While crabbing on the shores of Maryland’s Wye River one intoxicatingly-sunny day, my husband and I netted and trapped about four dozen beady-eyed, bright-blue-shelled crabs. A rather unappealing briny odor arose from this crowd of clammy crustaceans as the overloaded bucket, which contained them, spilled over and they scuttled across the well-worn bottom of our wooden boat. A chorus of “click-clack-clee’s” resounded, as dozens of pairs of claws were raised in defiance – miniature prizefighters poised to lunge at our arrogant approach. Wincing with pain, as peevish pincers met with bare and unprotected fingers, we scooped our little dignity-damaged prizefighters back into their plastic pail. Back at home, after our soggy soldiers were relinquished to the cooking pot, our palates were treated to the savory, salty white meat of the once-feisty foragers.