Francesca’s finger flew high, blood trailing, arcing gracefully, before hitting the ground somewhere in the crowd, a claw attached, her screams momentarily silencing the tightly-packed bar. “O Gesu Mio” as the sight of her pulsing, bloody stump was absorbed by the stunned crowd!
Notwithstanding Covid restrictions, Darwin’s Lims’ Hotel bar seethed – humanity, humidity, beers, laughter, murderous crabs, numbered contestants, and carapaces competing in the annual Northern Territory Barefoot Mud Crab Tying contest: “The quickest to secure three Muddies wins the purse!”
We needed the $4,000 purse if we were ever going to get back home to Umbria. The Top End was the end of our WWOOF holiday, next stop home, we hoped.
Tiwi Islander crab-tying expert, Pius Puruntatamirri, had been honing Francesca’s skills for weeks. As the doctor applied a tourniquet to her stump and a few grams of morphine into her arm, I think about what steps she might have forgotten? Her tears continued to fall, but I sensed the pain eased as she too, reviewed the steps she’d applied to immobilize her quarry.
That first crab had been secured beautifully – no more than twenty-four seconds with the beasty on its back, front nippers pressed firmly into position, tied off, toe released, flinging the muddie into the basket, and advancing towards numero due!
A bit of a setback, nearly putting a toe into 100mm of vicelike, snapping claw. But a deft sidestep, toe holding shell down, in, under its guard, the string neatly in behind the nippers, out and around, drawing chord back between the upper and lower claws. Gotcha, the string taught and tied off. Fifty-six seconds!
Pius had warned her, “you get lazy after number two …. ya gotta keep ya focus, stay on guard”, he said. “They are cheeky buggers, strong too, real damage follows any mistake.”
Numero tre was an absolute brute! Three kilograms of solid, meat-filled frame! They circled each other, claws clacking menacingly, stalked eyes locked on her, each considering their opponent’s possible weaknesses. They sparred! The time ticked off: “Seventy-five seconds” the crowd roared, as she feinted to the left, string ready, a move to the right, the manoeuvre catching Muddie off guard.
This was it, and she was in, quick as a flash, foot raised, her big toe moving down, behind, onto Muddie, in practised anticipation of the restraint, string strategically moving into position for the first loop, around, and onto those bloody monstrous claws. Italia here we come. She told me later that at that moment, her Nonna and Mumma embraced her, welcoming her home!
The crowd chanted “100 seconds”. Forty-five more would set a record.
OK, she’s focused. Watch out for that right masher, wow that was close. Carefully does it. The left claw is secured, merda, she’s missed the right one. From the back, easy, slip it over and … the bugger has bitten through the string! Surely that isn’t allowed. Can you appeal? Hesitation, I looked across at Pius. There was a scream. Someone yelled, “Look out!”