I stood off to the side when it came time to launch the boat. It again, was a smooth simple operation with each doing his part without interfering with the other. What a team! The day was a blustery one with a good 30 knot wind causing small white caps on the otherwise tranquil river entrance. We picked a place a mile or so in from where it converged with the Pacific. Bill explained that getting too close to the convergence point was bad as the current was so strong it would push the floats under the surface. Although the small boat rocked in the waves, Bill moved about casting the nets into the river with great skill, checking that the rings sank in concentric order. Sometimes a slight yank on the tether was needed. Soon all three of the floats bobbed in the ever increasing breeze. Ken had negotiated the boat along a straight line while Bill had thrown the nets. Now Ken turned in a slow wide arc, until we had arrived just below the first net heading in the same line. As we passed each buoy Bill would lean over the edge of the rocking boat to catch the bobbing buoy. He missed only twice during the entire operation. As soon as he had a firm grasp on the tether, Ken would start yelling “Is it heavy, Pull faster, You’re too slow”, and then laugh. If the net was empty, which was rare, Ken would start with “See you let them all crawl out.” If it was full, which was more often the case, Ken would be shouting, “Any keepers?”, Bill would counter with “Maybe.” As he would reach in with his gloved hand to pick up each crab. Little ones went over the side without ceremony. Big ones got turned over. The shell casing design on the belly of a Dungeness crab identifies it as either male or female. Females go back regardless of size. Of the remaining males, those over 5 1/2 inches across from shell corner to shell corner are “keepers” The size differs in each state, with Oregon allowing the smallest. However in most cases, measurements were not required. The hours sped by as Bill tirelessly pulled in net after net dumping crabs back into the river and keeping one or two each time. Then it was time for lunch. We threw the nets overboard, and headed for shore and a snack. It was now my turn to drive. The wind had kicked up quite a breeze and the swells threatened to pass over the gunwale. It took several passes before I learned the proper approach to the buoys. Bill was patient as a teacher and Ken gave me nothing but heck, in the warm happy way he had conducted himself most of the afternoon. I had returned most of his jabs with threats of negotiating a wave into his lap. He jokingly zipped his windbreaker up over his head and looking out through the small opening with on eye, challenged me “Go ahead sonny.” Being between buoys at the time, I had been watching him and failed to notice that the boat had swung head up into the swells. The recollection of something very large right in front of me caused my head to jerk to the front just in time to catch a large swell as it passed over the bow and dumped about 10 gallons of water on the two of us. Bill howled with glee as Ken sputtered under his breath and I cursed the parentage of all waves in general.