I was born in Philadelphia and lived in its suburbs until seventh grade, when my family moved mid-year to Severna Park, Maryland, a pretty town nine miles up the Severn River from where Annapolis and the Naval Academy meet the mouth at the Chesapeake Bay.
The bay is salt water but the Severn’s source is fresh. Since the river is brackish (a mixture of the two), the Severn is a a nursery and playground for a wide variety of fish, aquatic life, and wildlife. I was 12 when we moved into town and seeing the river was love at first sight. Love at second sight came five years later in a doctor’s office waiting room but that’s another story.
My dad was a traveling salesman and wasn’t around much so I chased my own interests. I taught myself how to fish, learned to trap furbearers and sell their pelts, and hunted goose and deer. Pretty much year-round there was mud on my shoes from chasing something.
The fish in the Severn weren’t big but they were plentiful. I caught white and yellow perch, snapper bluefish, small striped bass, and an occasional stray of a dozen other species like spot, croakers, and pickerel. I learned the river very well and could usually tell by the tide and water level what would be where. Since I fished so often I had a lot of great days.
For a transplanted Philadelphia kid whose Little League field had been plowed under to pave the parking lot of the King of Prussia Shopping Center, playing in and along the Severn was a spectacular trade. I caught thousands of fish in the river and enjoyed every one.
Fishing was good eight or nine months a year, and in winter I trapped muskrats, raccoons, and possums. I got pretty good at that, too, but never caught a mink. Those little boogers were way too smart. But the others weren’t and I made more money selling pelts than I did during my brief, ill-fated career with McDonald’s—a job I despised. I lasted six weeks before succumbing to the overpowering realization that I was not, nor would ever be, a paper hat kind of guy.
The Severn’s shortest summertime window of opportunity was for big blue crabs. Catching them was fun and rewarding since Maryland crabs are famous for a reason: They are delicious!
Legal size was five inches point to point across the shell. If you knew where they were you could catch dozens. It’s a lot harder now because stocks have been depleted. But back then a chicken back tied to a piece of string slowly retrieved within reach of a quick dip net was worth ten times its weight in keepers.
Blue crabs grow by (literally) backing out of and shedding their hard exoskeleton. Their new shell is butter-soft so they are defenseless for a few hours until the new shell begins to harden. Tiny crabs shed every four days or so, juveniles every couple weeks, and larger ones (3” and up) anywhere between three and seven weeks.
The actual molting is quick; it takes only a few minutes for the crab to push out the rear of its old shell. The new limp and wrinkled soft crab’s carapace (shell) will harden in a few hours to parchment stiffness and be completely hard in two or three days. Time helps the new chitin shell reform to normal shape and increase the crab’s size by one-third. It takes several sheds throughout the spring and summer to grow to keeper size.
A softshell crab can swim and walk but is very vulnerable and much prefers to hide. Every day of its life is difficult since predators hunt them relentlessly. As larvae they are vulnerable to fish and jellyfish. Little ones and juveniles fall victim to fish, birds, and other blue crabs. Also hunting them are river animals like mink, otter, and raccoons. Young crabs in nursery rivers like the Severn are vulnerable to too much or too little rain, chemical runoff, and unseasonable temperatures. If and when they manage to navigate life to full size, crabbers are waiting with traps and nets. Crabs are big business in Maryland. Eat one and you’ll know why.
Softshell crabs are delicacies for people and predators. When molting, the vulnerable crab hides in seaweed near the shore or anywhere he or she can camouflage its presence. With patience and a keen eye, a person moving slowly across the flats can spot and catch them with a dip net.
I was doing this one summer day, slowly advancing in knee-deep water ten yards from the bank, when I spotted a blue crab that had just molted, his empty shell next to him. He was hiding in seaweed, his appendages tucked in, a sure sign he was butter-soft.
Before I could net him, I noticed a quick flash on the periphery. It was a large predator, an eel two-feet long. The eel had seen him too. The eel quickly circled the crab twice, keeping it at the center of a five-foot radius. The eel saw me, too, but didn’t care.
I deferred. Rather than net the crab I let nature take its course.
The eel exploded like a bullet into the helpless softshell, blasting into it, savagely biting and swallowing several large chunks in seconds. Just as quickly he sped away, leaving small bits floating where seconds before the crab had been living and breathing.
From nowhere dashed in a school of minnows, devouring every tiny, remaining morsel. Within seconds they too had departed, leaving only the old, empty crab shell as a clue that something used to be there.
I never forgot what I witnessed and the story remains a vivid memory.
Whether we’re a crab or a person, life goes by in a flash. Cherish every day and be grateful you’re around to live it. Others we’ve known have been far less lucky.