June 4, 2025 — It’s 5 a.m. when my alarm goes off. I roll out of bed and put on a long-sleeve shirt, a hoodie, a puffer jacket, and the thickest pants I own—it’s gonna be cold out there. My dad’s waiting for me in the kitchen with a tumbler of coffee, a piece of peanut butter toast, and a big smile on his face.
We drive to meet my grandpa on his boat, docked in the Sausalito harbor, 30 minutes north of San Francisco. It’s still dark out, but my grandfather’s energy says otherwise. The motor is already running, and we take off. Streaks of sunrise peek out from the horizon as we pass under the Golden Gate Bridge. The pots have been soaking, sitting on the ocean floor since yesterday morning, and they should be full of Dungeness crabs that fell for our delicious trap of stinky old chicken meat.
My grandpa, Stanley Ross, a self-identifying fisherman living in my hometown of Oakland, has fished these waters for over 40 years. Crabbing is more than a hobby for him, me, and other recreational fishers; it’s a cultural touchstone in the Bay Area, a way we connect to the natural rhythms of the region. Our winters and springs have been marked by celebratory crab dinners, friends and family squeezing around a dining room table covered with butter-stained newspapers.