Dancing in the Moonlight

Walking along the road or anywhere there is soil, round holes are evident all over Yap. Mounds of dirt rim the holes, tossed out as the inhabitants dig downward at a slant. Peering into the hole, anywhere from the size of a quarter to a silver dollar or more, folded pincers and two black eyes can be seen several inches down if the resident is at home.  

When the moon is full, the entire island comes alive with scurrying land crabs, also known as mangrove crabs, as they exit their holes and rush sideways back and forth across the road and into the roadside undergrowth. The larger crabs can grow to four inches across, not including the expanse of claws held high as they race to their destination.

The moonlight dance is a mass exodus that often baffles some of the most experienced crustacean experts. One theory is that the darkness of night protects them from predators as they rush to deposit larvae during high tide. But they can’t avoid human predators as they sidle across the roads. There are too many crabs on those moonlit nights for cars to swerve away from more than a few. The crunch crunch crunch of shells crushed by rotating tires is inevitable.

Land crabs are also scooped up by the locals as they all rush around on their collective missions in the light of the full moon, one for the protection of their species and the other for dinner.  It’s a mass slaughter no matter the means, but so far there seem to be many more crabs than people inhabiting this volcanic outcropping.  I have a feeling they’ll be dancing in the moonlight long after we humans are gone.