Night of the Horseshoe Crabs
1The tide was rising when Grandpa and I reached the bay. It was a warm night in late May, and the air smelled of salt and seaweed. Tiny waves slapped against the sand with a soft, steady plap, plap, plap.
2Grandpa clicked on his flashlight. In the circle of yellow light, I saw something that looked like an upside-down mixing bowl sliding out of the water. Then I saw another, and another. Dozens of horseshoe crabs were crawling up the wet sand.
3"They come ashore on spring nights to lay their eggs," Grandpa explained. "Horseshoe crabs were around long before the dinosaurs."
4I knelt to look closer. The nearest crab's shell was the color of a wet paper bag, smooth and shiny, with a long, pointed tail dragging behind it. Its legs made faint scratching sounds as it pushed through the sand. A smaller crab clung to the back of its shell like a backpack.
5Farther down the shore, a crab lay on its back. Its legs waved slowly in the air, and its tail poked at the sand, but it could not turn over. "Can I help it?" I asked. Grandpa showed me how. I held the edge of the shell with my fingertips, never the tail, and gently tipped it right side up. The shell felt cool and hard, like a plastic lid, and gritty sand stuck to my fingers. The crab paused for a moment. Then it crept toward the water.
6We walked slowly along the shore and counted every crab we passed. Grandpa wrote the numbers in his notebook for the scientists who study the bay. By midnight, my sneakers were soaked and my knees were caked with sand. A cool breeze raised goose bumps on my arms, and I yawned so wide that my jaw cracked.
7As we walked back to the car, I could still hear the waves whispering behind us. I could still feel that gritty sand under my fingernails, too.