Covediver's Underwater World

Crab Roundup—Monday, July 23, 2007, Chichagof Island

Just before leaving for the trip on board the live-aboard dive cruise ship Nautilus Explorer, an email suggested a dive to gather Dungeness crab at one of many spots we would visit as we navigated through the ABC islands (Admiralty, Baronof, Chicagof). Of course, divers taking part in the crab roundup would need to have an Alaska fishing license. I had tried to buy the license earlier this summer when the king salmon run on Ship Creek in Anchorage started a run on fishing licenses. This condition no longer means that one must stay sidelined on the creek bank while friends take a limit of fish; anyone who has web access, a credit card and a printer can quickly get a fishing license on-line through the Alaska Department of Fish and Game website. The other divers on the trip, mostly from California, would need to get a license before the boat departed from Juneau if they wanted to go crabbin’.

I had not previously taken crab in Alaska (a much talked about trip to Juneau in December to take king crab never materialized) so prior to departure I went on line to find information on seasons, bag limits, and other requirements for taking Dungees. A quick check of the regulations for southeast Alaska quickly revealed that the crabs could be taken while diving, the season is year round, only males with a minimum size of 6.5 inches could be taken, and that the limit for non-residents was five crabs and 20 crabs for Alaska residents under the “personal use” provisions of the state’s fishing regulations. The regulations also illustrated how the gender could be determined (abdominal flap on the underside of the crab is narrower on the male) and how the measurement was taken (tip to tip lengthwise across the top of the carapace). Using this information, I fashioned a wire clothes hanger into a crude but effective gage, packed a medium-sized yellow game bag with the rest of my gear, and boarded Alaska Airlines for the flight to Juneau.

I met up with other members of the expedition in the lobby of the Baranof Hotel in Juneau and secured my bags in the hotel’s storage room as we could not board the boat for another few hours. That gave us enough time to grab lunch and locate a combination sport fishing/commercial fishing/chandlery/plumbing supply store. In this one stop shop we got licenses, tackle, and a more substantial 6.5 inch crab measuring gage made from the finest plastic rather than the hanger from last week’s dry cleaning. Well stocked for whatever legal aquatic game we encountered, we happily boarded the taxi and headed for the awaiting ship in Auke Bay.

A few days later at anchor in a very calm Little Basket Bay on Chichagof Island, we gather in the salon for a predive briefing on species identification, size, and other essentials for the dive. We depart the main vessel on the dive skiff and drop the hook in a dozen feet of water. Game bag in hand, I slip over the side with some of the other diver-hunters and begin to reconnoiter the cobble bottom for the Dungees. The divers scatter to the four compass points. Our hunt for the crab has no real organization or cooperation so we are less a wolf pack but more than lone wolves. Almost immediately I grab a crab before it can make a break and do some open field running. I turn it over only to discover a broad abdominal flap that marks this one as a female. She seemed ticked for some reason so I put her down and move on. The next few crabs I find are all female and I begin to wonder if this is the girls’ day out. I feel like an interloper as I encounter crab after crab in full flight, claws up in that “I’m ready for a fight, bring it on” posture.

I come upon one crab clutching a clam. I figure it is contemplating the clam for dinner as I am contemplating the crab for the same purpose. We have a food chain forming, and I mutter a silent prayer that I am the apex feeder and take a nervous glance over my shoulder just to make sure. The crab makes a break for it and I give chase. I gain on the shellfish duo and after a short distance the crab jettisons the clam and accelerates like a Shelby GT. I lunge, grab the crab, turn it over, check its underside like some serial voyeur and put it down in one movement, silently apologizing for interrupting the lady’s lunch. My luck changes as I flip my umpteenth crab, a good size beast and see the narrow abdominal flap that identifies it as a male. Yahoo and yippee-ki-o-ki-a, its round up as I wrangle successive males. Some are clearly too short and are passed over. Others are corralled in the yellow game bag. One final mass measurement checks the catch of the crabs from all divers; enough crabs were taken for that night’s crab feed. The crabs head for the Rubbermaid storage container cum holding tub and I head for the hot tub. Later, I see the water boiling on the propane burner with the crabs waiting nearby. I recall that my Rhode Island grandmother would apologize to the lobster as she put them to the pot. I mutter similar words in anticipation of the meal.

That night we have a crab feast with all the trimmings on the upper deck. Dining alfresco with friends bound in a common endeavor is the best way to enjoy the very tasty crabs, although the crab may have a different perspective. After dinner, most of my fellow passengers depart for Baranof Hot Springs. I decline joining the shore party, preferring the quiet solitude of a nearly empty boat at anchor in a peaceful world.