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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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Move over, Major League Baseball. Take a back seat, NFL. I've no time for your dribbling and whining, NBA. Hockey's fun, but it hurts my ankles just to watch those guys skate. World Cup? Let 'em continue to kick that ball up and down the field, falling in mock agony every time they brush against each other. It makes no difference to me. Because the greatest sport in the world is none of the above.

The greatest sport in the world is crabbing.

And perhaps the greatest thing about the greatest sport is that its played the best by young children, who would rather pursue the illusive blue crab than eat Snickers bars and ice cream. I know because my pal, Allan Goldsmith, and I just came back from Pawleys Island where we led an over-enthusiastic team of 7 such youngsters on daily outings into the "swamp."

The swamp is not a swamp of course, but rather a "creek" -- or more accurately -- a tidal marsh. But to the children its the "swamp" and this year we were lucky enough to have our own crab dock that jutted out all warped and weathered into the middle of it. In previous years we have had to ask our neighbors for permission to use their docks which normally has been no big deal, but last year proved to be quite an exception as we encountered the "king crab" of all time while doing so. (See Two Different Lives)

No such problem this year.

"You mean we can crab ANY day, ANY time we want?" exclaimed son George.

"You bet ya," I replied.

In hindsight I should've invented some imaginary swamp regulations, as the question, "Daddy when can we go crabbing?," was posed perhaps 1,252 times.

In the unsophisticated '60s and '70s, we crabbed in the timeless manner of our forefathers. We took the preferred bait (still the same today) of fish heads and chicken necks and tied them to a piece of string. We lowered the skanky fare to the bottom of the "swamp" and waited for Monsieur Crab to come along and begin to feed. Upon sensing something was grappling with our 15 cent fish head, or just having that "feeling," we would slowly and steadily pull the bait to the surface, all the while praying fervently that the crab would sense nothing of the ride to the boiling cauldron that had just begun. The major problem with this technique is that it was generally a two man process that required a partner or "netter" to successfully swoop under the crab with a ring net attached to a pole.

It was here that the process often went south. Swooping crabs with a net is not a physical act one tends to practice while not on vacation and when the majority of us arrived on our docks to perform this the most artful move of the sport, we were, shall we say, not always in perfect form. Many a controversy broke out between "puller" and "netter" as a large crab dropped at the last second back into the briny shallows.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MISSED HIM -- HE WAS HUGE!"

"WHAT?!! - IF YOU HADN'T BROUGHT HIM UP SO FAST WE'D BE DUMPING HIM IN THE BUCKET RIGHT NOW!"

It wasn't an argument that was easily rested - its not like we had instant replay or anything.

"YOU COULDN'T NET A GRAPEFRUIT FROM A TREE!"

"YOU COULDN'T BRING A BUBBLE TO THE SURFACE!"

The occasional argument aside, it was a ton of fun. There's something tremendously intriguing and rewarding about bringing something unseen from the depths to the surface and further still into one's possession. When a fish is on the hook you've accomplished most of the sport, but a crab is never in the books until he's boiling on the stove, which, thanks to some innovative crabbing technology, is a bit easier to accomplish these days. Its called the "basket net," or as my friend Mark has dubbed it : "The Skank Master 2000."

The "Skank Master" is a two tiered basket that when lowered with fish head affixed in the middle, collapses to a flat surface on the bottom. When Messier Crab arrives on the scene you simply lift and as long as you're not too lackadaisical, voila, you've got your crab. My 3 year old performed the operation successfully several times, shrieking with glee at her catch as it came out of the water and then running for cover as soon as I took the line from her hands and began to swing the basket over the confines of the dock. She was perfectly willing to raise it out of the water, but she wasn't going to do battle with that thing on land.

This technique is a great deal more reliable than earlier methods, but much of the original dare and suspense is lost. I suppose crabbing's not the only thing that today's youth experience in a way that loses some of its original luster by being "easier" or "safer." I guess you can call it progress, but when they're a little bit older you can bet my guys will be taught the early game of "pull and swoop." And when I think they're ready for the big time, I'll introduce them to the pinnacle of the sport: rock crabbing.

There may be others who rock crab, but as far as I know my friend Mark and I developed this aspect of the game in 1996 while poking around an ocean front rock jetty at low tide.

"Holy cow! Look at the size of that crab!" Mark yelled, as a huge specimen scurried from the rocks for open sea. He had been poking a broken shovel around the cracks and ledges just below the waterline. We looked at each other with eye brows raised in the manner of John Belushi.

"You don't suppose..."

We were off for the net and the bucket and back in no time.

Successful rock crabbing, we soon learned, takes the patience of dock crabbing, the timing of a cliff diver, the discipline of the martial arts and the courage of a lion tamer. Here's how it works :

Wearing NO SHOES, you take the pole end of your crab net and deftly poke and prod among the crevices as detailed in Mark's first encounter. This is done in about 2 feet of water and must be timed in accordance with the onslaught of waves that crash every 10-15 seconds upon the rocks. To miss time the wave is to put ones "podiatal digits" in great jeopardy, as the last thing you want to do is evoke the wrath of an Atlantic blue crab just before he and your bare toes disappear into the sandy backwash of a retreating wave. These crabs don't scramble out running for cover, rather having just been roused from their homes with what amounts to a broomstick, they emerge with their bright blue and orange pinchers raised high and open. The Atlantic blue crab is a great deal larger than his "swamp" counterpart and its claws can easily grip the largest of big toes. Sooner or later an unforeseen wave will surprise the most adept rookie just as a crab emerges, and the adrenal glands start pumping double time.

A dripping wet, sunburned, "mature" 38-year-old, high-stepping out of the surf, crab net high in hand, is indeed a sight to behold.

The object, of course, is not to flee from one's quarry but rather to snare it, so as soon as the adrenaline level has come back and courage can again be mustered a re-emergence into the surf should be encouraged. It is generally at this point that the candidate feels he has been somehow "beaten" by a creature whose brain stopped developing in the Mesozoic period, so determination usually rises on its own.

With any luck the next crab will be correctly flushed at the moment the water is loosing its turbidity and the crabber will be required to smoothly and quickly reverse the pole net in his hands much like Kwai Chang Cain used to do with those long sticks at the monastery. If he can keep his nerve he has about 3 seconds in which to ascertain the crabs speed and direction and, allotting for the current of the retreating wave, swoop it up from the bottom of the sea. If he fails to do so and fate has incorrectly positioned him in the path of the now ocean going crab, he stands a good shot at being on the receiving end of a very painful pinch. Many a rock crabber has brought his net up out of the swirling tempest of a receding wave with a smile on his face and upon seeing it empty proceeded to perform the aforementioned goose step while releasing an involuntary scream not unlike that heard from movie actors while falling from a tremendous height.

It's great fun.

But why no shoes, you most surely ask?

Because - relative to dock crabbing without a "net basket" - that's the thrill of it. To "guarantee" success to the extent that it is possible, or to not risk oneself in pursuit of the goal, is to merely go through the motions of the game. You may wind up with more crabs in the short term, but pretty soon you won't be enjoying the endeavor, and shortly after that you will likely have lost your zeal for the game completely.

Meaning no crabs in the long term and no fun along the way.

Perhaps if Marx and Lenin had rock crabbed we'd have never suffered the scourge of Communism.

Risk and reward -- challenge and chance -- they seem to be a part of the heart of us, don't they.

The greatest game in all of sport?

Crabbing by a long shot.