Somewhere down the line, I became a crabber. I do not mean to imply that I am a crabber in any commercial sense, nor does my habit require any special know-how. My style of crabbing is a form of self-care — a way of casting off the cobwebs at the end of day and fleeing from the rigors of the daily slog.
All that’s required for this endeavor is a one-gallon bucket, a cheap ball of string, and a pack of chicken-backs from Greer’s cost-saver. For these adventures I often roll with my girlfriend and her cattle dog, Ernie; other times I fly solo. But I am hardly ever alone.
Like any good dive bar, the pier has its regulars. Some of these folks bring chairs and large Igloo coolers and make a day of it. Some even share their bounty if they know you’re making gumbo that night. When I decided to try my luck a few days after Mardi Gras, the place was deserted — one of the few times that has happened. My only companions were a colony of brown pelicans situated to the east of the pier, nestled around some ravaged pilings that once supported a Live Bait shop. This is a real party spot for pelicans, and the action goes all year long, as if they can’t stop celebrating the demise of DDT.
In warmer months the gators come out, cruising about the perimeter and basking in the chicken scents like cars at a Foosackly’s drive thru. It’s not uncommon on those days to find one on the end of your string, and a smart crabber knows some company’s not worth getting that close to.
On a decent outing — these are usually attended by a slack tide — I’ll catch a dozen or so crabs of legal size (roughly the length of your iPhone) and call it a day. I’ll freeze them for a future dish or share with Nolton Lumar, the gumbo maestro profiled last issue who also makes a mean crab and shrimp stew. I no longer fish when I’m on the Causeway, as I never catch much. Patric Garmeson, an in-shore fishing captain interviewed in this issue, says the mud-dumping that began fourteen years ago smothered a key oyster reef south of the Causeway and killed what was once a hot-spot for anglers. Knowing that, I’ll stick to the crabbing in these parts, which is more or less a sure thing.
When you eat your catch, you become more conscious of water health and the issues that threaten it. Yet there is a part of you that wants to forget those threats. The reason you’re out on the water in the first place is to escape from the hellhounds of the modern world. But when you fish or crab or spend any length of time on the Bay, you become attuned to the subtleties of the watershed. You notice things like turbidity and changes to the shoreline, and how the claws of a crab turn brilliant blue in the fall after molting. You become keenly aware of the fragility of our estuary. Industrial threats like dredge-spoil disposal and sewage runoff are never fully out of mind, and it becomes harder to ignore the universal law of cause and effect.
Our cover story this issue profiles Trey King and his fledgling salt-making operation with Fairhope Salt Company. In just one year he’s made quite a splash on the culinary scene. His story is a testament to the demand for local flavor and the importance of environmental stewardship. It’s also a reminder of how much our watershed has to offer us when it’s healthy and protected.
— from CURRENTS, spring 2026
Caine O'Rear 