Save the Ghost Crabs

Fridays mean different things to different vacationers.

Residents of cottages that turn over on Saturday often see Friday as the last chance to check off a few vacation boxes before heading home tomorrow. That left an under-populated beach for those of us looking to walk and set up reading camp on the beach.

It also meant that going to John's for lunch involved a line of people that stretched from the order window to the painted line on the Beach Road. After standing in line for 10 or so minutes, a woman emerges from the kitchen door on the side to announce, "Sorry, but we're very backed up at the moment and it's going to take about 20 minutes to get your orders."

Immediately, people dropped out of line to head to greener pastures, but it was still a sizable group of people looking to eat at John's today. It's Friday.

Today's gray start to the day attracted more than a handful of fishermen types within spitting distance of the deck. When we saw a guy pull in a good-sized one, we headed over to find out what it was.

By the time we made it across the narrow strip of beach, he'd caught another, smaller fish. When I asked what they were, he said sea mullet. In the bucket were at least 4 or 5 more, a couple still desperately gasping as they died.

When asked what he was going to do with all those fish, he answered, "Take 'em home." We immediately dubbed him Mr. Articulate.

Today was my first beach nap, an unusually late-in-the-week entry for another beach staple that involves falling asleep in a sunny bedroom to the irregular rhythms of the surf while a soundside breeze gusts across my head from the open window inches away. This bedroom is programmed to seduce you into an afternoon nap.

Sitting on the deck tonight admiring breaker patterns and shooting stars, we were nearly blinded by a group with spelunking lights on their heads making their way down the beach in search of ghost crabs.

Because if you hope to see/catch/kill one (we saw the latter Tuesday night) while on vacation, well, tonight's it. It's Friday.

For those sage enough (I would no more rent Saturday to Saturday and have to deal with the crowds and traffic than give up skirts) to vacation Sunday to Sunday, there is no sense of Friday urgency.

While it may seem logical that A + B = C, that doesn't mean tomorrow I'll be afflicted with any Saturday urgency. I have no unchecked boxes, only a desire to enjoy more of the same until I vacate the premises Sunday.

You know, when I take 'em home.