Crabbing with Holly...

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As I said, we caught ninety-four in a little over an hour, three lines, bacon for bait – Holly had about a dozen before I saw my first crab, and then it fell off the line as I pulled it up through the weed towards the bucket on the hot harbour wall.

The washing line broke free when (tied on) I dropped the bucket down into the water to fill it ready for the crabs.

‘Daaaddddd!’

Yes, I know ‘Daaaddddd = Stuuupidddd’

I ran along the wall, climbed down the steel ladder, and waited for it to float by so that I could grab it. I had to lean out over the water to reach. I clung, crouched to the ladder, one hand holding – at one point I almost overbalanced, but managed to cling on. The bucket floated by, desperate I grabbed for it… (Hang on me, don’t fall in)… GOT IT!

‘Well done Dad! I never knew you were so agile.’

Me neither. Swell of pride in my heart. Silly really, silly to even attempt it - but what would we have kept our catch in without our bucket? We’d have had to go home empty, and I’d promised her crabbing.

Ninety-four in a little over an hour, sun beating down, Holly doing much better than me, working two lines, sometimes all three, tying on the greasy smoked bacon with twisted garden wire, people stopping to look over the railing and into our busy bucket - dozens of legs climbing over the crimped ovalish shells, six deep in the shallow water.

“Good catch!” –
Young boy on a bike.

“Caught enough for your tea yet?” – Nice old chap eating chips.

“Mummy – look at all those eyes!” – Cute, curly, blond, girl.

“What are you going to do with them?” – American woman in darkest, dark glasses.

Afterwards we took them to the slippery jetty and set them free. We watched as they clickered their way sideways to the safety of the water. Some needed help. Holly used her net - I bravely picking them up between finger and thumb… until one nipped. We got every one safely into the water - even the slightly close to death ones crawled away eventually, revived by the warm seawater.

The first time Holly saw a crab she was three. All toddley legs and sun bonnet, matching top and pants, blue check, feet naked in the sand. The feel of sand in tiny toes, scratchy, making her cry… and then the crab, a big one sidling towards her, causing her to scream and run to bury her face in my legs, clutching at my shorts - sand forgotten in crab terror. Aberdaron beach, our first holiday on the Llyn, our first afternoon, and tears - even before we’d checked into our rented cottage high in the hills above Hell’s Mouth. My little girl.

Ninety – four in a little over an hour, not bad for a old man, thirty or so of them mine, the rest belonging to the tall young woman beside me. How lucky I am to have this chance to go crabbing with Holly. What fun! What a glorious day! Just look at her – she could be three, or five, nine… or almost fifteen. Crabbing does that to you – we’re all children when we’re crabbing.

I wonder how many more times she’ll come a’ crabbing with me?

Lots I hope - not many I fear.