Costa Maya

     The sand moves below me, and I squeal as I trip over my feet. A tiny crab scitters away, leaving a twisted trail of tiny sideways footprints. I chase after it, childishly, until it dives under a tangle of leaves on the side on the beach. My focus into the sand brings a crowd. My parents, our guide, and two small children, a skinnier boy and a chubbier girl, both with dark hair and wide eyes, tanned skin that makes my sunburn ivory by comparison. We all stare at the half buried crab, as our guide pokes at it, prompting it to run again. Our group scatters as the crab escapes, and the children follow it, trailing shouts of Spanish behind them. They stare it down a tiny hole in the sand as I retreat into the shade with my parents.

"Go help it," prods my mother, "or they're going to kill it." Reluctantly, I hop across the hot sand back to the little crab and the kids. "Come on little guy," I coo, trying to coax it back to the weeds. The kids catch on and coo at it too, saying things I don't understand, but the crab understands none of us. The younger boy gives up and kicks sand on top of it, burying it. The girl squeals and shouts again, and this time I catch words.

"Muerto," she yells, "Está muerto." 

"No, no," I try to comfort, limited in high school Spanish. "No creo que está, um, esté muerto." Damn subjunctive. "Um, no debemos tocar. Su casa esta en las plantas. Yo creo." His house is in the plants. I think. I scoop my hands into the sand and sift through, finally bringing up a handful, and in the middle, a very scared and sandy crab. His left eye is tucked away in his shell and he hisses at me, blowing tiny bubbles. The two kids yell and follow as we race back to the plants. I drop it gently, and it latches onto a root and refuses to let go. Our sucess is interrupted by my mother, "Roo, we've got to go." I tell her I'm coming and wave adiós to the crab. 

The kids stare at me, "Hablas inglés?"I laugh and nod, "Sí, hablo inglés." 

As we're leaving the beach, our guide tells us a crab is called a cangrejo.
"But be careful," he warns, that's another name for..." lost for words, he strikes a pose, putting a hand on a popped out hip. He gives a little wave with his other hand and whistles. It's charades.
"Hooker?" we guess, "Dancer?"
"No," he says, "the men who..."
"Transvestite?"
Finally, he remembers the word he's been looking for. Gay! We laugh, all delighted with the translation and double meaning, and leave behind our tiny cangrejo.