Christianne Dettmann
Bugs get a bad rap. Truly. How would you like always being blamed for the world’s problems? Annoyed by something? “Oooh, that bugs me!” Feeling unwell? “I’ve caught a bug!” Something not working quite right? “Gotta get the bugs out.” Sure, bugs creep me out too—especially the big, crunchy ones, or the ones with a jillion legs, or huge stingers—but maybe some bugs are simply misunderstood.
By now, I should know swimming on Arizona summer nights nearly always involves sharing the water with critter companions. Moths, beetles, junebugs, crickets; they all start dive-bombing the pool around 8 or 9 p.m., as though they too had designated hours like human littles. Despite night hawks also swooping in to gather tasty, late night bug snacks, my attempts to navigate between these creepy crawlers frequently prove futile.
Still, not wanting to don sunscreen, I found myself doing laps the other night in surprisingly clear waters … until it joined me. Huge. Black. Pokey legs and scratchy feet. I knew because a similar one crawled onto my back several months prior and I nearly leapt out of my swimsuit trying to flick it off!
I tried splashing this one away, but I couldn’t get it out of the water without having to touch it. Instead, I coaxed it to another part of the pool and kept going … but not before noticing the bug’s predicament. Flailing. Struggling. Waterlogged. Stuck. It had no way out, other than into the pool filter where it likely would meet its demise. And here I was, hundreds of times bigger than this bug, yet fearful of what it might do to me instead of lifting my finger to help it back on deck.