Contributed by Martyn Green Coordinator, Baywater Anglers

Some paused to chat, but on the whole the creatures, slightly alarmed, but used to, the commotion above simply got on with what they had to do.

Wilbur, however, was bored. A young wrasse that had entered the pool when he was tiny and had stayed ever since, he had grown to the size of a human’s hand. His skin, a rich blend of greens and browns that echoed the kelp in which he lived, gleamed with good health. His fins, in perfect condition, stirred lazily against the stillness of the water and his eyes, sometimes lit by the flashes of his humour, peered despairingly for something, anything, more interesting to do! His friends were all busy, from Lenny, the great lobster that lived at the deepest part of the pool, hidden from view at this time of the day in his unreachable fortress of jumbled rocks, to every other creature with whom he normally played. With no-one to play tag, or hide and seek, or any of his other favourite games, he was soon completely and utterly bored! And that was when he heard the voice, rich with amusement as its tone and pitch altered, the mouth of its owner clicking sideways, back and forth, in time to perfect imitations of first one, and then another, of Wilbur’s friends. A low chuckle sounded and then, all the time punctuating his remarks with careful, studied movements of his wicked-looking pincers, the crab dropped into still another impersonation, this time of Lenny, with his slow deliberate movements. It had not noticed Wilbur, so he drifted closer, fascinated by the extraordinary range of voices this crab could command. A faultless copy of Prunella’s (a prawn’s) voice, slightly raised as she scolded her mate, made him chuckle. Then he jumped as the creature’s eyes flicked backwards over its barnacle-ridden shell, fixing him with an unwavering gaze that brought him to a complete stop. He started to clear his throat, but, before he could utter a word, the huge creature turned, its pincers raised high off the floor, and it leapt towards the unfortunate wrasse. Wilbur turned to flee, but before he could escape a merciless claw caught his lower lip and gripped, not hard, but firmly, with the sure promise of worse to come if he tried to escape. His captor grinned, which was a pretty scary sight in itself, but then the grip relaxed and the pincer dropped slowly to the floor. “What are you spying on me for?” Wilbur’s jaw dropped before he could stop it, stunned by the perfect copy of his own voice that emerged.

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