn't smile - they laughed out loud. His voice, gruff and gravely in the manner
of old time movie actor Wallace Beery, enhanced his penchant for dealing with
adversity and for that matter, everything else with humor.
An avid outdoorsman
and fisherman of note, when he growled out that we were going “crabbing” at
Mexico Beach, everybody loaded into cars and off we went. To do what - most of
us had no idea.
Mexico Beach
seemed a long way from Panama
City in the days of automobiles without air-conditioning.
The highway ran along the coast nearly all the way. In the back seats, the
children crowded over to the right side of the cars to stick their heads out the
open windows to smell salt air and to look through the coastal dune forest at
the waves rolling in.
Uncle Pete parked
his big Packard on the shoulder of the road only a few yards from the water. The
other cars did the same. All the
kids piled out and headed for the surf, only to be called back just short of
getting our feet wet.
“Plenty of time for
play later,” he said, “First, you must gather enough drift wood for the fire. We
are going to have a crab boil right here on the beach. Find as much wood as you
can but be sure not to bring any that has creosote in it. Sticks and small logs
are generally alright but look at any planks or pieces of timbers that you find
carefully. If it is dark like a railroad tie, leave it be. Smell it if you are
not sure. If it smells like tar, don’t put it in the pile. Burning creosote will
make you cough and cause your eyes to water. We don’t need that. There is plenty
of the good stuff along the beach, go get it.”
We did and in no
time had enough wood to boil half the ocean.
A large cast iron
pot appeared from somewhere. A
couple of the grown - ups took it into the gulf to wash it out before placing it
on rocks high enough to allow a fire to be laid underneath. Fresh water and a
sack of “crab boil” mix went into the pot. A match lit the fire to start heating
the water.
We seemed to have
everything for a crab boil except crabs. Not a crab in sight
anywhere.
“Where are the
crabs?”
Uncle Pete smiled
and pointed to the surf. “There are plenty right there. You just have to know
what to look for. Come with me.”
He handed each of us
a stick with a net on one end as he led us into the water.
“See those dark
spots, like shadows on the bottom – those are crabs. Put your net behind them,
crabs swim backwards.”
He maneuvered his
net in a backhand motion, catching a crab each time he swung.
“Can you do it,” he
asked, “are you ready?”
“Yes!” we shouted.
“Go get ‘em,” he
said with a laugh as he walked up the beach to join the other adults settling
into beach chairs to watch the mêlée.
Kids and crabs were
all over the shallow water breakers, fleeing and pursuing amid squeals of
delight and frustration. Gales of laughter from the watching adults rounded out
the cacophony.
The local kids in
the group, some who had been crabbing before, began to have success with their
nets and started bringing crabs up to the now boiling pot.
A table had been set
up to hold all the fixings – cole slaw, baked beans and “made from scratch”
cakes for dessert. A smaller pot on another fire sizzled out hushpuppies.
Eventually all of us
inland kids got the hang of catching crabs. Together, we caught all the crabs
the assembled group could eat plus more to ice down and take home for crab salad
later.
I quickly learned
how to sneak up on the crafty critters and contributed more than my share to the
communal pot. I never made a dent on the eating side.
Try as I might, I
could not catch on to the technique of how to get anything to eat out of a crab
shell. I cracked and pulled and picked and poked to no avail. Nothing, zip, nada
did I get to eat from a single one.
The exercise and
salt air had made me the hungriest ever in all of my nine years.
Having no success
eating crabs, I knew I would soon be in the final stages of starvation.
Resigned to my fate,
I sat and stared at the unyielding crustaceans on my plate waiting for the end.
I would surely perish from not knowing how to eat crabs.
Just in time, Uncle
Pete came to my rescue with a platter of chocolate cake and hushpuppies. I knew
how to eat chocolate cake and hushpuppies.
Somehow in his
wisdom, Uncle Pete knew that a nine year old boy can live on chocolate cake and
hushpuppies.
That was the second
time he saved my life that day.
My first brush with
death occurred in mid-afternoon.
While splashing
through the shallows after a skittering quarry, I stepped on a piece of
discarded crab claw driving it deep into my big toe.
Likely a remnant of
a previous crabbing expedition, the blue and white pincher part impaled in my
foot appeared to be about six feet long and not quite as big around as a
telephone pole.
At the very least, I
knew that I would never walk again even if I didn’t bleed to death
first.
On one leg, I stood
in the surf holding my injured foot in my hand howling as I stared at the huge,
venomous claw sticking out of my toe.
A gentle touch made
me think that the Angel of Death had laid hands upon me to take me away.
Instead, Uncle
Pete’s hand steadied me up while he perused the terrible appendage ensconced in
my foot.
I expected soothing
words of sympathy like in the movies when some poor soul gets ready to kick the
bucket. Soft words, soulful music and maybe a few tears as I slowly faded away.
Instead, in his
gravelly voice, he scolded, “What in the world do you think you are doing? You
can’t catch crabs by stomping on them. Didn't you pay attention to anything I
told you? Why didn't you use your net instead of your foot? That won’t work. I
thought country boys knew how to catch stuff.”
So shocked by being
fussed at instead of commiserated with, I didn't even notice when he pulled the
pincer from my foot.
With my mind reeling
over what he said, my big toe forgot to hurt anymore.
In the process, he
managed to shrink that terrible impaling object down to a little piece of crab
claw not quite a half inch long.
Placing it in my
hand he said, “Is that what prompted all that hollering? Doesn't look like much,
does it?”
His mouth smiled;
his eyes laughed
I threw it away
quickly so no one else would ever see how tiny it had become.
He washed my foot in
the salt water and pressed down on my toe with his thumb for a moment to make
sure that there would be no bleeding.
With a stern look
and a twinkle in his eye, he handed me my crab net.
“Now listen up –
this is a crab net – use it, not your foot, to catch crabs. Put a smile on your
face and get back to work… no more crabbing with your toes.”
___________________________
Wayne Garrett grew up on buttermilk, sweet tea and South Georgia sunshine. A retired resident of Panama City, FL, he is a member of the Panama City Writers Association and is one of the Bay Storytellers. His work has been published in The Sea Oats Review, Sand Scripts, The West Florida Literary Federation‘s Emerald Coast Review, City Limits and other panhandle publications. Humor is his genre; a laugh or a smile his reward.