Emerita Talpoida of the Phylum Arthropodia, Class Crustacea. That's an Atlantic Mole Crab,and it was the highlight of my vacation.

The coast - call it what you will: seashore, beach, ocean, coastline, sandpit - has to be one of the most educating places. Oh, not the kind of cold, lifeless education all too often ticked off in schoolrooms, but the kind of hands-on, living education that only comes from doing, seeing, being.

Take my mole crab, for instance. It's not edible - at least I wouldn't try - although sandpipers feast daily, littering the beach with tiny carcasses. And if you look closely (not particularly easy with salty water smacking you in the fact - or the rear, depending on your position), you'll find these crabs are really the sort of creatures you'd rather not meet as you gambol about the surf. Barefooted, to boot.

Here's a verbal picture: think of a roach, but a gray one. No, no! Better yet, conjure up a flea - a gray one, only enlarge it, oh, say a couple of hundred times or until it's about an inch long. Finally, add in a picture of a crab with its five pairs of legs and long eyestalks.

There it is, your very own mole crab, the stuff of nightmares, the perfect horror movie. It's ugly.

Hundreds of the creatures zip through the surf, over, under and around your feet, blackening the sand with each endless wash of water.

They're not a new species, not really a new discovery at all. But they are to me, and that makes them special.

The best part, though, is that if you mention mole crabs - no, no! Better yet, point them out - to your mother, although I suppose any squeamish swimmer will do, she'll never step into the ocean again. Well, she'll at least measure each step precisely, watching very, very carefully. Imagine that.

I discovered other things, too, like how one of my legs is longer than the other, which makes walking up the beach quite pleasant. Coming back, however, is a completely different story.

And how I simply cannot ride a wave very well, although my 10-year-old nephew Benjie glides effortlessly to shore. So I simply paddle out a ways, where I float, and think, and occasionally get swamped.

I learned, too, that strong, steady winds keep pelicans from flying by. (Now, I don't really believe that theory, although it did serve its purpose and kept my mother appeased. She WORRIES about those birds.) I suspect the pelicans just follow the fish. Either that, or they fly by when my mom's not looking.

And how strange it must feel to be a rock, a pier, or any stationary object constantly assaulted by an ocean that has no respect for solidity, for inflexibility. Along the coast, it's the graceful sandpiper dancing just out of the water's reach, the seaweed and sand shifting and flowing with every wave - these elements triumph because they adapt, they remain flexible.

But mostly, something about the ocean makes you realize there's a rhythm of life far superior to what we fob off as normal, day-to-day existence.

There, the body sets about readjusting itself, fine-tuning here, overhauling there, until in a surprisingly short time it's as though you've never known any other regimen, any other lifestyle. You proceed in Ocean Standard Time, if only for a little while.