Red Rock Crab

Elmer saw a man meandering the mud flats of Coos Bay 50 yards away and bolted his direction. The husky rarely bolted like this. All he wanted to do was play with someone, but some people don’t take kindly to the intrusion of a big dog. So, I took off after Elmer, slogging through the mudflats. It was 6:15 in the morning as drizzle fell.

The man saw Elmer approaching and waved indicating everything was fine. I waved back and kept slogging. Fifteen seconds later the man and Elmer were playing! Elmer started barking and howling. It was then I noticed the man had a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

I came up and apologized. He told me to forget it. He loved dogs and once owned a Lab for 16 years. What ensued as we walked toward the parking lot of the boat ramp was a hearty ten-minute conversation about dogs from our lives. We didn’t discuss why the man was meandering the mud flats at this early hour.

He certainly exuded the vibe of homelessness, but was in no way demented, addled or had a face disfigured by hard drug abuse. I put him in his 50s. He smiled a lot when he talked. I’d never seen him around the neighborhood before. I didn’t ask him if he resided in the encampment situated in the willows a hundred yards away.

We ascended to the parking lot. He then asked me if wanted some fresh crab.

What the hell?

He said he’d caught six Red Rock crabs at midnight during a bout of insomnia! Right off the dock at the boat ramp! Snared those son-of-a-bitches in a milk crate he’d rigged up for crabbing duty! He’d already cooked them in a boiling pot of seawater heated by a driftwood fire!

I envisioned walking Elmer home with a crab stuffed in the pocket of my coat. How would that work?

The man asked if I’d ever eaten Red Rock crab. I said no, only Dungeness. He said he preferred the taste of Red Rock over Dungeness and there was no limit (he thought) and you could keep any size or gender.

I said I’d love to try some Red Rock. He motioned me over to the boat ramp’s camp host’s trailer.

Before I could ask him anything, he said his new girlfriend was the camp host. I deduced he had been homeless, met her when she was performing duties such as picking up litter, and well, he wasn’t homeless anymore and was paying “rent” by supplying fresh crab, clams and fish!

I suspect this type of impromptu living arrangement between a housed person and a homeless person was more common than most of us can imagine. I’d seen several such arrangements unfold in Portland, but this was my first one in Coos Bay. Most ended in disaster.

The man disappeared into the fenced area of the RV. Seconds later he returned holding a crab leg and needle nose pliers. Three squeezes later, the pliers cracked open the leg. He extended it to me and I plucked out a hunk of meat while holding Elmer’s leash. It was undoubtedly the first time in world history a man holding the leash to his husky with one hand was going to taste Red Rock crab for the first time with the other hand, crab caught by a former homeless man six hours earlier in a milk crate, cooked in a boiling pot of seawater heated by a driftwood fire, and all because he suffered from insomnia!

I swallowed the hunk. Succulent! Delicious! Way better than Dungeness. I wiped my hand off on my corduroys and Elmer licked my corduroys.

The man’s name: Adam. I told him he had really made my day and he had.

On the walk home, I concocted a plan: I’d pay Adam for fresh, cooked Red Rock crab. He’d just text me when one was ready and I’d roll there lickety split.