If there is one thing this Englishwoman transplant loves more than boiled crawfish, it’s boiled crabs. Thanks to my father-in-law, these Cajun delicacies were introduced to me almost as soon as I crossed the Atlantic ocean and I’ve never looked back.

This love of boiled crabs is shared by one of my oldest and dearest friends, who also happens to be married to my husband’s cousin. The four of us have shared many adventures together spanning more than 30 years.

Already the month of June and no taste of crabs, the decision was made for the fearless four to get dozens of crabs and devour them with gusto.

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Now we could have taken the easy way and gone to any one of the many places advertising live crabs for sale.

Never accused of taking the easy way, the decision was made to go and catch our own.

OK, I thought, how hard can that be. Admittedly we just sold our boat, but there are plenty of places close by where we could catch crabs off a wharf or something.

Hah.

“You want me to get up at what time?” I asked as plans were put into place.

“Well we have to leave at 5:30 a.m. if we want to do this before it gets too hot,” was the reply.

Rockefeller Wildlife Refuge in Cameron Parish was our crab-catching destination of choice, which meant leaving before dawn armed with enough drinks, snacks and sandwiches for the day.

With all the ice chests, drop nets and other such paraphernalia we had to take, plus the fact that we would be the fearless four plus one (son of the other half of the foursome) it was decided to take two vehicles.

After a non-eventful trip (we usually get lost or worse) we arrived to find almost every available spot taken by other eager crab catchers. After driving up and down the long road we did find one place and hurriedly baited lines and nets, dropped them into the water and waited for the fun to begin.

But it wasn’t long when, looking around at the other fishermen, we began to see a trend. Bright, shiny, excited faces were being replaced by looks of boredom as net after net, line after line, produced nothing but crabs so tiny it was difficult to keep them.

One by one, people began giving up. Pulling up their lines, piling everything back in their vehicles and heading out.

“Maybe we will do better if we go back to one of the places by the side of the road, before we got into the Wildlife Refuge,” was one suggestion. Unfortunately we were not the only ones to consider this idea and driving back we found, once again, almost every spot taken — except one.

A small area, just large enough for two vehicles and a grassy bank where we could sit and watch the crabs jump into our nets. Once again everything was brought out, nets baited, chairs set in place and we waited.

I had the strangest feeling I was being watched.

“Look over there,” someone said. “Right by that drop net and to the left of it.”

Sure enough, there was not one, not two, not three, but four very curious alligators watching every move we made. They began moving toward the bank.

“If necessary, how fast could you run up the bank to the truck,” my better half asked.

As the nets were raised, producing not even the tiniest of crabs, our dreams of tables laden with piles of hot, steaming ears of corn, potatoes, onions and, of course, crabs began to drift away as we packed up yet again, this time heading for home.

Someone made the suggestion that we could always cook up the leftover chicken leg quarters we had used for bait. But after seeing the raw chicken come in and out of the water, black and slimy with sludge, I knew it would be a while before I could eat chicken again.

A few miles down the road, as I was mentally going through my refrigerator to find something for our supper, the threesome in the vehicle ahead of us suddenly stopped and did a quick U-turn.

“Follow us,” the driver said. “There’s a place back there with a sign advertising live crabs for sale.”

Mentally slamming my refrigerator door, the original dream was revived and I knew we would return home victorious.

With more than enough to feed the five of us, more friends were invited to our late afternoon, early evening crab boil.

When I got home, I checked out the Web site for the Rockefeller Wildlife Refuge and read that it has the distinction of having the highest alligator nesting densities of any place in the United States.

The next time we get the urge for some boiled crabs, I know a man just down the street who would be more than happy to sell me some.

JENNIFER E. MAY is former Teche Life editor of The Daily Iberian.Crab in the bushel worth more than nothing in net