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again. Even now, as a grown man, I still love to wade through the water looking for those special undersea places I once found years ago. And you know what? Unlike some other things you do as a child and then find so different when you do them again as an adult, crabbing stays the same. Still a wonder. Still a mystery.”
    Charles stared into the water, fascinated. “I think I understand what you mean. The weeds move so slowly, so softly…kind of like they’re dancing some sort of ballet.”
    â€œThe water is magical,” said Fred again, busily looking for a softie.
    â€œIt’s all silvery and soft. Slippery-like and dream-like,” said Charles.
    Fred looked up a minute and smiled at Charles. Then he looked over to where Max was standing by the bulkhead. “How are you doing, Max? Have you started pulling up those necks yet?”
    â€œNot yet. I’m waiting for a pro to help me,” said Max.
    â€œOk, wait a minute and I’ll be there soon as I…”
    Fred looked down and quickly scooped the net through the water. “Got him!” He held up the net with a very quiet crab resting inside, hardly moving. “Here’s your softie, Charles,” Fred said with a smile.
    â€œReally?” said Charles, bending to look in. “How can you tell he’s a softie?”
    â€œA hard crab would be wiggling and climbing and fighting with his claws, already tangled up in the strings of the net. A softie just sits there barely able to wag its claws at you. See?” Fred reached in and gently removed the crab from the net. It sat quietly in the palm of his hand, just barely moving its long tentacles.
    â€œWow! Look at him!” said Charles. “He’s so much bigger than the shell. Can I touch him?”
    â€œSure,” said Fred.
    Charles slowly, shyly touched the top of the crab’s back. “Wow! Soft!” he whistled.
    â€œIt feels soft, but not as soft as some. He’s gone papershell on us.”
    â€œPapershell?” asked Charles.
    â€œYes, that’s what you call a soft crab when his shell begins to harden some. Slowly he becomes less and less soft until he’s a hard crab again.”
    â€œIs that bad?” asked Charles.
    â€œNo, not too bad, but not as sweet to eat as a true softie,” said Fred.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI guess it’s just a matter of taste. I suspect some people have never eaten a real soft crab, only papershells. Papershells are crisper and sometimes pretty chewy, like nibbling on fried patent leather.”
    â€œYuck!”
    â€œWell, in texture only. They still taste like crabs, not like plastic. But a true softie is a delight to eat. A delight to your tongue. No worry about getting any papershell splinters.”
    â€œFred, you know what?” asked Charles.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’re really a weird gourmet,” said Charles with a grin.
    â€œProbably. I just know what tastes good to me,” said Fred with an even wider grin. “Anyway, I wouldn’t talk about weird gourmets. I remember someone who ate cicadas dipped in chocolate.” He reminded Charles of the “Cicada Sunrise” stand he and Max had opened last summer, featuring cicadas fried, baked and even dipped in chocolate.
    â€œI really got sick of cicadas—even chocolate-dipped ones,” said Charles with a frown.
    â€œSo don’t talk to me about my strange gourmet eating habits,” Fred said. “Ok, I better get this little guy back on ice.” Fred handed the net over to Charles. “Then I better help Max look at those strings. Check to see if we have any nibbles on our bait.” He started wading back with the softie in his hand and a little sea grass to keep it cool.
    â€œWhy not just put him in the basket I have tied to me?” asked Charles.
    â€œBecause if he stays in seawater, he’ll harden up completely until he’s not fit as a softie anymore. And