Eagles and the Crab

I had an Eagles flashback today. Not the majestic, bald, feathered kind, but a shake-your-bootie, pass-the-doobie 70's band consisting of guys with afro's, handlebar moustaches, and bell-bottom denims. And along with all these images of hair and denim flashing before me, are memories of my childhood aboard my stepfather's commercial fishing boat.

In my patchwork of memories, there he is at the boat's helm: my stepfather. His own curly 'fro having taken on a life of its own and his month long facial overgrowth providing the finishing touches of what appears to be the grisly portrait of a madman. Cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth, the Eagles blaring "Take it Easy", he swings the wheel a little to the right, then a little to the left, eyes scanning the horizon as we cruise the high seas in search of the big catch. 

Don't ask me what we were fishing for. Salmon? Cod? I do remember some pickled herring sitting out on the balcony at home, though whether or not that was the ocean gold we were searching for is still an unknown to me. All I remember about that herring is that, after a couple of years pickling away on the back balcony in big white vats, it could have been liquified and sold as an explosive. But despite not really being in the inner folds of the fishing expedition, I did know what we were apparently throwing back in, such as dogfish. Though I recall thinking that they didn't look much like dogs to me.

Often I wasn't the only child to go on these high-sea adventures. My older stepsister, Lisa, and my younger brother, Robert, would occasionally have to do their time as well, most likely due to a lack of alternative childcare. I was always glad for their companionship: Lisa being a comrade and Robert, by default of being six years younger, someone to pick on occasionally.

Whenever we docked somewhere for the day to get supplies or for the crew to make repairs, the three of us would go exploring out on the shore. Sometimes we were fortunate to find washed-up wood and chunks of styrofoam that had floated up on the shoreline, and we would try to assemble a raft. There was no forethought as to where we would sail this raft once built, and there never needed to be, because we never managed to find a way to bind all of our newfound materials together. For us as we were then, the product never mattered. It was all about the process of dreaming; pondering the potential for great things was an adventure in and of itself.

One day we ventured from the docks out onto a beach of black basalt rock with small pools remaining from a recently receded tide. We spent hours squatting next to those pools, gazing, poking, and picking at the unfortunate creatures the sea had left remaining at our mercy. I loved prodding the tiny little crabs of different colours: purple, pink, green, and blue. Off they would skuttle, running for cover. All but a little green crab whose lack of resistance I took for friendship. Into my pocket he went.

We were finally called in for dinner by my step-father's loud, belching roars, and off we hobbled with legs cramped from squatting all day. Our boat was moored at a lower dock off of the main pier, and because we had done a great deal of doddling on the way back, we had decided to use the metal ladder down to the lower dock rather than the ramp to save time. First Lisa went, then Robert, who, being only 4 years old, needed her to grab him off of the ladder once he finished his descent. It was a tricky business getting from the ladder onto the dock, due to the instability of the floating dock that was always moving near and far depending on the whim of the waves. And so I crept down carefully in my flipflops and waited for the right timing when the floating dock would come my way. When it did, I stuck my leg out to embark upon it, but then suddenly it disappeared. Losing my balance in mid-step, the only direction I went was straight down, my hands sliding along the barnacled metal ladder until I was fully immersed in ocean water. I was so shocked by the whole event that I momentarily forgot how to swim. As I was gurgling and flapping furiously, all I could see were the watery images of Lisa bent over laughing and my poor little brother pointing and crying hysterically because my flipflops were slowly making their journey onwards.

I finally came to my senses and grabbed on to the dock, spitting water while trying to console my brother about my lost fifty-cent sandals. Once I was shuttled back onto the boat by my uncle, I quickly surveyed the searing pain in my hands, which at that point looked like some kind of shredded white meat. My hands were bandaged into big, white lumps, and were for the large part rendered useless for the remaining week of the trip. No more excursions, no more rummaging, no more rafts. It felt like a sentencing.

But I did not spend those days alone. I had a friend with me. A little green crab, who dined on mussels that my siblings had graciously collected throughout the course of their day's adventures without me.

I'll never forget that little green crab, who, for such a small creature, was a surprisingly good friend on the journey home. I had begrudged my mother for years that my humble little companion ultimately met his fate by the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner. But I learned an important lesson that summer; one about life, death, and loss. And that we can learn big lessons from things that come in very small packages.