It was the last day of summer; I got up early even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the next morning.
On my way to the garage I passed by my Mom, who was in the kitchen, about to go to work.
“You’re up early.” She said, sipping a coffee.
I opened up the freezer door and began pawing around, “do we have any chicken? Me and Tommy are going crabbing.”
“You aren’t wasting a whole thing of chicken.”
“We only need a few pieces; like four pieces.”
“Why do you need four pieces of chicken if it’s just you and Tommy?”
“Three pieces?” I asked. “Please?”
I’m not sure how cute I was at eleven years old, but there must have been some sort of twinkle in my begging eyes because I left that kitchen with three pieces of frozen chicken legs.
When I got into the garage I tossed the drumsticks into an old bucket along with some string. I lifted the crab net off of its place on the garage wall, and situated it across my bike’s handlebars – which isn’t easy to do with a six foot metal pole that has a net on one end. I hung the bucket over my right handle, hopped on my bike, and after a few pedals to gain my balance, road off towards the dock.
Tommy and I were down at the dock on the end of Inwood road. We had been there for a little over an hour and hadn’t gotten any bites. The three pieces of chicken were thawing out at the bottom of the canal. We had tied them with the string to the dock at ten foot intervals. Tommy was down at one end of the dock watching one of the strings, and I was near the middle keeping an eye on the other two.
The sun skipped off the water and up into our eyes so we had to squint to see if the strings began to move. When one moved we would play our little fingers, delicately, across the taught string to feel if we had a crab. Sometimes seaweed would wrap around the string, and the current would tug on it making it seem like we had a bite.
Staring down at the unmoving string diving under the water; I lazily nudged a small rock off the dock with my foot, into the water. As I watched the ripples roll away, my mind floated to thoughts of lockers, busses, and gym class.
“What time do we have to be at the bus stop tomorrow?” Tommy piped, snapping me away from the ripples.
“Well, if you’re doing band or chorus you have to be on the early bus. I think it’s supposed to be at our stop at seven.”
Tommy picked up a handful of pebbles and flung them out into the water.
“You’re going to scare away all of the crabs.” I told him.
“My cousin Jake is going into eighth grade. He told me middle school is way better than elementary school. You don’t have to sit in the same classroom all day.”
“Hmph.” I swallowed, looking back down at where I pushed the rock. The ripples had faded. “You’re not worried about it or anything?” I asked him.
“Psh, no. What, are you?
“Oh, no, I was just curious.” I said trying to sound as cool as possible.
I looked over at Tommy. He was staring at the surface of the water, I turned my gaze to where he was staring and could make out his wobbly reflection. He turned towards the string next to him.
“I got one.” He yelled.
I grabbed the net and hurried over.
“Not too fast.” I said.
“I know what I’m doing.”
I stood over Tommy’s shoulder, with the net, watching him pull methodically on the string, hand over hand.
“It feels like a big one.” He said.
Suddenly a white shadow began to take shape in the murky water.
“There it is.” I exclaimed. “It’s huge.”
“Do you have the net ready?” Tommy asked, his eyes locked on the pale fleshy chicken just beneath the surface.
“Yeah.” I replied. Like a ninja I dipped the green net into the water, Tommy had stopped pulling.
We could see the crab hugging the meat. I had submerged the net fully and lined it up with my target. I looked at Tommy; he was still focused on the water just beneath the surface, he gave me a slight nod. I took a deep quiet breath.
With a thrash I swung the net, through and then up and out of the water. The slack string made a “U” shape as it hung between the dock and the net. I craned the dripping net over the dock.
“He isn’t as big as I thought.” Tommy said, grabbing the end of the net examining our catch. He yanked the slimy raw chicken away from the crab, and tossed it back in the canal with a plop. “Flip him out.”
I turned the net over and the crab hung on for a second before falling to the dock. It stuck its blue claws up, ready for a fight, while Tommy corralled it with his sneakers. It pinched helplessly at the rubber soles until Tommy managed to flip it onto its back. He reached down and grabbed the crab from behind like a hockey puck, and carried him over to the bucket and dropped him in.
We watched, for a second, as the crab dealt with his new environment. Tommy turned his attention back to the water. I stood, looking down at the glistening shell. I crouched down so my head was right over the bucket; the crab had little black eyes.
We stayed at the old dock until the final summer sun sank in the sky, and the air began to cool. We didn’t catch anymore crabs that afternoon. Before we left we decided to throw back our lone catch. I took the bucket over to the edge of the dock, and tipped it so the crab slid out and splashed into the water. It hung frozen below the surface for a moment before it jolted down into the murk on its way to the canal bed. It was gone.
We rode our bikes back up Inwood road, toward home, the chicken still tied to the dock.
Lemmen's Nursery 