Anchor Struck

Just before I entered the Marine Corps in 1966, my pregnant wife Suzy and I lived in New Orleans. I worked for the phone company, stringing line to the massive NASA Michoud facility east of the city. It was all swamp. The splicer I assisted and I had to dodge water moccasins most every shift. One afternoon we came across a trash heap with a large wire cage on it. It was for blue crabs, the splicer told me. I took it home and repaired it, then set it out at the start of our next shift. At the end of the shift, it had about two dozen crabs in it.

When I got home, Suzy had a large pot of water boiling. The crabs were in one corner of the cage, bunched up and waving their claws menacingly. I had on thick gloves and planned to take them out one by one to cook. But when I opened the bottom of the cage, they rushed me and scattered throughout our apartment.

Suzy jumped on our couch, yelling while pointing out locations of the critters and the folly of my choices. I chased them all down and threw them in the water. They would scratch the bottom briefly, then float to the top. The last one was the biggest (and probably the ringleader). When I tried to put it in the pot it clamped its claws onto the rim of the pot. I had to whack it several times with a hammer to get it in.

Suzy descended from the couch and we took a moment to calm down, not wanting to welcome our son Chris prematurely. We got the last laugh, though. The crabs were delicious.