I have an ultra-competitive family. This is amazing to me for the sole reason that my parents are not overly competitive. Sure, they encouraged us to do our best and exposed us to many different activities. But there is an internal killer drive that I share with my brothers Pat and Jade.
In our schooling years, the result was excelling in pretty much every sport we played. In our over-the-hill years, the scenario is completely different:
When we vacationed at Tie Lake, B.C., we dressed in camouflage as we waged war on capturing the most turtles.
In croquet, our mallets become our weapons in the game we renamed, “Blood Sport.”
Whilst in the Outer Banks, our competition de choix was crab hunting.
When I was younger, my family enjoyed vacationing on Vancouver Island and crab fishing off the docks of Sydney. Back in The Day, we had all the fixins that included traps and bait.
In the Outer Banks, we had three things: Buckets, flashlights and our freakishly superhuman speed.
Work with me, here.
My mom also bought the men crab-hunting uniforms.
Jamie, Pat, Jade and Dad
Those decapod crustaceans didn’t stand a chance against us.
After dark when the waves would roll in, crabs would wash up onto the shore. They’d scurry around at warp speed before plunging back into the ocean.
Enter: The Crazy Canuck Clan.
We had two divisions of crabbers: the spotters and the catchers. The spotters were in charge of the flashlights and following the crabs’ every moves. The catchers were responsible for running around screaming like the Tasmanian Devil whilst trying to scoop the crabs up into their buckets.
I obviously excelled at the latter.
Bode was superior at the former.
When he remembered to actually point his flashlight at the crabs, that is.
The final standings of our crabbing competition?
The winner:
My niece Ashton. This mother-of-two was a force to be reckoned with. So superior were her skills that on our final night, she even caught one backhanded.
If this mothering thing doesn’t work out, she has crabbing to fall back on.
The Loser:
The Lord of the Gourds. On the first night, a crab raced over Jamie’s foot and he squealed like a girl. My beloved honey tried to redeem himself by capturing eight crabs the following night but the damage was done. So disturbing was his initial display that for the remainder of our crab hunting days, my family warned “Not to pull a Jamie.”
I always knew he should be a verb.
Most improved:
Hadley. For our first several nights, Hadley raced around like the rest of us but was a bit too squeamish to delve in for the kill (or rather, catch. And then release). But on our final night, she proclaimed she was ready and my family banded to together in the assist.
At the end of the evening, she jubilantly caught five crabs.
And she then threw a colossal fit as we left the beach because “I WANNA STAY AND CATCH SIX CRABS!”
She was officially inducted into the Crazy Canuck Competitive Hall of Fame.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 