The Crab Line
The morning fog over English Bay looked like someone had draped a giant wool blanket across the water — thick, soft, and just a little mysterious. V. tightened the drawstring on his hoodie, the kind of half-awake gesture you make when the ocean air is colder than you expected. The dock creaked under his boots, and somewhere out there, a seagull was already complaining about breakfast.
Perfect. Crabbing weather.
He slung the traps into the boat, each one clattering like a promise. Vancouver has a way of making even simple things feel cinematic — mountains in the background, city skyline on one side, open Pacific on the other. It’s hard not to feel like the main character when you push off from the dock.
As the boat hummed toward the North Shore, the fog thinned just enough to reveal a few other early risers. A couple of retirees in a tin skiff. A father and daughter arguing about who forgot the bait. A lone kayaker who looked far too serene for someone paddling through cold February water.
V. grinned. “Competition,” he muttered, though everyone knew the crabs didn’t care about human rivalries.
He dropped the first trap with a satisfying splash. The second. Each one sinking into the green-blue depths where the Dungeness lurked like armored treasure.
Then came the waiting — the part no one talks about, the part that feels like a meditation. The city hummed behind him, but out here it was just the slap of water against the hull and the occasional seal head popping up like a curious neighbor.
After what felt like an hour but was probably twenty minutes, he hauled up the first trap.
Heavy.
Good sign.
The crab cage broke the surface, dripping and alive with movement. Inside, a cluster of crabs scuttled over each other like disgruntled commuters. One particularly large Dungeness glared at him with the intensity of someone who had very strong opinions about being relocated.
“Hello, dinner,” V. said.
He measured them — because Vancouver rules are sacred — and kept only the legal ones. The big one made the cut. The big one also tried to pinch him on the way out, which felt personal.
By the time he pulled the last trap, the sun had burned through the fog, turning the water into a sheet of hammered silver. The city skyline sparkled. The mountains looked smug. And the bucket at his feet was had 4 - enough to make the trip feel like a small victory.
On the way back, a seal followed the sailboat for a while, bobbing alongside like a silent, whiskered critic.
“Don’t judge me,” V said. “You had your chance.”
Back at the dock, visitors watched him unload the bucket with the kind of fascination usually reserved for magicians or people who can solve a Rubik’s cube in under ten seconds.
“Did you really catch those out there?” one asked.
He nodded. “Vancouver’s full of surprises.”
And as he walked home with a bucket of fresh crab and the smell of salt still clinging to his sleeves, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d stolen a perfect little moment from the city — a secret morning adventure tucked between the mountains and the sea.