The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Crabbers are like fishermen, only worse. They’ll exaggerate, lie outright, then tell you the most wild-eyed outlandish whoppers only the chronically gullible would believe. Three Finger Fred loves to hold up his stubs and tell any newcomer who’s unfortunate enough to gravitate into Fred’s barstool orbit, how he was pulling traps in a full gale out of his 10 foot dinghy one terrible November.

“You don’t mean …?” the poor unsuspecting stool neighbor would invariably ask in horror.

“Yup,” Fred would nod, finishing his beer in a final gulp … and ordinarily the newbie would tell the bartender to give Fred another, on him.

“Terrible storm,” Fred would continue once his glass arrived. “Worst we’d seen all year. But I had traps to pull and by god, no storm ever stopped Fred Jensen, not before, not since.” Fred would glance at his victim, raise his glass and toast the courage of a man such as himself. “I almost swamped on the first trap gettin her in. Full pot, top to bottom with the clacking monsters. I no sooner opened the side hatch than half the beasts were in the boat, grabbin on to my boots, crawlin up my rainpants. It was awful those 8 legged bastards all trying to get at me. And the wind was blowin awful too. And the rain was comin in sideways. I knew right then I’d have to row out of there, crabs or no.

“I was kickin em off me, rowing into the wind and rain was an inch deep in the bottom so the crabs were sloshin back and forth and up my legs. About halfway to shore two of the biggest buggers made it up to my chest, clackin those nasty claws, tearin at my life preserver. It was a nightmare, me tryin to row and swat at the beasts same time. I was half crazy … and that’s when the big one got hold of my swattin hand. Took those fingers right to the bone. I had to beat him with the oar before he’d let go.

“My god, man!” his listener would cry, “give this man another drink!”

Fred, of course, would drag the story out until the drinks stopped coming. Sometimes the boat went over crabs, oars and all. Sometimes the crab that amputated his fingers was kept by the U.W. Science Department, it being the biggest Dungeness ever caught in Puget Sound. Sometimes he rowed back out for the second pot, undeterred by blood loss or hurricane winds, a saltier dog than any in song or story.

Usually, though, one of us South Enders would yell down the bar, all of us yahoos laughing and hollering, “Hey, Fred, didn’t you say you lost those in a saw accident?” And another would shout, “Naw, he took em off in a nose picking incident.”

Fred would growl. Fred would swear. Fred would give us the finger … even if it was nothing but the stub. And if it was late enough and he was sufficiently liquified, Fred would tell the saga of the saw. “I was cuttin through this old growth maple, see? Harder than iron and my saw had a 52 inch blade I’d just sharpened, ran it off a Plymouth slant six I’d rebuilt the week before….”

Many and varied are the dangers of crabbing on the South End’s Puget Sound. As well I know. Most are natural hazards, but, considering we’re South Enders, born and bred, nearly as many are self-inflicted. A month or so ago I was out in the killing fields, about a quarter mile row when I noticed water collecting at the bottom of my crab boat. I figured a small leak, one that I would no doubt patch, you know, eventually. In my own good time. Later. But only a few minutes went by before the puddle was now a kiddie pool. I tried hoisting my shoes against the side of the boat to keep them dry, but finally I had to remove them, tear off my socks and roll up my pants. Obviously, at least to a grizzled old crabber like myself, this was no little leak.

Later would have to be Now. Well, astute as I am, I quickly diagnosed the problem. The plug in the transom bottom had fallen off and half of Saratoga Straits was pouring into my little 12 foot boat. Any neighbors watching from shore with their livingroom telescopes would probably think my catch was so bountiful the boat was settling half a foot into the waters from the sheer weight of gigormous Dungeness, a haul they dreaded I might turn into a Homeric mythology, boring them for the rest of their retired lives.

Trouble was, I couldn’t find the missing plug. Had it dropped out back at the bulkhead? I stuffed a handkerchief into the hole, which helped some, but I needed that plug. Perseverance, right next to improvisation, is a trait we South Enders have in abundance. Panic was not going to stop me from reaching my pots, that’s for damn sure. Submersion, however, might. I needed that plug.

Which I found under the seat among old crab claws and and clam shells and rotted bait. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. I got to thinking I needed to draw one up, notarize it, maybe that afternoon. Crabbing, like I said, is risky bizness.

Today I planned to pull my pots for the season. Winter crabbing has been poor, the winds and storms are frequent, the dangers are magnified. Most of the time I’m out there with no other boats in sight, no chance of a sea rescue if a mishap occurs. In fact, the wind had come up a bit by the time I reached the bulkhead, but — have I mentioned Perseverance as a South End trait? — I pressed on, lowered the boat onto the shore, loaded up and pushed off.

I once lost an oarlock out there. You ever tried rowing a boat with its most dangerous catch back to shore with one oar, winds roaring in your ears and no one around, believe me, you will understand the words of Gordon Lightfoot’s song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. ‘Does anyone know where the love of God goes When the waves turn the minutes to hours? ‘ Well, a South Ender does.

But I digress, as usual. Today I was pulling hard on the oars, fighting waves and current and killer whale attacks, undaunted as always, my very own Captain Courageous … when I felt the right oar go catty wampus. Trust me, my first thought was the oarlock, but no, it was intact. I stroked again both oars and noticed, keen-eyed that I am, the end of one oar was missing. Actually, it was floating away from the boat and I had basically a long stick left. You ever tried rowing a boat with one oar and one stick, trust a salty dog on this, it’s not good seamanship. Any sailor with salt in his veins knows that if he knows anything. Even a South Ender.

Well, sir, you probably guessed I made it back to shore okay or I wouldn’t be sitting here in drydock regaling you with another adventure. Sure I could embellish the story, keep you in suspense, but by now you’ve come to expect Houdini-like escapes, hair raising cliff hangers, impossible catastrophic aversions. Truth be told, I was three feet from shore. Just jumped right out of that scow of mine and dragged it back to the beach. Crabbing — you just never know what the next peril will be. Even if it’s of your own making….