By Gene Cashman lll

pril is the month my family celebrates its beloved April fool. While he is not really a fool at all, he gained the distinction by gracing the world with his presence on April 1, 1914- April Fools Day. God promptly broke the mold. The fool of which I speak is none other than my Granddad, the original Eugene K. Cashman, a king among men. My Grandfather is Bluffton, at least in my world view. I have no real memory of a place that doesn’t include Gene Sr. Recently that memory is more of him slowly whistling his way through the old Oyster Street home or reading the Savannah Evening News in his brown leather chair, all of which conjure up a completely different set of warm memories and conversations. However, years ago things were much different. My very imagination was opened by stories he would tell, trips he would lead, lessons he taught. He is a pillar of my love for Bluffton, the essential foundation to all the things that have come to mean so much. The funny thing about him is how subtle it all is, his influence I mean. His wife, Isobel, an absolute gem in her own right who was and still is the “life of the party.” The radiant beauty everyone basks in. He, on the other hand, is the constant and steady fiber weaving it all together; the big hand on the clock keeping time. There are hundreds of stories about my Granddad; his life has been so rich and so full. This is one of my favorite that always makes me smile.

Granddad loved to crab. He loved fiddling with the traps, rigging the lines, finding the perfect drop. He would keep logs of where he dropped crab pots, the day, tide, and how many crabs were caught. He enjoyed tinkering around for May River blue crabs in much of the same way my Father loved to prepare for fishing trips. It was the summer of 1988. I remember it being the “dog days of Summer” when even boating at midday was a sweaty chore. My Mother, little sister and I had been placed in Granddad’s care for much of the summer while my Father remained in town to work. This was always a treat because Granddad never failed to have plenty of ice cream on hand, joy rides in the Cadillac to Alljoy took place every low tide, and crabbing trips occurred every two days. Granddad took these trips every two days to allow for the crab pots to season in the river. This ensured the bait had time to attract the attention of all the crabs in the area. The strategy always netted at least three traps loaded with feisty crab. One of these summertime excursions across the river is the backdrop for this tale.

On this particular trip we left the dock to pick up crab pots on the incoming tide about an hour before sunset. This is a key component to the story that would ultimately lead to much unwanted adventure. Before setting out across the river we left a large washbasin full of salted water on a burner to boil. The intent was that by the time we got back the water would be at a rolling boil and we would be less than a half hour away from a tasty meal. Summer boat rides in the waning light of day almost always presented some sort of difficulty, although until this trip I wasn’t entirely aware of just how much. We pulled into the first creek without much fanfare. It was close to the main river, so the mud banks were already well covered with water. We pulled the long rope until the trap emerged from the water. It crackled and snapped with the sounds of angry crab as we lifted it aboard. Granddad loudly counted “Twenty-one blues and one stone crab Oh boy.” We then carefully emptied them into a tall peach basket and baited the trap. Feeling like we had run all the luck out of that particular spot we mutually agreed to drop the pot in a new “honey hole” on the way to our next destination. Like I previously stated, the shadows were getting pretty long and light was now quickly beginning to fade amongst the tall grass of the creeks. We picked up the pace. With the second trap within sight Granddad slowed the boat and gave the order to toss the newly baited trap. With a hoist and a heave I flung the greasy trap overboard and watched the line go out. It uncoiled rapidly as the trap sunk to the bottom of the May River until finally the Styrofoam ball popped over the side. This was completely normal except for the fact that the ball, which was supposed to float, sank like a stone. In our haste to get the trap out we misjudged the depth of the water and the length of the rope. We tried to snag the rope with a gaff but to no avail, the river had claimed our trap.

Somewhat defeated we proceeded to the next crab pot several hundred yards away. I remember my Granddad muttering sharply under his breath as he pulled up the second trap. Frustrated with the loss he quickly tugged in the pot, slamming it on the deck. It too crackled with the activity of its inhabitants. Lifting the trap up, he began to shake the crabs free of their hold. They began falling out in clusters of three and five, another grand catch. We again baited to trap, and this time carefully checked the length of the rope before launching. Confident in our chances we tossed it overboard. Once again the rope sailed out of the boat as the trap sank and yet again the Styrofoam ball zipped with the trap straight to the bottom. My Granddad almost went in headfirst after it. I had to snag his belt to keep him in the boat. Collecting himself he silently restarted themotor and solemnly drove to the next drop. I sat beside him not knowing whether I should laugh or try to comfort him. Upon reaching the third trap he silently went about his work. This time he landed the trap and headed for home.

It was completely dark by the time we reached our dock. We were met by my little sister who curiously inquired about the contents of the basket, “Forty three blues and six stone crab claws,” Granddad proudly proclaimed, now less solemn about losing two of his traps. It was quite the haul of crab and would make my Grandmother, Isobel, very happy. Granddad loved catching and eating crab as much as Isobel loved cooking it for him. They would catch and pick pounds of it all summer long and freeze it to enjoy during winter months. Isobel would pick the previous days catch with great joy. May River crab cooked by Isobel is a delicacy in my family; her crab is literally more valuable than gold. Which, when put in that light makes the next part of the story so sad. Upon returning to the house the pot of water was indeed boiling in the yard. In a rush to put the crab in the pot so we could eat dinner my Granddad sort of halfway flung the contents of the peach basket towards the water. In doing so he completely undershot the tub of water sending all forty three crabs into the side of the pot, promptly knocking it from the burner. The crabs scattered everywhere. In a matter of seconds the tightly massed wad of entangled crab bolted for the river with the speed of greyhounds. We rounded up what we could find in the darkness but only came up with the six stone crab claws and a dozen crab; thirty-one lucky souls reached “freedom’s” shore. When we came into the house with only twelve crab no one would or could believe that we had simply lost thirty-one crab. To this day I will never forget my Granddad scrambling about the yard searching for wayward crab in the monkey grass and azalea trying to show my Mom and Grandmother what had occurred.

I celebrate my Granddad every time I think of that story and of how much we laughed about it once we got over the initial shock of everything going so wrong. Time spent with my Granddad all those summer days of my youth are some of the sweetest memories I own. My Granddad turns 93 years young this April. As I look back on this one adventure, insignificant in its own merit to some of the other things we have done together, I am reminded about the sweet subtly of his influence in my life. It highlights the point that he is the cornerstone upon which our family was built and how my memories of Bluffton were forged. To you Granddad, a king among men, I say “Cheers,” you ‘ole April fool!