Crabbers

Last night there was a thunderstorm — yes, I know I have been saying that a lot lately. In fact there were two, one at twilight, and then another at 11:30PM. It seems to be customary to have another later just when REM sleep begins. The second was worse than the first. I tried to ignore it but could not.

It is beneficial to have several landmarks during a storm to gauge if the boat is slipping its anchor. To the south was a bank of trees with a field of winter wheat behind and thus no lights. North across Island Creek were several stately homes that had lights on. They were a couple of blocks away but still offered some reference, that is when the rain was not torrential and the other side of the creek was visible.

The other reference is a GPS, a Garmin 12. It is small, waterproof, battery powered, and looks as good as the first day I bought it in the 1980’s. One of the first things I do after dropping the anchor is come back into the pilothouse and mark Carrie Rose’s location. I write the Latitude/Longitude in the logbook along with the waypoint’s number. So, when I am rudely awoken in the middle of the night by wind, rain, lightening, and thunder, I switch the Garmin 12 on to see if Carrie Rose is in the same location. Knock-on-teak…we usually are.

The storm spent an hour expending its energy. By then it was later than even my night-owl tendencies can tolerate. We walked the three steps down into the forward (and only) stateroom and crashed. Next I knew a subdued light was streaming in the overhead hatch. I snuck passed Charlotte and went up the three steps to the pilothouse to discover that sunrise was 15 minutes away. I made an executive decision to watch the golden orb and then noticed several crabbers working the creek.

Crabbers are something: sunbaked, hard working, solitary with a one-track mind and a persistent patience. George, our marina’s owner, described them as gamblers, always hoping for the next big score. As I watched them, I had the notion that they were mining the bay and its estuaries.

Carrie Rose’s personal crabber that morning had two lines stretched out like an “L”: one behind to the south, and the other longer one to starboard and east. He trawled down the short end and then up the long. And then he made a wide arch around us and began again.

I stopped watching and went to bed. It was about 6:30 AM. At eight, I awoke and freshened up. Charlotte made pancakes. The dishes were washed and dried. An inspection of the sparklingly clean deck (from the rain and hail) was done. I made the morning log entry and settled down to entering a route for the next days cruise into the computer, and he was still circumnavigating Carrie Rose.

He finally pulled in his lines and left as we were contemplating a late lunch. That is a lot of driving in circles while bent over at the waist, net in hand concentrating at a continually moving target. Maybe it is similar to staring at a slot machine and repeatedly pulling the handle or hitting a button or however it is done these days.

Thunderstorms, as disconcerting as they are, have the unintentional consequence of realigning the clock and thus the small universe that a boat is. It may make the storms worth it or it may not. That probably depends on if the anchor holds!