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he’s no good as a hard crab either because he’ll have burned up all his fat supply.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œBefore a crab becomes a buster, he stores up lots of fat because when he’s soft or a papershell, he can’t eat. If you get a crab like this and he becomes a hardshell, you might as well throw him back.”
    â€œYou sure know a lot about crabs, Fred,” said Charles.
    â€œComes with the living, I guess,” said Fred, heading back to the shore.
    â€œMax,” he called, not seeing the boy by the bulkhead.
    â€œOver here,” called Max. “I’m visiting Cinderella.” Max was lying on his stomach looking in through the slats in the basket.
    â€œSee her?” asked Fred as he walked by.
    â€œYep. I’m eyeball to eyeball with her. What big eyes you have, me dear. Yellow eyes, how weird. She’s trying to stare me down,” he said to Fred.
    â€œJust so she doesn’t give you a nose job,” said Fred, opening the cooler.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” asked Max, looking away from the basket and the beautiful turtle princess it held.
    â€œPutting this softie in the cooler. But I need some paper bags or something to put on top of the ice. I don’t want to put the crab directly on the ice that we may be using later for sodas.”
    â€œFred, you say the most disgusting things!” said Max, getting up and brushing the sand off of himself.
    â€œJust trying to let you boys experience the whole world of crabbing,” said Fred. He placed a bag on top of the ice, the softie on top of the bag, some sea grass on top of the softie, then closed the cooler.
    â€œThanks,” said Max.
    â€œOk, so how are things on the lines?” asked Fred.
    â€œIn the world of necks and feet. In the places of grease and stink,” rhymed Max.
    â€œVery poetic,” quipped Fred.
    â€œYes, yes, a touch of the poet, so to speak,” grinned Max. “Only thing is, this poet hasn’t touched the lines yet to see if the crabs are nibbling in perfect iambic pentameter…”
    â€œOr AA/BB/CC/DD/EE rhymes?” said Fred.
    â€œAhhh, no rhymed couplets do I feel,” continued Max, playing off of Fred’s language arts routine, a blend of nonsense and learning that sometimes happens when your stepfather is an English professor.
    â€œGrab ye the net, Shakespeare, and let us wander over to yonder bulkhead to check for the slightest gentle impulse of fin, a quiver of claw, or a…”
    â€œOk, ok, ok, enough of this ‘rot’,” laughed Max. “Let’s go.”
    â€œGreat! I give you the fine speech of Elizabethan England and you throw back a bit of Dickens dialect. I should call you Oliver,” laughed Fred.
    â€œIf you do, I might be tempted to call you Fagin.”
    â€œJust so long as you don’t cast me as that villain Bill Sikes,” added Fred.
    They were at the line now. Five long strings tied to the bulkhead and slipping down into the water like fallen clotheslines. Small waves made them vibrate softly.
    â€œHow do you know when a crab is there?” asked Max.
    â€œYou can feel him knocking against the string—like a fish when he’s nibbling at bait on a hook. A slight nudging. Let’s see if we can find anybody at home. I’ll let you feel in a minute.” He gently took a line in his hand, then he was silent, letting the string rest across his palm. “Nope, nobody there. Let’s try this one next.” He walked over to the next string and took it as he had done the first.
    â€œAnybody there?” asked Max.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWell, number three could be the lucky one,” said Max, following Fred over to the third string.
    â€œSo they say,” said Fred. “But of course it depends on who it is who’s trying to be lucky.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWell, lucky for you if there’s a crab on the line. Not so lucky for the crab