It’s the crack of dawn, and these men have been pulling crabs out of the water for two hours already. It’s backbreaking, repetitive work with not nearly enough or nearly long enough breaks. During one 5 minute reprieve, they call an alligator to the boat. I shit you not, that gator swims directly for us, and one of the crabbers drops a fish head into its mouth. Their work is mostly silent partly because we make them uncomfortable. We stare at their every move, fascinated by this dying art. This heritage. “Look. Look there,” says William. “All that there? That was land last week.”
