When friends found out I’d never been crabbing in Louisiana, they were determined to set things right.

Getting to Pecan Island on a Friday afternoon required patience, but the hardest part of the whole adventure was finding a time that worked for all our schedules. The evening before we left, Adele Netterville messaged to say, “You’ll need to get a fishing license if you don’t have one.”

Getting a Louisiana fishing license was simple. Five minutes on Louisiana’s Department of Wildlife and Fisheries’ website, and I was officially licensed — and impressed.

Fishing license in hand, my friends, including Adele’s husband Craig Netterville, picked me up at 4 p.m. Friday and off we went, headed to a camp in Pecan Island, a ridge of high ground about 10 miles from the Gulf. 

We picked up Michelle Kallam in Lafayette, then hit the Best Stop in Scott for boudin and crackers. Eating hot boudin in the backseat of a truck on the way to a camp in Pecan Island felt like pure Louisiana.

After winding through Acadiana’s backroads with boudin in our laps, we arrived at the camp. Robert Kallam greeted us with a cooler full of crabs he had caught using traps. He had a giant boiler on the burner already bubbling.

As the sun was setting, we took a quick boat ride into the marsh, floating past goats and a giant pig on the banks. The Kallams explained that their camp was not waterfront property when they bought it 20 years ago, but after Hurricane Rita, some water never left.

Back at the camp, we sat down to a crab feast outside. The mosquitoes nearly hauled us off. So we retreated indoors.

The crabs were the best I’d ever had. I believed I’d soon be a crabbing expert and wanted mine to taste just like that. Thankfully, Robert Kallam was generous to share his secret: Louisiana Fish Fry Crawfish, Shrimp and Crab Boil. 

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After a full week of work, we hit the hay early. I got the bottom bunk in a room all my own. The crabbing experts said we had to leave by 6 a.m. to head to Rockefeller Refuge to get a spot.

They weren’t joking. When I went outside at 6:15 a.m. Saturday, a line of trucks were already barreling down La. 82 headed south. 

Truth is, I’m not a 6-a.m.-Saturday-morning-up-and-at-’em kind of human. Last weekend was the exception. 

We pulled into Rockefeller Refuge minutes after the sun began to rise. Looking out the window onto the incredible morning sun hitting the Roseau reed felt like riding into a painting.

I grew up among a family of hunters and fishermen. I’ve remained baffled at why they got up at the crack of dawn day after day to head into the woods. But on Saturday, the glow on the reeds gave me insight into my brother, uncles and father.

After a string of busy weeks, quietly watching that kind of beauty was indeed enough to pull me back again, even at 6 a.m. — and we hadn’t even gone crabbing yet. 

My friends showed me that crabbing is easy. All you need is string, a net and some chicken legs or turkey necks. Tie the bait, drop it in. When the string moves, gently pull it in and scoop up the crab with the net.

For two hours, we couldn’t move from string to string fast enough. Granted, many were juveniles, which we released, but the catching was nonstop. It was a blast.

Then, all of a sudden, they just stopped biting. We sat on the pier for a while longer. We had made friends with the young family beside us from Holmwood. The two little boys, Maverick and Maddox Suire, were as helpful, kind and confident as they could be.

When we walked up, Maverick, the 5-year-old younger brother, exclaimed to his mom, “This is only my second time crabbing, and I’m already good at it.”

Maverick and I became fast friends. He found a bird’s feather and a piece of string. I told him if he could find another piece of string, I would make him a headdress. String is easy to find on a crabbing pier. 

Maverick wore the makeshift headdress proudly for the rest of our time together, as happy as a child could be. 

Since we had already eaten crabs the night before, we asked Maverick’s mom if she would like the ones we caught. She gladly accepted. The boys were pulling crab lines as we drove away. 

Turns out, slow time with friends, a feather, a string and a 5-year-old on a crabbing pier go a long way in reminding us what joy looks like. 

We stopped at Suire’s grocery south of Kaplan for lunch. It was like a little slice of heaven. I was glad my friends took it upon themselves to go crabbing.