Crabbing

A disturbance in the sand betrayed their hide and when prodded by a rake, claws shot up primed to latch onto a careless finger or toe. A big "bluey" had a fearsome bite and seemed to prefer to sacrifice a claw rather than let go. Their grip on the rake, though, was their undoing, hanging on whilst being lifted up then shaken loose to fall helpless into a floating tub. By morning's end the tub would be a writhing fill of crabs clawing to free themselves from a hopeless fate. It was a pathetic sight. Hauled ashore, most were still alive when Dad and I got them home. They wriggled and bubbled in the damp bottom of the metal tub. I can remember the salty smell of what I thought was fear let out by their silent screams. Their suffering seemed too much to justify a feed. Then I would think of Jesus and the fish he caught to expunge my childhood guilt. Taken out and washed clean they would be dropped into a big iron pot and boiled until they turned bright red, the color of demons stoking hellfire in a bible picture book.