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Journalism of Courage
It’s amazing how similar tide-pooling is to birding. Of course, there’s one big difference: for birds, you’re looking up at the sky or the trees, for hermit crabs and sea snails, et al you’re looking down at the sand and rock pools. But for both, it takes a short while to get your eye in before you actually start spotting things — birds fly away or flit into the foliage, crabs bury themselves into the sand and vanish under your nose. Even static shells and starfish disappear as waves swoop in and whisk them away like a magician’s sleight of hand.
But every trip has its highlights. My latest foray onto Morjim Beach was no different. A few beautifully gleaming shells in shades of cream and orange and the spiral-shaped ‘ice-cream cone’ shells, which hermit crabs so like, lay around, being pushed back and forth by frilly wavelets. And then suddenly, just ahead is what can only be described as an encampment of soldier crabs! But it is unlike any neat military camp: it’s untidy and higgledy-piggledy with balls of sand strewn all over the place (and not in neat straight lines as the smaller sand-bubbler crabs leave). The owner of each bivouac stood at the entrance as if awaiting barracks inspection (which, they would fail en masse!). It reminded me of illustrations in Asterix!
They made up somewhat for their apparent tardiness, because at the edge of the encampment was a small platoon of soldiers smartly marching single file — hup-two-three-four as if rehearsing for the Republic Day parade. Soldier crabs are apparently the only crabs that can march forward, all the others can only move sideways. It was so marvellous to watch them strut briskly across the sand that you are tempted to whistle the Colonel Bogey March to encourage them on their way, and bark, ‘Ten-hun! Patloon dheeli-dali! (Attention! Platoon at ease!’). They march in huge battalions to the sea’s edge while foraging.
The rocks too were crawling with rock-colored crabs which only gave themselves away when they moved. One had caught hold of a small silverfish. Whether the fish had been scavenged or hunted was impossible to tell. The crab kept dipping it into the waves as if wanting to wash it properly before consuming it.
Morjim is a large expansive beach, with firm sand and clear water. You look at the huge stretch of sand and then the sea: Some Olive Ridley turtles had been reported to land here a few nights ago to lay their eggs (which, were apparently appropriated so they could be hatched safely) and when you see the expanse of the ocean you can only wonder at their achievement. This was probably the very beach they, themselves were hatched on, decades ago and now they were coming home to lay their eggs (like new moms returning home to have their first baby!) in the hope they would hatch into the babies they would never see themselves. The arribada (arrival) of turtles happens on beaches all over the world and remains one of the most spectacular events in the marine cycle of life. Enormous flotillas of turtle-moms-to-be swimming valiantly towards their home shores in the middle of the night, staggering up onto the sand, digging pits, laying their gleaming white eggs, covering them up with sand and then straggling back to the sea, their life’s work done. Months later their babies would break out and scamper helter-skelter to the sea drawn by the faint reflected light of the moon or stars — or tragically and more often now — turn around and head for the lights from the beach bars and restaurants and streets only to be run over by traffic or be trapped in drains. At the best of times, most get picked off by scavengers — gulls, crows, dogs and ourselves, who just lie in wait for the bonanza hatching. There is yet more danger from predators in the ocean and they say only one in a thousand baby turtles make it to adulthood. Surely, they are a deserving recipient of the highest civilian award for courage in the face of overwhelming odds.
Back on the beach, we wander towards where the fishing boats have been drawn up and nets spread out. The sand here is littered with the corpses of crabs. A dead sea snake, thick as a girdle, lies supine, covered with sand. Above, Brahminy kites wheel and circle, being harried by crows. The magnificent white-bellied sea eagle you have seen here during past visits is today MIA (missing in action).
Some of the nets have a wide enough mesh for small fish and crustaceans to get through, but then there are others, with a fine, sand-colored mesh, like gauze, through which you know absolutely nothing could escape. How much of what is caught is actually taken to market, and how much just left to rot? Judging by the number of dead crabs (and bits of crabs) littering the sand the by-catch must be humongous — and such a waste! You think of the sleek, beautiful baby sharks you saw, all lined up in a basket in the Mapusa fish market and wonder if they were among the protected species. (The lady selling them disapproved of your trying to photograph them…)
Trudging back (‘hup-two-three-four!’), eyes still on the sand you notice a brilliant elongated emerald green beetle with eight black splotches on its body, trundling along slowly, as if taking a relaxed constitutional. It seems so completely out of place here and you wonder what the heck it’s doing here. Certainly, tide-pooling has its eccentrics!
