Always amazed

Is there ever a day when I am not amazed by something down at the shore? It might be a spruce tree’s elaborate root system dangling in midair over the cliff, or an orange-red fossil peeking out of ancient sandstone, or—a giant lobster.

One early December morning we made our way down the slip to the beach, where high tides and winds had scoured the shore, leaving only bare rocks and periwinkles. Where does the sand go during a storm? It must be out there shifting around somewhere because it always comes back. 

Lost in thought I stepped carefully from wet rock to wet rock, avoiding ones with slippery black algae, until “Come look at this!” My friend was pointing at a golden brown mound of seaweed… that moved ever so slightly… because it was not seaweed at all but a giant lobster waving its antennae, barely.

I eat lobster. I buy them cooked so I don’t have to think about the whole boiling thing. But this lobster wasn’t like the ones in the seafood store. It was a creature in need, and a wave of tenderness washed over me. Obviously it had been washed inshore, but why? A big strong creature like that should be able to find a foothold on the ocean floor. 

Once we had oohed and aahed and taken photos from various angles, I picked up the lobster by the carapace (using both hands, it was heavy!), carried it to a tidal pool and laid it gently in the water. Although not completely submerged, by some vague motion it seemed to signal appreciation of being back in its natural element. 

I wish I had observed this handsome creature more closely. Now, zooming in on the photos, I see white spots that look like barnacles. I look up “barnacles on lobsters” and learn that barnacles will settle on old sedentary lobsters, and once they get in knuckles and joints, or on the eyes, the lobster can’t move freely or hunt or eat. 

Was it male or female? What about the tiny right claw? It must have been torn off sometime and regrown. Also I don’t know how old it was. Lobster age can apparently be determined by counting growth rings on the eyestalk, but I didn’t do that. 

Maybe our lobster was in terrible health and had climbed onto that rock to die. If it was human it might have waited a few more days, saying, “I’d just like to make it to Christmas.” But I don’t think Christmas means much to lobsters. 

Christmas means a lot to us though, and on that subject let me briefly report that Open Houses in the Cove were as satisfying as ever. To walk up a snowy star-lit lane, enter a neighbour’s porch without knocking, kick off your boots, find a vacant spot for your coat, then open the kitchen door and be greeted by smiling faces, a table full of Christmas treats and the smell of a wood fire: what’s not to love? Long may traditions continue! 

And long may the Cove continue to amaze me. Happy New Year!