This little cutie is a hermit crab and he is wearing a temporary home borrowed from one of our mollusc friends.
His body is a soft, squishy spiral that he eases into the perfect size shell time and time again as he grows. His first choice is always the empty shell of a marine snail but will get inventive in a pinch — nuts, wood, serpulid worm tubes, aluminium cans or wee plastic caps.
They are inventive, polite and patient. I think of them as I hunt for elusive parking in Kitsilano and watch friends lining up for scarce apartment rentals.
You see, a hermit crabs' desire for the perfect bit of real estate will have them queueing beside larger shells — shells too large for them — to wait upon a big hermit crab to come along, discard the perfect home and slip into their new curved abode. This is all done in an orderly fashion with the hermit crabs all lined up, biggest to smallest to see who best fits the newly available shell.
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Think of all the species of molluscs these lovelies have had a chance to try on — including ammonites — and all the shells that were never buried in sediment to become fossils because they were harvested as homes.
On the shores of British Columbia, the hermit crab I come across the most is the Grainyhand hermit crab, Pagurus granosimanus. These wee fellows have tell-tale orange-brown antennae and olive green legs speckled with blue or white dots.
In the Kwak̓wala language of the Kwakiutl or Kwakwaka'wakw, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest and my family, a shell is known as x̱ala̱'is and gugwis means house on the beach. I do not know the Kwak’wala word for hermit crab, so I will think of these cuties as x̱ala̱'is gugwis — envisioning them finding the perfect sized shell on the surf worn shores of Tsax̱is, Fort Rupert, Vancouver Island.
