Maryland’s state-regulated season for crabs runs from the beginning of April until the last of November. Around springtime, watermen have emptied out their bushels of oysters and have already begun building their boxy wire traps, somewhat misleadingly called pots.

And just as hibernating mammals emerge from winter, so do last summer’s surviving crabs  their meat having been soaked in what might be the culinary world’s longest marinade. These are the crustaceans, plump with meat and measuring from six to six and a half inches across, that are announced on giant chalkboard menus at crab houses and seafood wholesalers all over Maryland as “jumbos.”

Smaller “mediums” and “larges” even out the catch all season, but it’s commonly stated in Maryland that the best time to fetch jumbos is late summer and early fall, when the crabs that have been lucky enough to survive the season begin to bulk up for hibernation. My mother swears that these crabs are the sweetest.

“Brrrraaaaccck,” a large sheet of brown paper complained as it was torn from a roll on the Waterman’s wall before being wafted over and weighed down by a mallet, a knife and plastic cups of melted butter and Old Bay Seasoning, the dressings that represent the diametric sweet and salty palate that governs a typical crab house spread. When the crabs arrived, they were truly jumbo.

I began to pick the crabs, a process of pulling the meat from the shell chambers and claws. First, I twisted the claws and fins at the joints to pull out the hidden meat. If it didn’t worry its way out with an anxious snap, I was forced to break in with my knife, as I would need to later with the crab’s body. I let the rust-colored piquant chunks of Old Bay salt slide off the cracked shells and onto a sweet mined piece of meat and ate it straight from the knife’s blade.

Midway through my first crab, an order of hush puppies had been set down next to me. These large, deep-fried dollops of cornmeal, although flat-tasting on their own, took on a buttery sweetness after the mouth-puckering Old Bay. I popped one or two in my mouth as I grabbed an old paint bucket from fellow diners at the other end of the table, to dispose of my vacated crab. Only a soggy stain on the brown paper remained, but by my sixth crab, I was mighty full.

Image Mary Ada Marshall makes a classic Smith Island cake at her home in Tylerton. Credit... Karen Kasmauski for The New York Times

I BEGAN an extended and greasy reunion with the Eastern Shore this season at Waterman’s, in the tiny marina town of Rock Hall, because it was one of our family’s favorite crab houses, a lively spot with good catches. From there, my plan was to travel south down the shore’s wrinkly coast to where it meets the ocean.