crabby on the half-shell

There it was again.

A subtle rhythmic tapping. As sharp as a New Hampshire winter morning.

How did T.S. Eliot put it? "I should have been a pair of ragged claws/Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."

"Scuttling." That is just the right word. The sound that aliens make in those silly UFO movies from the 1980s.

It is once again the day of the crab here. Or, I should say, night of the crab. Because that is when these terrestrial decapods go about their courting business. Crabby goes a'courting.

For the astrological-minded amongst you, that star-charting pseudoscience grasps at the factual straw that the crabs show up here just as Cancer leaves its house -- or whatever the signs do in the jargon of the necromancers.

Every year our streets are filled with the type of clacking that would have set Alfred Hitchcock's imagination fluttering. I suppose it is a combination of the weather change and the never-constant moon.

Whatever it is, platoons of crabs start their migration from their Hobbit homes to the nearest body of water to ensure that we night strollers in July and August will have an evening's entertainment.

When I lived on the laguna in Villa Obregón, I would find the smaller crabs everywhere in the house. They managed to squeeze themselves under the door. Walking around the house barefoot was a tropical occupational hazard.

The larger ones were happy to congregate on my screen door. Had Tippi Hedren lived there, she could have practiced her ice-blonde look of terror. No screaming, of course. Well-bred ladies  do not do that.

I rather like this time of year -- for a lot of reasons. But the crab parade fascinates me. It is not the size of the hordes that interest me, though it is a factor. It is the beauty of each crab.

Take a look at the fellow at the top of this essay. Shades of blues, reds, yellows. He is a veritable primary color chart.

You might notice he is also missing a claw -- and that he is as dead as the Venezuelan economy.

The nightly death toll is high. Dogs. Cars. Coatimundis. Motorcycles. Not every crab gets to raise a happy family.

And that is good. Otherwise, after about three re-generations, we would be kneed deep in August crabs. As much as I like them, even I would find that a bit creepy.

In a week or two, they will be gone. For some reason, there are always a few stragglers during the year. Probably young bachelors who ended up at the wrong party.

When the crabs ground themselves again and the scuttling ceases, it will be time to find another amusement other than crabbing in the dark.