TRAVEL LESSONS FROM A HERMIT CRAB

BY EMMA LIVERSEED

Today I am lying in the sun on my stomach, hoping one week in the St. Croix sun will make up for three months of a cold winter. With my chin pressed into the mesh of a beach chair, I stare at the sand as it begins to move, almost as if something is breathing beneath the surface.

Tiny bodies emerge, golden sand tumbling from their shells. Some are the size of silver dollars, others are so small they could perch on the tip of my pinky, or fit in a single drop of saltwater. I feel like a giant, intruding on their seashore village. Each footstep of mine must be an earth-shattering tremor. (Yesterday I interrupted a group of them as they were feasting on a red berry — some scattered, others hid and, in typical Midwestern fashion, I apologized).

If you had never seen a hermit crab before, or had knowledge of what they are, they might seem like the most alien of creatures, waving their beady eye stalks and crawling on ten jointed legs. Their claws are the

same shade of the deep purple petals of the island’s abundant bougainvilleas. Despite their name, hermit crabs are social creatures. Rarely on this trip have I seen one on its own, though they can easily seek solitude in their shells whenever the moment strikes them.

Perhaps because I am always thinking about travel, the hermit crabs remind me of seasoned backpackers, carrying much of what they need on their backs. I picture them taking overnight flights, traveling to unknown city streets and nesting in their calcified caves when they are tired. They are impressive travelers, borrowing and trading shells, outgrowing their homes and scavenging for new ones. I admire their flexibility, and mostly I am curious about their adventures, of ending up wherever the tide takes them. I wonder if there is a thing or two to be learned from a hermit crab: don’t be afraid to make a new place your home, and learn how to carry your home within you, no matter where you are. MAAS, USA