The Crab Lied

A story of Velvia, betrayal, and sideways vengeance

Based on a true story.

He said he knew a wreck.

The crab. Big one. Left claw chipped like it had seen things. He moved with purpose, like something that had been through stories and come back with sand in its joints. He looked at me — I swear he looked at me — and then scuttled off toward the rocks. No words. Just that follow me energy. That old, dangerous pull: there’s something worth seeing this way. And me, sunburnt and film-hungry, gripping my last roll of Velvia 50 like a promise, thought: this is it.

He led me across the rocks, past tidepools, through gull laughter and wet silence. Into a little cove carved by time and bad decisions. He paused. Turned one eye back toward me. Then vanished behind a rock.

I followed.
Because I’m an idiot.

They were waiting.

At least a dozen of them. Hunkered behind the stone like some kind of crustacean heist crew. Claws raised. Eyes locked. One had a stick. One had a bottlecap shield. One — I swear on my light meter — wore a strip of torn fishing net like a scarf.

They swarmed.

I didn’t even get a chance to react. One crab went straight for my sock, another latched onto my trouser cuff like it had a personal grudge. While I flailed like a man caught mid-ritual, one darted up the side of my bag and snatched the Velvia. Clean. Fast. Like they’d rehearsed it.

And then they vanished.

Back behind the rock. Gone. Leaving me scratched, gasping, barefoot, and film-less — a broken man mugged by a sideways criminal syndicate. My roll of Velvia 50 gone. My trust in marine life shattered. My ankles... mildly pinched.

I don’t trust crabs anymore. None of them. I don’t care how small they are. I don’t care if they wave politely or scuttle like innocent little beach janitors — they know what they did. And the soft-shell ones? I eat them. With intention. With vengeance. They’re the easy ones. The cowards. Fool me once, and I’ll spend a lifetime eating my way through your family.

I think about that roll sometimes. What it could’ve been. I like to imagine it enshrined somewhere — deep in an underwater tidepool bunker, framed in barnacle gold, still unshot. Revered. Mythologised. They probably laugh at it. At what I could’ve made. At how easy I was to outsmart.

Anyway.
Next time I bring bait.
Next time I bring traps.

Field Advisory – CRAB OPS:

Do not follow solo crabs
Do not mention vintage film stocks near tidepools
Trust no shell
Eat soft-shells first
Never dive alone
Assume every claw has handled a bat

— H
barefoot, Velvia-less, not falling for that again