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Have you ever seen a crab ring a bell? What if I told you that it was possible to train a crab, just as you would train your dog to sit for a treat, to toll a bell for a food reward.

I devoted my junior summer to a work internship at a marine research lab, where I, along with thirty other high school seniors-to-be, took part in a Marine Science college credit course. The Marine Lab is located on CCC Island, six miles off the coast of JJJ. None of us knew what to expect of the experience awaiting us at the end of our two-hour boat ride, carting us away from civilization, and off to "Marine Camp," a name I never did, nor would buy into. It seemed as if the other kids saw the island as a summer placeholder, one step up from camp. To me, Shoals was a place for academic outreach and self-discovery. Together we spilled off the boat, Jell-O for legs, projecting the same deer-in-headlights expression. Later that same day our professor met us at our dorm, and like a shepherd herding sheep, brought us into a small lecture hall. Once seated, he handed out our schedules and course materials.

Mr. AAA broke the ice by introducing our research project that would span the length of the course. Each student was expected to design and perform his or her own experiment, write up a formal report, and present the findings to the class. To ease the process, he gave the class a list of possible research topics. The room fell silent as each student read over the handout, which was followed by an overwhelming hum of pencils scratching paper, marking off choice topics. I picked up my pencil, paused, and placed it back down on my desk. "Do I have to choose one off the list?" "No," Mr. AAA answered. "You can modify any of those, or come up with your own; if you have an idea, run it by me and we'll try to make it work." I read over the list again. Each topic seemed two-dimensional and easy. They must have been done a million times over in order to make it onto the list, which means I would practically have my results handed to me. I did learn something from the sheet, and that was the fact that I had access to so many different organisms and materials, that I would be doing be a great disservice to myself if I did in fact choose a topic off the list. I sensed that this course would help me discover my academic capabilities and personal strengths; I wasn't about to cheat myself out of that by playing it easy. I recycled the un-marked handout on my way out of the lecture.

My bold divergence from the class didn't relieve the fact that I still needed to come up with a research idea. Luckily, when I returned to my dorm later that night, my source material was sitting on my bed. Jane Doe's new book, New Book, hadn't been in stores for more than two weeks, and I already had a well-used, jacketless, signed copy with me on the island. This book, along with Doe's other publications, was about the practical uses of operant conditioning, a training method I devoted myself to at a young age. I have worked in dog rescue since I was eleven years old, and my work in rescue is the root of my passion for behavior and training. It allowed me to work with shelter dogs, and provided me with an outlet to teach training classes. I read a book by her when I was twelve, and have since idolized her and the methodology she teaches. RTAM was a structured series of vignettes and anecdotal accounts of Doe's training experiences throughout life. As I read that night, a passage jumped out at me. It was titled, "Animals Without Big Brains," and was a page-long narrative of how she trained her daughter's hermit crab to pull a string. I slept in good peace of mind that night in knowing that I had found my research topic.

The following morning, book in hand and passage bookmarked, I confronted my professor. I told him I wanted to study weather or not I could use operant conditioning to shape the behavior of lower life forms: crabs. Using the local crab species, the Green Crab (Carcinus meanas), I would be able to scientifically prove or disprove weather or not operant conditioning, and more specifically, the fundamental laws of behavior: action and consequence, could impact simple organisms. In short, I was going to use operant conditioning to train a crab to ring a bell. In theory the procedure was simple, as were the materials needed to conduct the experiment: all I needed were a few crabs, a couple of tanks, some small items I could use to create a bell rig, and a professor crazy enough to let me do it. Well check, check, check, and after a little persuading, check. Mr. AAA's exact words were, "I really shouldn't let you do this, but it is just too darn interesting, I can't say no!"

The coming days were unique to anything I had experienced prior. Question: How do you collect large, manageable Green Crabs? Answer: By wading in the rocky intertidal with a net, a bucket, and a prayer. After collecting the crabs I cut up some flimsy dividers that I could use to separate the crabs from one another, and from the mussels I used as food. I needed to control their satiation levels because I was using food as my reward and motivation for training. Lastly, I found a stick, a fishing sinker, and some twine that I rigged together into something that resembled a bell. I placed the sinker rig over an acrylic tank filled with a few inches of water that I would use as my training tank.

And so the experiment began. I kept detailed record on several aspects of the trials and of each crabs' progress. I quickly learned the best way to shuck a mussel for a crab: with a rock. My hands constantly reeked of mussel, and try as I might, it was hard to keep some "control variables" under control. My flimsy barriers did not stand up to the mighty strength of the hungry crabs, and there were several occasions in which I came to train and found the crabs helping themselves to an all-they-could-eat buffet of my mussel stash.

The significance of the procedural setbacks was small compared to the impact of people's skepticism towards my optimistic hypothesis. I had to push through the daily tormenting of my classmates and passive aggressive comments of the staff and faculty hoping to see me fail. I was the butt of everyone's jokes, "crazy, insane for trying it, and stupid to think it could work." I took to carrying around Pryor's book in my backpack; when someone gave me a hard time about the experiment, I pulled the book out and said, "Read that." It never changed their view, but it protected my optimism. Their negativity motivated me to push forward and prove them wrong.

And that is just what I did. I told a few people about my success, which quickly spread through the class and island community. Mr. BBB proved to be the worst gossip, telling every faculty member that would listen what one of his students accomplished in his class. The day I was due to present, Mr. BBB introduced my well-known experiment, which the class and additional faculty responded to with a standing ovation.

The course ends, classmates and professors leave, and my work internship begins. The tightly structures schedule of the class lends was to complete personal time management of work and play. More work than play. Days trudge by, blending into one another. One afternoon, however, I, along with the other interns am told that the xxx Club, a group of xxx alumni, will be touring the facilities and joining the yyy community for lunch. All 50 of them. After a good deal of scrambling to prepare the additional lunch spread, I sit, tired and hungry, at the intern table in the back, waiting my turn to grab a plate of lunch. A woman pulls up a seat next to me and joins into the table's conversation. For 15 minutes, she and the others around me simply blended into the hum of white noise that filled the dining hall. That is, until she started to discuss her past academic concentrations and current work. It was as if someone turned a knob on an old radio, tuning out the static of the conversation. I thought to myself, this woman, her work, she reminds me of Jane Doe. Either I was severely over-tired, or I had hear these stories before- read them in Doe's books. Skeptical of my impossible connection, I pivoted to see the last 4 letters of this women's name tag. "Do" I sat back down, unable to process what I just saw. No less than a minute later, it clicked. I turned to see her entire name, "Jane Doe."

I idolized this woman through her literature, never bothering to find out what she looked like. It was her book, her words, and her experiences, which I carried around in my book bag for people to read when they doubted the validity of my experiment- when they doubted my sanity. Just days after I prove my research to my peers, my professors, resident scientists, and myself, I was able to prove it to her. But that's step two. Step one: speak! Once I realized who this woman was, I lost all sense of myself. I could hear myself speaking, but had no control over what I was saying. "Oh my god, you're Jane Doe!" "Your book changed my life," I heard myself say, taken aback my own stupidity. If that wasn't bad enough, I didn't simply state this embarrassing outburst, I up and yelled it, jumping out of my seat, voice trembling worse than a prepubescent boy confronting his crush.

Have you ever seen a crab ring a bell? What if I told you that it was possible to train a crab, just as you would train your dog to sit for a treat, to toll a bell for a reward. I devoted my junior year summer to a work internship at the Marine Lab, where, along with thirty other high school seniors-to-be, I took part in a Marine Science college credit course.

Each student was expected to design an experiment, write up a formal report, and present the findings to the class. The teacher handed out a list of suggested research topics, which I quickly re-homed to the nearest recycling bin. Each topic on the list seemed two-dimensional. They had all been done many times, which means I would practically have my results handed to me. I wanted to design my experiment around a behavioral application; I have trained dogs since I was eleven years old, and I was confident enough in the methodologies and techniques to be able to research them. The challenge was that at a marine research lab, the possible tests subjects are as follows: snails, sea stars, fish, sea urchins, lobsters, and crabs.

The formulaic nature of training had always left a sour taste in my mouth. Teaching dog obedience classes at home gave me an opportunity to mold the curriculum into something more than just the practical uses of behavior. All of behavior is simply driven by action and consequence. This is so for dogs, humans, and even crabs. If this is so, I though to myself, why not train a crab? In lower marine life forms, where does behavior switch from being merely reactive, to being proactive?

I picked the local crab species, the Green Crab, Carcinus meanas, and the target behavior of ringing a "bell." My hypothesis was that I would be able to use operant conditioning, a method in which positive reinforcement strengthens and shapes voluntary behavior, to train a crab to ring a bell for a food reward. The "bell" was a sinker I found on the ground, tied to a stick with fishing twine, and my conditioned reinforcer was the ripple created by a pair of dissecting forceps. I had to search cabinets, storage rooms, wade in the intertidal, and dumpster dive in order to collect the materials for the experiment. How do you collect large, manageable Green Crabs – by wading in the rocky intertidal with a net, a bucket, and a prayer.

And so the experiment began. I kept detailed records on several aspects of the trials and of each crab's progress. I quickly learned the best way to shuck a mussel for a crab: with a rock. My hands constantly reeked of mussel, and try as I might, it was hard to keep some "control variables" under control. My flimsy barriers between the tanks did not stand up to the mighty strength of the hungry crabs, and there were several occasions in which I came to train and found the crabs helping themselves to an all-they-could-eat buffet of my mussel stash.

The significance of my procedural setbacks was small compared to the impact of people's skepticism towards my hypothesis. I had to push through the daily teasing of my classmates and passive aggressive comments of the staff and faculty. I was the butt of everyone's jokes ... "crazy ... insane for trying it ...stupid to think this will work ..." Their negativity motivated me to push forward and prove them wrong.

Well, Crabs A and B, also known as Abby and Big Bertha, rang those bells loud and proud. Too see is to believe, and so, time after time again I would bring skeptical classmates and island staff to watch these crabs toll the bell; once placed in the water, they would charge across the tank, hit the sinker with their claw, and reach up in anticipation of their reward.

A visiting author and behavioral biologist, xxx alumna Jane Doe, found out my research, and wrote a piece on her public blog about the experiment's noteworthy use of operant conditioning. Doe's account inspired a freelance science writer to write an article for the xxx News.

In retrospect I can now see how my experiment has enabled me to reassess my definition of science. While this experiment did not represent Science with a capital S, I understand now how influential discoveries are not exclusive to scientists and professors. I became a scientist sitting on the ground next to a sea table, notebook on my lap, iPod in hand as a stopwatch. In two days, using nothing more than a couple crabs, diced mussel meat, and a pair of tweezers, persistence and will power, I taught a crab how to ring a bell, and I taught an island community what a crab was capable of. My experiment was nothing close to a multi-million dollar study. It was "science on a shoestring." A study put together with scotch-tape and bubble gum, which yielded radical results. Science is not about what is known, but rather what has yet to be discovered. How could one discover this crazy outcome, without first asking a crazy question?