By MARY BETH MAASSEN
Los Alamos

This is a story I wrote a several years ago when we had a home on the beach in Kino Bay, Mexico. Tis crab season, so I thought I would share it with you…

Lately I have noticed there are crabs all over the beach. So I decided it’s a good time to make crab cakes. I bet you think you know where this story is going; but you’re wrong. I did not go running down the beach with a net trying to catch crabs. Crabs have pincers, pincers that can sever a finger (I saw that on Animal Planet). I jump in my mini-van and drive down to the pier.

When I pull up to the pier a dozen fishermen run up to me with bags of crab, shrimp, and other assorted sea life. I search for the best crabs. “Are they fresh?” I ask the fishmonger. Over 20 crabs are piled into two plastic grocery bags. They don’t smell bad, and they look really clean, but they aren’t moving.

“I just took them out of the boat and brought them to you.” He explains. “They sleep when they are out of the water and sitting in ice.”

This made sense to me. The only crabs I saw on the beach were either dead or rushing to get back into the water. So, I put the bags of crabs on the floor behind the drivers’ seat, hand him 50 pesos, get back in the van, and head home.

I made a left turn off the Pier Road and on to Mar de Cortez. I hear a slight plastic bag rustle. I check my rear view mirror and see a huge Mexican Army truck has also turned left and is right behind me. He is in quite a hurry and is following me closely. This makes me anxious. Driving from the pier to my house on Mar de Cortez, the road narrows significantly with barely enough room for two cars going in opposite directions to pass each other.

There is no shoulder whatsoever, and the drop off on either side is extremely steep. There is nowhere for me to go to get out of his way.

I check my rear view mirror again and that was when I see them … crabs, all over the back of the van. And these are not sleeping crabs; these crabs are not even drowsy. They are frantic, climbing all over each other, snapping away, and nastily gnashing at one another with their crab pincers. Two crabs are on top of each other (and not in a nice way). My anxiety swells to new heights.

I see crabs with their evil wobbly-bobbly eyes crab-walking up between the seats. They proceed toward my foot, which needs to remain on the gas pedal. I can’t slow down, let alone stop, or the truck behind me, filled with automatic-weapon-toting young men, will rear-end me. Now my anxiety is at freak-out levels.

I grab my purse from the passenger seat thinking I can use it as a shield and push the crabs back between the seats. But my purse is a delightfully trendy crocheted summer beachy handbag, crochet that entangles with their spiky little legs. The crabs dangle from my purse, and as they spin and flail in mid-air, they snap at me with their gnarly sharp claws. Did I mention I am trying to drive fast and straight, lest I be squashed by a huge truck?

I hit the emergency indicators, and the army truck immediately slows down. I lift my foot off the gas and put it on the dashboard where it will be safe from their vicious pincers. I coast thru the narrowest part of the road, it then widens and I pull a bit to the right. The army truck passes me in the left lane. They look curiously in my direction. They smile and wave as I give them a wide-eyed thumbs up and they speed away. I finally pull all the way off the road, and onto the beach.

I open the van doors and 20 crabs fall topsy-turvy onto the sand, climbing over each other as they head toward the water. I can feel my anxiety drop as one by one, the crabs disappear into the surf.