GOING CRABBING
Another new year is upon us, full of all sorts of promise for things to come. It's at this time of year that I like to look back on the past year and reflect on what I had intended to do via my New Year's resolutions, and see how I fared in that quest. Fortunately for me, though, at my advancing age, I manage to forget (usually around January fourth) what I'd sworn I was going to do to improve myself. Unfortunately, however, I'm a writer, and I actually had the chutzpah last year to write a column on what I planned to do. So I'll do a little archive-mining and see what gives.

It seems that last year I resolved, in some kind of misguided idiocy, to live like I was young again. And, long story short, it seems I've failed at that one. But I'm okay with that. You see, I've spent a considerable number of years outgrowing my childish naiveté, and I don't intend to give up all that I've worked for just for the sake of acting like I did in my misspent youth. Yeah, I said it kids. I don't want to go back to being a kid again. I'm kind of growing into my own adulthood, and finding I'm more or less comfortable with it.

PHOTOS BY JILL SANDOLE Andrew contemplates his crabbiness out west (left) while a real crabber goes after the genuine article in Bodega Bay, California.

Now before we get too carried away here, I'm not saying I want to fast-forward to my retirement years. Nope, I'm kind of content right about where I am right now. I'm just that kind of go-with-the-flow guy, taking life as it comes, even keel, unflappable, all that good stuff.

And if those damn kids would just stay off my lawn, I'd be even happier.

My sentiments towards children aside - stay tuned next week for more on that - apparently there are those among us who find my good-natured lovable self to be a wee-bit, dare I say it, crabby. Yes, people. Crabby. I was actually called a crabby crab recently by a woman who I'll allow to remain anonymous.

After the shock of the accusation wore off, I told Jill - oops, sorry, it slipped - that I wasn't, in fact, crabby, but rather just the opposite. She told me to prove it and suggested that my New Year's resolution this year be that I strive to be less crabby. I figure this will be like taking candy from a one-armed baby, so I'm all over it. Kids, this year I resolve to be less crabby. Yeah, like that's even possible. Me? Less crabby? I'd have to be some kind of overcooked tree sap from Vermont for that to happen. But I digress.

Now, shifting gears slightly, I had the chance to spend the Christmas holidays out in Marin County, California, just outside of San Francisco. It was, I'm almost ashamed to admit, the first time I'd spent any sort of extended time, outside of airport delays, in San Francisco, so I was very much playing the part of the tourist. Included in that touristy itinerary was the inevitable trip to Fisherman's Wharf, notable for its mass of humanity crammed into ridiculously narrow passageways.

And no, that's not the segue. It's a little early yet for that, don't you think?

Apparently it's kind of like a local law or something that when you're in San Francisco and, specifically, at Fisherman's Wharf, you have to eat crabs. Ah-HAH, I thought to myself, here's the perfect chance to jump-start the whole New Year's resolution thing. I'll consume the tangible manifestation of my so-called character flaw, thereby exorcising it from my own field of existence. Or something like that, anyway.

And now I don't know how many of you have ever experienced the Nirvana-esque experience of eating fresh Dungeness crab and sourdough bread, but kids let me tell you this: It's worth the price of the ticket. So sitting there salivating over my newfound favorite thing ever, I was struck by a new appreciation for a group of folks who a lot of times don't get the credit they deserve: commercial fishermen.

That's it! This is the last time! You damn kids get off my lawn and take your damn segue with you!

Friends and neighbors, as I write this, the California coastline is getting battered by a winter storm. Winds are gusting to hurricane-strength levels and rain is coming down in sheets. It's not exactly the kind of weather you'd want to be out on the water during. But there are a dedicated bunch of hardy souls who are willing to brave the elements - cold, wind, whatever - in order to bring us the fresh seafood so many of us love. And it's not just Dungeness crabs, folks. Any commercially caught fish or shellfish you buy at your local fish market is the product of their labors, brought to you courtesy of these commercial anglers. It's easy to forget how dangerous a job these folks do when the sun is shining and the wind is calm. But on days like we're having today out on the West Coast, you couldn't pay me enough to be out on the water, no matter the size of the boat. So thank you, commercial fishermen, for all that you do.

So the next time you're slurping down your favorite repast, remember the people who helped to bring it to you and be grateful they are willing to go to the lengths that they do in order to make our lives that much more enjoyable.

And finally, speaking of sea-going folks, Godspeed, Alan Newhouse. This island is a better place for your having been a part of it, and it's a lesser place today without you. We'll miss you more than I can put into words.

Tight lines. I