It was a Tuesday, and I remember because my mama always said Tuesday was a day for “light mischief.” Not serious enough for Monday’s slap-in-the-face energy, but not a Friday free-for-all either. So there I was, standing waist-deep in the middle of a dark, murky river somewhere outside of Savannah, Georgia, armed with a net in one hand and a headlamp strapped to my forehead. The goal? Catching supper. The twist? Supper was a pile of fresh blue crabs scuttling sideways around my shins in a scene that felt like a low-budget horror movie.

I was there, wildly unprepared and yet fully present, thanks to a suggestion from a guy I’d been seeing for a few months. Let’s call him James. James had that easy Southern charm—clean-pressed linen shirts, a pickup truck that smelled faintly of sandalwood, and a way with words that made you hand over your common sense just to hear his molasses-smooth drawl one more time.

“Trust me,” he said earlier that day as we drove along a battered dirt road flanked by Spanish moss draped over century-old oak trees. “You ain’t lived ‘til you’ve been crabbin’ at night.”

Reader, he was wrong. But not for lack of trying.

The Setup: Love, Risk, and Bad Footwear

Let me backtrack and set the stage. When James told me I’d get the “authentic Lowcountry” experience by crabbin’ barefoot in the middle of a river at night, I was game. I’m Charleston-born and raised, after all. The saltwater course through my veins should’ve prepared me for this. But as I stood staring at his cooler full of chicken necks (bait, apparently), it hit me—I had skipped one very key detail: preparation.

Cue me, dressed in the most impractical “I’m meeting his friends later” outfit you could imagine—denim shorts, a button-up blouse tied at the waist, and, heaven help me, cute sandals. Meanwhile, James was in waders and work boots, looking like he just stepped out of an episode of Swamp People.

James, bless his heart, thought this whole thing was adorable. “Ain’t no gators here tonight,” he said with a wink that was supposed to be reassuring. Was it reassuring? No. Did I still follow him into the river? Obviously. I’m not made of stone.

The Craziest Place I’ve Ever Been: Crabbin’ at Night

Crabbin’ at night is not for the faint of heart. It’s a sensory overload: the cool squish of mud between your toes, the insect symphony playing in the hot night air, and the faint, sulfuric tang of salt marsh mingling with the heady aroma of damp vegetation. Then there’s the thrill—and by thrill, I mean thinly veiled panic—of moving through pitch-black water with only a headlamp slicing through the darkness.

Every so often, the light would catch a pair of beady eyes gleaming just above the waterline. “It’s just a crab,” James would call from further upstream. “Or a snake. But probably a crab.” And can I tell you something? That “probably” did not sit right with me.

Despite my terror, there was something oddly soothing about the whole experience. The river had a slow, lazy energy that reminded me of the stories my grandma used to tell about growing up on Wadmalaw Island. Back then, the waterways were as much playground as lifeline, and nights like this were a regular part of life—grabbing what you could eat, sharing it with your neighbors, and dancing barefoot under the stars until the next tide rolled in. I couldn’t help but wonder if she’d think I was brave or just plain foolish. Probably both.

Lessons from the Hunt: Crabbin’ as a Metaphor for Dating

To absolutely no one’s surprise, I wasn’t very good at crabbin’. I caught two crabs total, one of which immediately wriggled free and pinched my wrist before scuttling back into the water. But in between the stress of avoiding phantom snakes and my adorable but highly impractical squats to avoid falling face-first into the marsh, something hit me: crabbin’ and dating are weirdly similar.

Here’s what I mean:

  • Patience is Key. Sometimes crabs just don’t show up, no matter how much bait you throw out there. Dating is the same. Just because you’ve swiped right on everyone from here to the next zip code doesn’t mean your person will magically appear. Slow down, breathe, and trust the process.

  • Be Ready to Let Go. Just like I had to release my death grip on that one poor crab who pinched me like I owed him money, you’ve got to know when to cut your losses. If a connection isn’t working, let it go. There’s always more (and better) waiting in the water.

  • The Right Gear Makes a Difference. My cute sandals were no match for river mud, just like a half-hearted effort won’t cut it in a serious relationship. Show up prepared, whatever that looks like for you—open-minded, emotionally available, and ready to put in the work.

The Aftermath: Did I Survive?

Somehow, James and I made it back to dry land alive—and we even ended up with a respectable haul of crab to boil up later. But the experience taught me more about myself than I anticipated. For one, I learned how to laugh at my own lack of finesse. I also learned that sometimes, stepping outside your comfort zone is messy and a little terrifying, but oh-so-worthwhile.

That night, as we perched on the tailgate of his truck eating buttery crab legs with our fingers (a truly unglamorous but delicious affair), I knew this was one for the personal highlight reel. Even if James wasn’t my forever person, he reminded me to embrace the unexpected, no matter how crazy—or swampy—it might seem.

Takeaway: Why You Should Chase Your Own Crazy Moments

Life and love both have a way of pushing us into the river at night—figuratively, if not literally—and showing us just what we’re made of. The craziest places, the weirdest situations, and yes, the unlikeliest connections often end up being the most transformative.

So, next time someone invites you on a wild adventure, say yes. Be bold. Be curious. Put on waders if you must, or laugh through your discomfort if you don’t have the right shoes. Trust me—it’s an experience. You might just discover a new layer to yourself, meet someone who surprises you, or at the very least, walk away with a story worth sharing.