I'd only owned the sailboat for a few weeks when cardenas suggested a shakedown cruise. So, early one morning we kissed our wives goodbye, loaded provisions, passed under Sanibel Causeway and set a course due south. Destination: Key West. The boat's name was freshly applied to the transom-Soggy Cracker. A good

boat, stout but slow. We planned a day or so to get to Key West, then a couple of days doing all those things one goes to Key West to do. Married men of high moral fiber, we would partake in more carousing than might ordinarily be our style, but not to the point that we would have to call our wives for bail money or our lawyers for counsel.

The marine forecast had been iffy. I suggested pulling the plug, but Cardenas wouldn't hear it.

"You need to go out in all conditions," he said. "That way you know what your boat can handle."

Good words, I thought, to go on a gravestone. But Cardenas was a far more accomplished sailor than I, a man who once made a single-handed, trans-Atlantic crossing in a 23-foot sailboat. Soggy Cracker was all of 25 feet. There were two of us. And we were only going to Key West. Why back down?

It was miserable from the get-go-pouring rain as we passed the Sanibel Shoals, the wind dead on our nose. Four hours later and it was worse. Both of us had donated our breakfasts to the deep. No fun at all.

There comes a time when the captain must take charge.

"We're turning around," I said.

"About damn time you decided that," said Cardenas, already preparing to jibe.

It was a few minutes later that we spotted the first crab pot. For the record, should we ever get hauled into court to face charges, the crime was not premeditated. At least not for more than five seconds. I am sure that Cardenas' mind was working just like mine. There wasn't much food on Soggy Cracker and we were both getting hungry. We had planned to do some good eating in Key West and now we were to be denied. We had met the elements head-on and judiciously chosen to retreat. Surely we were due some sort of payoff. Besides, it was early March and stone crab season would soon be over, with no more of the delectable crustaceans available until October. This was a sign. God wanted us to eat stone crabs. Who were we to defy higher authority?

Cardenas grabbed the boat pole. I steered us close. We knew that when it comes to protecting what's theirs, crabbers are only slightly less zealous than she-bears.

"We could get shot, you know," I said.

"Uh-huh," said Cardenas, eyeing the horizon. "Pull a little closer."

The pot yielded a pair of crabs. Cardenas deftly twisted a claw off each and tossed the critters back in the Gulf so they could partake in the miracle of regeneration.

"Barely an appetizer," I said.

"There's another pot up ahead," said Cardenas.

And so it proceeded for the next hour or so until we had accumulated a couple dozen primo claws, the kind of claws that fetch $25 a pound. We felt badly about it, really we did. And we kept feeling badly about it, even after we tucked in behind Estero Island and found an anchorage and boiled water and began cracking claws and sucking out the sweet meat and making noises typically associated with deep and everlasting contentment.

"We could call our wives and tell them we're safe and share some of these claws with them," said Cardenas.

"We could," I said. Then we ate some more.

"We're going straight to hell," I said.

"Uh-huh," said Cardenas. "Pass the melted butter."