The Great Snapping Turtle Adventure (3 page)

CHAPTER 5

D
OWN A LITTLE SANDY ROAD
. Down a lane no wider than a deer trail. Down they traveled until there was no more road left, only water lapping up against a bulkhead of drift wood, broken crab pots, brush and oyster shells.

“Guess this is it,” said Fred, above the hiss and slap of the water and the whining hum of wind through the marsh grass and pines.

“All out!” shouted Max.

“Enough wasted time,” said Charles, leaping to the ground.

Both boys were out of the truck so fast the door was left open and had to be shut, as an afterthought. They galloped to the water's edge.

The wind and sea spray was soft on their faces, the heat and sound so melodious, they felt, though neither would admit it, like they were swept up and blended in a lullabye.

After a minute, Fred pulled at their elbows. “There are crabs to be caught, remember?”

“Oh, sure!” And both boys made a beeline back to the truck bed for their supplies: the cooler, sandwich and snack bag, baskets, bait and nets. Enough equipment to keep them busy making several trips back and forth from the truck to the small beach.

When all the equipment was on the beach, Fred began measuring out lengths of cord, each about twenty feet long.

“Cord?” asked Max. “We could've used it for the turtle.”

“Not strong enough, I don't think,” said Fred.

“What's it for?” asked Charles.

“Well,” said Fred in a voice made softer by the rush of sea breezes, “at the end of each of these strings will be something crabs think is a wonderful treat… chicken parts.”

“Huh?” asked Max.

“That doesn't sound so bad. Mom cooks chicken parts quite often,” said Charles.

“But usually they're a bit fresher than these.” Fred held up an old chicken neck. “And rarely does your mother fry their feet,” he added, holding up three chicken feet.

“Yuck!” said both boys at once.

“Ahhh, but to the crabs, ‘bon appetit'!” said Fred with a smile.

“We'll see,” said Charles. He couldn't imagine even a crab finding chicken feet a delicious appetizer to nibble on.

“Ready to tie some on?” asked Fred, attempting to hand a neck to Charles.

“I'll pass. I think my calling is the long-handled net. I think I could be a real ‘cracker jack' at it…just like Ham.”

“Well, you can try, but it's not easy. First you need to get one of those baskets—one that has an inner tube around it. Next, tie a piece of cord onto one of the basket handles. Tie the other end to your belt loop. That's so you can pull up the basket filled with the crabs you caught. The basket in the inner tube will follow you around as you move through the water. But be sure you've tied the string tight on both your basket and your pants or else it will be ‘rub-a-dub-dub, lost crabs in a tub.'”

“Ok,” said Charles.

“Max, better get the snapping turtle and soak her down,” called Fred.

“Geez, I'd almost forgotten her,” said Charles, looking up from the string.

“I don't think I can manage that turtle by myself, even if she is in the basket,” said Max in a skittish voice.

“Perhaps you're right,” said Fred. “She is a pretty feisty lady.”

“Well, I'm strong, but with all that seaweed and stuff, the basket might be pretty slippery…”

“Yeah, you're just afraid that snapper will shrink down and slither out through the holes in the basket like a frog. Just shrink down to about the size of a large tadpole and come after you,” said Charles, obviously enjoying the fact that Max was afraid of the snapper.

“I'd like to see you take the basket out of the truck, Mr. Snapper Pro,” smirked Max.

“Ok, ok, you guys. Come on, Max, I'll help you. Charles, get back to your job.”

Max and Fred hoisted the basket with the snapper in it out of the truck and carried it over to the water's edge.

“Like Cinderella in her pumpkin coach,” said Max. “This isn't so bad, huh, Fred?”

But before Fred could answer, the snapper shifted her weight, and there was a wild scratching of claws against the sides of the basket.

“Better not say anything, Max. I think the princess is listening,” chuckled Fred.

Max was silent.

After the snapper, or Cinderella, as she was known from that moment on, was safely placed with cool water lapping at her, Fred returned to the chicken necks and feet and the string.

“I guess I'll help you with the crab bait after all,” said Max, squatting in the sand beside Fred and the large plastic container filled with chicken parts. “No sense in coming all this way without getting the down and dirty feel of what it's like to be a waterman.”

“Good for you, Max,” said Fred, handing him an oily chicken neck.

“Ohhh, yuck!” said Max, wrinkling up his nose as if that would help him not feel the mushy yellow skin that slid over the thin, bony cord of flesh. Gingerly he tied the string tightly around the neck as he had seen Fred do.

“Now, am I ready?” called Charles. He had tied himself to the basket.

“Looks good,” said Fred.

“Great!” Charles started to take off his high top tennis shoes.

“Wait!” said Fred.

“Huh?” Charles paused.

“You never crab barefooted. No telling what you could step on, from broken glass to rusty cans, tangled up pieces of wire, nails or even a shell with pinching claws reaching up to nab your toes. Leave your shoes on, Charles.”

“Gosh, Mom will kill me,” groaned Charles, looking down at his white shoes. “These are the new ones she just got me.”

“And they'll never be the same after you get Bay water in them,” sighed Fred, shaking his head. “But better your shoes than something happening to your feet. We're about 1½ hours from the hospital in Salisbury, maybe ever farther. We better not take any chances we could regret later.”

“Well, could you explain all of this to Mom when we get back home?” asked Charles.

“Sure, I'll even take you out and buy you new shoes to replace the ones you're wearing.”

“No fair! I need new shoes, too!” said Max. “I mean, look at these! They've had it.” Max held up his foot. His shoe was so worn the rubber sole flapped like a big tongue whenever he took a step.

“Worn maybe, but perfect for crabbing,” said Fred. “Sure, I'll go for broke and get you a new pair, too.”

“If you let Max pick out the ones he really wants, you
will
be broke!” exclaimed Charles.

“Well, we'll try for something between designer's top-of-the-line and the two-for-a-dollar flea market special,” said Fred. He rubbed the oily dirt from the chicken flesh onto the sand. He picked up the strings with chicken parts attached and slowly stood up. “Ok, enough on the subject of shoes and onto more important articles on our agenda: we need to decide on a place to tie these strings.”

“How about over there, Fred?” asked Max, pointing to the tree trunks and cement blocks.

“Looks good to me. Hope it looks as good to the crabs.” Fred carried the bait over to the bulkhead and began fastening the strings.

“Can I get in the water now, Fred?” asked Charles.

“Are you snugly tied to that basket?”

“Double knots.”

“Sounds good. Sure, take a net and slip in. Wade out carefully. Pretend you're blind: let your feet feel the bottom for you. Reach out with your toes and see if there are any holes or sudden drop-offs. I know the water is clear, but don't depend on your eyes. Water is deceiving. It can trick you with its optical illusions. Walk so the sun doesn't blind you by reflecting into your eyes. You need to see the bottom pretty far ahead. Crabs are wise and if they see you coming, they'll scurry off fast, leaving a trail of mud smoking behind them.”

“The water is so clear! It looks like I can see a mile ahead,” said Charles.

“I know. That makes this kind of day, with this kind of still water, a good time to be wading out for crabs. Unfortunately, it's good for the crabs, too. They can see you coming and scoot before you have time to get close enough to net them. Take it slow. Move as if you are trying to slice through the water without stirring it.”

“Ok, I think I got it.” Charles slowly entered the water.
“Cold!”

“Well, not as bad as earlier in the year.”

“Still, geez!” Charles made a face as the water lapped up higher and higher on his legs.

“Look at it this way, Charles,” said Max. “As soon as the water gets up to your neck, the temperature won't bother you so much 'cause you'll be too busy hoping a wave doesn't come along and splash in your mouth.”

“Shut up, Max,” called Charles.

“Don't go in any deeper than your waist, otherwise it's too hard to try and dip the crabs,” said Fred.

“Will this water get very deep?” asked Charles. He was in up to his thighs.

“Well, it should stay pretty shallow for awhile. The tide is out right now,” said Fred.

“Ok, I see all this pretty pale sand. Then I see green plants. It all looks kind of patchy. Sand then weeds, sand then weeds. Really neat. It looks kind of like a map.” Charles slowly waded out. The water was just a little higher than his knees. “Boy, I can feel the water tugging at my shorts. Glad I didn't wear long pants.”

“Long pants would have felt like wet newspapers wrapped around and around you, dragging as you went,” said Fred. He stood watching Charles, making sure the boy felt secure, before he turned his attention back to the crab lines. “Look carefully around those weedy places, that's where you're most likely to find crabs. They're skittish creatures—they don't like to cross those pretty sandy places if they can help it. You have to look where they might be hiding with only a whisker or a back fin sticking out from the grass. Maybe watch for a claw threatening you. You have to have your eyes peeled back. That's an expression they use down this way.”

“Yuck, peeled-back eyes!” Charles said, as he continued to carefully wade out.

“It's just an expression. Take it slow, now,” said Fred.

“Ok,” Charles answered.

“Creep along and be careful not to let your net drag on the bottom. Don't stir up any mud, if you can help it.”

Suddenly, Charles let out a yip. “I think I see one now! Yeah! No, it's two, just ahead of me near some green weeds.”

“Ok, take it easy now. Don't get so excited that you blow it and scare off the crabs,” said Fred with excitement leaping in his own voice. He hurried to the water's edge. “Remember, if he sees your shadow, he's gone. Keep the net real low. Easy, easy does it!”

“I'm just in front of them now,” said Charles excitedly.

“Ok, ok, now, get ready. When you think you can bring the net down over and swoop them up, then do it. Pull it up through the water as fast as you can. Remember, the water will give you some resistance. Really use your muscles.”

“They still haven't moved. They're just staring at me. Gosh! Here I go!” said Charles. He jerked the handle of the net quickly forward and down, then up through the clear rippling water. “Oh, oh, oh, got 'em!”

“Got 'em?” yelled Fred and Max excitedly together.

“Got 'em!” yelled Charles as he pulled the net up to the surface.

“Got 'em!” yelled Fred.

CHAPTER 6

“D
ID'YA GET 'EM?
Really?” called Max, running to the water's edge.

“Yeah, but they…they kind of fell apart in the net. Geez, what's going on with them?” said Charles.

“Fell all apart?” asked Fred. “Uh oh, come here. I'll meet you half way, let's see what you got.”

Fred waded into the water to meet Charles. He took the long-handled net Charles offered and looked in. After a quick inspection of the “crabs,” Fred started to laugh.

“Hey, what's so funny?” asked Charles.

“Those crabs of yours are really only the shells left behind by a buster,” Fred said.

“A what?” asked Charles.

“Hey, what's going on?” asked Max, entering the water to join in the crab pow-wow.

“Charles caught some shells, Max,” said Fred, holding the net up so they could both see.

“But where are the crabs? I mean, are they dead or something? What is all this stuff I got, anyway?” asked the confused Charles.

“Look, guys,” said Fred. He reached into the net and pulled out the shell. It looked just like a crab, but when he flipped it over, the boys could see that it was empty. It looked as if it had been picked clean. “A crab grows and when he does, he grows a new shell inside of the old one. When he gets too big for his old shell, and when the new one is completely formed, he simply becomes what watermen call a ‘buster.' In other words, the seams of the shell crack open and he wiggles free. He pulls his flippers and claws out, his points and even his eyes. What's left is shell, called the slough. Not very good for eating, I'm afraid.”

“What happens to the crab after he busts free from his shell?” asked Max, examining the shells in Fred's hand.

“Well, then he's a soft crab. His shell doesn't get hard right away and he has to stay hidden in the weeds and mud. He's in a very dangerous position, because anybody can come along and get him. He's too soft to defend himself. His claws are limp and weak. What will later become his hard shell is as soft as our own skin. But he gets hard fairly quickly and then he can scurry away…that is, if nobody eats him first. And that somebody may be another crab. They aren't very nice, these crabs. They're cannibalistic, which means they eat their own kind.”

“That's why I don't mind catching them…because they're so mean,” said Charles.

“Catching them! You haven't caught one yet!” said Max, turning to leave. “But maybe I have!” He returned to his chicken lines.

“I know another reason why you don't mind catching them, Charles,” said Fred.

“What's that?” asked Charles.

“Because you like eating them so much,” said Fred.

“Yep, they're delicious!” said Charles.

“Do you want these?” asked Fred, offering him the shells.

“Souvenirs? No, that's ok. They kind of stink,” said Charles, wrinkling his nose.

“Good observation,” said Fred, letting the shells fall back into the water. “Now, where did you find them?”

“Over there,” said Charles, pointing. “Why?”

“Well, there's just a chance we might be able to find the softie that came out of this shell. It might be too late, but then again, it might not. It never hurts to just look.”

“Ok, follow me,” said Charles, leading Fred through the water. “I think it was here. It was just after a long, U-shaped white sandy place, then two small patches of weed, and then another bigger patch…right here!” He stopped and pointed down.

“Ok, let me have your net and I'll see if I can come up with the owners of those shells.” Fred began to slowly dig the net through the weeds, careful, so as not to stir up the bottom and make the water go cloudy.

“You're going so slow,” said Charles.

“Yeah, you have to. If you cloud up the water, you can't see and you have to wait until it clears again,” said Fred, as he moved through the water.

“Like when I go after crayfish in the stream at home. If they see me, they scoot and the water gets all muddy from their flipping tails. It makes the water look like brown smoke is going through it.”

“Sure. You see brown smoke, I see clouds. The underwater world is a special place. Always changing: beautiful, mysterious, unpredictable and dangerous. Being on the water, working with the water, it gets into your system. This crabbing with a net, I did it as a boy, and I've never forgotten what it was like. I remember it as a special experience, something to do again and again. Even now, as a grown man, I still love to wade through the water looking for those special undersea places I once found years ago. And you know what? Unlike some other things you do as a child and then find so different when you do them again as an adult, crabbing stays the same. Still a wonder. Still a mystery.”

Charles stared into the water, fascinated. “I think I understand what you mean. The weeds move so slowly, so softly…kind of like they're dancing some sort of ballet.”

“The water is magical,” said Fred again, busily looking for a softie.

“It's all silvery and soft. Slippery-like and dream-like,” said Charles.

Fred looked up a minute and smiled at Charles. Then he looked over to where Max was standing by the bulkhead. “How are you doing, Max? Have you started pulling up those necks yet?”

“Not yet. I'm waiting for a pro to help me,” said Max.

“Ok, wait a minute and I'll be there soon as I…”

Fred looked down and quickly scooped the net through the water. “Got him!” He held up the net with a very quiet crab resting inside, hardly moving. “Here's your softie, Charles,” Fred said with a smile.

“Really?” said Charles, bending to look in. “How can you tell he's a softie?”

“A hard crab would be wiggling and climbing and fighting with his claws, already tangled up in the strings of the net. A softie just sits there barely able to wag its claws at you. See?” Fred reached in and gently removed the crab from the net. It sat quietly in the palm of his hand, just barely moving its long tentacles.

“Wow! Look at him!” said Charles. “He's so much bigger than the shell. Can I touch him?”

“Sure,” said Fred.

Charles slowly, shyly touched the top of the crab's back. “Wow! Soft!” he whistled.

“It feels soft, but not as soft as some. He's gone papershell on us.”

“Papershell?” asked Charles.

“Yes, that's what you call a soft crab when his shell begins to harden some. Slowly he becomes less and less soft until he's a hard crab again.”

“Is that bad?” asked Charles.

“No, not too bad, but not as sweet to eat as a true softie,” said Fred.

“Why?”

“I guess it's just a matter of taste. I suspect some people have never eaten a real soft crab, only papershells. Papershells are crisper and sometimes pretty chewy, like nibbling on fried patent leather.”

“Yuck!”

“Well, in texture only. They still taste like crabs, not like plastic. But a true softie is a delight to eat. A delight to your tongue. No worry about getting any papershell splinters.”

“Fred, you know what?” asked Charles.

“What?”

“You're really a weird gourmet,” said Charles with a grin.

“Probably. I just know what tastes good to me,” said Fred with an even wider grin. “Anyway, I wouldn't talk about weird gourmets. I remember someone who ate cicadas dipped in chocolate.” He reminded Charles of the “Cicada Sunrise” stand he and Max had opened last summer, featuring cicadas fried, baked and even dipped in chocolate.

“I really got sick of cicadas—even chocolate-dipped ones,” said Charles with a frown.

“So don't talk to me about my strange gourmet eating habits,” Fred said. “Ok, I better get this little guy back on ice.” Fred handed the net over to Charles. “Then I better help Max look at those strings. Check to see if we have any nibbles on our bait.” He started wading back with the softie in his hand and a little sea grass to keep it cool.

“Why not just put him in the basket I have tied to me?” asked Charles.

“Because if he stays in seawater, he'll harden up completely until he's not fit as a softie anymore. And he's no good as a hard crab either because he'll have burned up all his fat supply.”

“Huh?”

“Before a crab becomes a buster, he stores up lots of fat because when he's soft or a papershell, he can't eat. If you get a crab like this and he becomes a hardshell, you might as well throw him back.”

“You sure know a lot about crabs, Fred,” said Charles.

“Comes with the living, I guess,” said Fred, heading back to the shore.

“Max,” he called, not seeing the boy by the bulkhead.

“Over here,” called Max. “I'm visiting Cinderella.” Max was lying on his stomach looking in through the slats in the basket.

“See her?” asked Fred as he walked by.

“Yep. I'm eyeball to eyeball with her. What big eyes you have, me dear. Yellow eyes, how weird. She's trying to stare me down,” he said to Fred.

“Just so she doesn't give you a nose job,” said Fred, opening the cooler.

“What are you doing?” asked Max, looking away from the basket and the beautiful turtle princess it held.

“Putting this softie in the cooler. But I need some paper bags or something to put on top of the ice. I don't want to put the crab directly on the ice that we may be using later for sodas.”

“Fred, you say the most disgusting things!” said Max, getting up and brushing the sand off of himself.

“Just trying to let you boys experience the whole world of crabbing,” said Fred. He placed a bag on top of the ice, the softie on top of the bag, some sea grass on top of the softie, then closed the cooler.

“Thanks,” said Max.

“Ok, so how are things on the lines?” asked Fred.

“In the world of necks and feet. In the places of grease and stink,” rhymed Max.

“Very poetic,” quipped Fred.

“Yes, yes, a touch of the poet, so to speak,” grinned Max. “Only thing is, this poet hasn't touched the lines yet to see if the crabs are nibbling in perfect iambic pentameter…”

“Or AA/BB/CC/DD/EE rhymes?” said Fred.

“Ahhh, no rhymed couplets do I feel,” continued Max, playing off of Fred's language arts routine, a blend of nonsense and learning that sometimes happens when your stepfather is an English professor.

“Grab ye the net, Shakespeare, and let us wander over to yonder bulkhead to check for the slightest gentle impulse of fin, a quiver of claw, or a…”

“Ok, ok, ok, enough of this ‘rot',” laughed Max. “Let's go.”

“Great! I give you the fine speech of Elizabethan England and you throw back a bit of Dickens dialect. I should call you Oliver,” laughed Fred.

“If you do, I might be tempted to call you Fagin.”

“Just so long as you don't cast me as that villain Bill Sikes,” added Fred.

They were at the line now. Five long strings tied to the bulkhead and slipping down into the water like fallen clotheslines. Small waves made them vibrate softly.

“How do you know when a crab is there?” asked Max.

“You can feel him knocking against the string—like a fish when he's nibbling at bait on a hook. A slight nudging. Let's see if we can find anybody at home. I'll let you feel in a minute.” He gently took a line in his hand, then he was silent, letting the string rest across his palm. “Nope, nobody there. Let's try this one next.” He walked over to the next string and took it as he had done the first.

“Anybody there?” asked Max.

“Nope.”

“Well, number three could be the lucky one,” said Max, following Fred over to the third string.

“So they say,” said Fred. “But of course it depends on who it is who's trying to be lucky.”

“Huh?”

“Well, lucky for you if there's a crab on the line. Not so lucky for the crab if I catch him,” said Fred.