When I was much younger, spending my summers with the family on Vashon Island and long hours with good friends building “indestructible” forts, playing guns and exploring, taking to the waters of the Puget Sound was practically a daily occurrence.

My brothers and summertime friends, the latter of whom I’d see only for these precious three-month stints, took advantage of the sunshine and the often chilly water to the best of our ability. Sticks and rocks provided a good deal of entertainment and could be used in a variety of ways: sticks could hit rocks, rocks could be used to hit floating sticks, sticks could be used as swords to strike other sticks and so on. But, like all forms of entertainment, too much of one thing can get old.

Being boys, our eyes routinely turned to the Sound for amusement. And, being boys, that amusement wasn’t always in the best interest of anyone but ourselves.

I recall one particular summer when low tide at Dilworth Point was spent hunting hapless spider crabs (in all honesty, I’m not certain what their real name is but they looked like spiders and the name stuck). The Dungeness, which we all agreed were “good,” were spared the sword. Or the stick, as the case was.

Anyway, low tide would arrive and we would round up the group:myself, my older brother, Jeff, Kurt Gellerman, Paul Abel — sometimes my younger brother David was even allowed to join us — and, in essence, go hunting.

The knee deep water, soft sands and eel grass became a final resting place of sorts for many a spider crab that summer. Dozens upon dozens died and as they did, the hunts became less fruitful and therefore, less entertaining. We got bored and moved onto other things that could occupy our hours of freedom.

Summer passed. The next one arrived and with it new discussions concerning the previous nine months, and the days ahead. Rocks and sticks were taken in hand once again and games were played. Low tide arrived.

Jeff, Kurt, Paul and I found a batch of good sticks, and like warriors returning to a well-known battlefield, made our way over the rocks and barnacles to the eel grass. The hunt was underway but there was scarcely a spider crab to be found. We returned every low tide that year to the same scenario.

Dejected, we finally gave up on the hunt altogether and moved onto more perplexing pursuits — girls.

We were better off with the rocks and sticks, probably.

I think about those back-to-back summers now and again, typically when I’m taking the dogs out for their morning stroll down to the Hood Canal and the tide stretches out to reveal a pancake flat Hansville beach. I walk all the way to the water, to the eel grass, and sometimes think about how the four of us nearly eradicated Dilworth Point’s entire population of spider crabs in less than a summer.

I won’t delve into the obvious environmental underpinnings here or get preachy about our duty to protect the Earth. Rather, I simply wanted to offer a childhood tale about the large impact even the smallest of us can have on our surroundings. With summertime waning, my walks getting shorter in chill morning air, and North Kitsap growing away, I honestly wanted to get this reflection down before it returned to the recesses of my mind for another year.

I thank the readers for bearing with this tale of discovery and indulging me in a stroll down memory lane.

Speaking of strolls, I’d someday like to take a walk through Dilworth’s eel grass again, and find a flourishing spider crab population. I assure you I would tread much more lightly this time.

JOE IRWIN

Editor