Ghost crabs in daylight

Photo by Adrien Stachowiak on Unsplash

Finally I am by myself on the beach—not alone though, never alone at this stage in my life—when the ghost crab emerges.

Two things stand out about this crab: It is out at 9:30 a.m., and it is thorough. It darts between the enormous hole my husband and son spent their first beach hour of today digging and the petite entranceway it dug for its own tunnels, tossing sand so sharply I can almost hear the "harumph!" At one point it stops near a clump of drying seaweed and swings its claws over it as if knitting a tiny sweater, then leaves the work behind. Occasionally a second, smaller crab pops in and out of the original crab tunnel, more hesitant than the large crab, and I can sense how assiduously the busy crab is ignoring its timid companion. There is work to be done, by gum! Keep a move on. 

I admire the confidence of the larger one. It defies the side-eyed seagulls pretending not to care but inching ever closer; it ignores me, a large white blob melting into a florid Tommy Bahama beach chair, notebook on lap and pen in hand. Earlier this morning, as I attempted to leave the beach rental and pursue for once an activity of my own choosing, I declared out loud—mostly for myself, but also any family members nearby who might be inspired to support the cause—that "everyone should get the vacation they want." There is fun to be had, by gum! Keep a move on.

A million caveats exist for my pronouncement, of course, especially for any adult who, like me and my husband, are actively parenting for the entire two-week beach vacation, but my main point stands: We each and all deserve to state our needs and our desires. We each and all deserve to center ourselves once in a while. We each and all deserve to rest, re-create, recharge, and it is ok in that pursuit to take up space, to inconvenience others, and perhaps even disappoint them.

Which is why I'm sitting on the beach on a cloudy, misty Monday morning, putting down words toward a shitty first draft I've been slogging through all summer. It's why my husband and Kid #1 are decanting all the beach biota into any available bucket. It's why kid #2 is on the couch in his pajamas watching an un-agreed-upon number of Creature Cases, and my dad is replicating his home office in the back bedroom, and my mom is—well, I don't know exactly what my mother is doing right now, but I fervently hope she's doing something, anything, other than sacrificing her own peace in order to enable others' (an act I am practicing by planting myself on this beach while reciting my new mantra). I think she is reading. Please, Mom, be reading.

When I look up again from my notebook at the near-empty beach, five ghost crabs are now in my line of sight. The quiet beach and staid seagulls have emboldened them. They scatter, skitter, dash, dig, pause, pounce. They need nothing from me; in fact, they prefer I avoid them entirely. My only job right now is to watch them, so I do. Entertain me, ghost crabs. Give me the vacation I deserve.

As my husband and son return from their beach walk, against my better judgement I alert them to the crabs' activity. Within seconds my son enters the fray. Lucky for the crabs, they are fast, and soon disappear back to their unknowable tunnels for chores, snacks, and perhaps some angry chattering about the handsy intruders.

I'm sorry, ghost crabs, for meddling in your morning routine. I'm sorry for siccing my child on you and disturbing your peace so I could buy one more minute to scratch words in my notebook. I'm sorry for putting the unencumbered vacation I want on your fragile backs.

A special note for the large crab: For your sake, I hope your hasty return inside doesn't mean more work. I hope you too have a chance to set productivity aside and rest just beneath the surface of the beach, away from prying eyes and harsh sun, lulled into peace by the song of the nearby waves. 

 

Prayer #423: Ocypode Quadrata

Let the waves wash over me:

may they moisten, not submerge;

refresh, not overwhelm.

Let my swift feet rest,

at home in a borderless land,

a species on the edge.

Let me dig deep,

deeper than I've known before,

and find the peace I crave.

Amen. 

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Check out my book, Amen? Questions for a God I Hope Exists, for more prayerful and poetic inspiration.