A male Periclimenes brevicarpalis on a carpet anemone (Stichodactyla gigantea) at Kusu Island. By no means the largest anemone of all despite its name, S. gigantea abounds on Kusu's sands, spreading out vibrating tentacles to welcome passing swimmers and straggling crawlers who might blunder onto the broad and sticky oral discs. Together with the more compact S. haddoni, these living houses of marine horror are often haunted by phantoms of plunder – little prawns with exoskeletons of glass and white blotches (with patterns unique to each individual) that hide more than they reveal. In pairs, they act as guardian shrimp that defend the anemone from sneaky predators that see the cnidarian more as food than foe. Protected by means unknown, they seem to revel in their soft bed of bliss, unafraid and unbothered by eyes that pry into their chamber of secrets.
The mud on the upper reaches of the lagoon makes for uneasy treading. Each step threatens to demolish half-a-dozen holes and their occupants within. Four feet or less mark the zone of comfort for the fiddler crabs before they rush back to their hideaways and vanish like thin spirits. Emerging in the mid-morning light to bask and banter with outsized claws that are useless for defence and feeding, male orange fiddlers (Uca vocans) engage in contact-free fistfights that show their fellow lads and crabby lasses just how large they can get without toppling over and still feed themselves without spilling (how they manage a steak is beyond me though).
According to this new exposé of Singapore's damp and dirty little secrets, this particular species is actually able to fiddle their widdles by rubbing a row of granules on the inner surface of the enlarged pincer against a ridge near the eyes to producing a rasping sound. The purpose of this ditty is unclear, but it might just be a siren song to lull and lure loveless ladies into cosy burrows for a rendezvous where they will enter a game of "Shell me yours and I'll shell you mine..."
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