I was going to sit on my front porch in a rocking chair the other day, drawn by a warm afternoon. I planned to put my head back and enjoy the autumn sunlight. When I headed toward the rocker, though, something told me to pick the other chair and I did.

Then I saw her move.

An enormous black spider was creeping up the first chair, right where I was going to put my head. She was impressively large, especially when she extended all eight of her long legs. The thought of having her crawl into my hair while I napped made me shiver.

Spider Eyes Watching

I decided to take a picture and lifted my phone but she had her eyes fixed on me. All of them. When I moved, she curled up into a defensive ball. Even then, my visitor was still pretty big. Here she is, all curled up.

I waited for a while to see if she would relax and start moving again but she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. All those spider eyes made that surveillance pretty easy.  After a while, I gave up and went back into the house.

She was outside, which is her space, and I left it to her. Inside would have been a different story. But why did a spider, so much smaller than I, freak me out? She was right to be frightened of the big giant hovering in her field of vision, of course. Try to imagine a creature as proportionally bigger than you are as you would be to a spider. Faced with a giant of that size, you would take defensive measures, too.

Why an Arachnophobe?

Okay, I admit I’m an arachnophobe. Of all the creepy crawlies in our world, spiders sit at the top of the heap for me.

Partly the reaction comes from when I was a kid and a spider bit me on the forehead. That swelled my eyes shut for two days. I never even saw what bit me but it had a powerful impact.

But, also, spiders are just so darn alien. They resemble only one other creature on Planet Earth and that one is alien, too. (Hint: It also has eight legs.)

The Aliens Crawling Among Us

Spiders have such alien characteristics: eight legs, ten eyes, and fangs. Those fangs emit a toxin that liquefies the insides of their victims so the spiders can sip their dinner. So delicate. When they finish, they cut the empty insect bodies from the web and drop them to the ground. That’s why you see little shrunken husks lying on the ground under a web.

I find nothing normal—as in earthly—about any of that.

If a spaceship landed and a 20-foot spider got out, everyone except entomologists would run for the hills. And you had better be faster than I am or I would run right over you.

The Industrious River Spider

Where the spider made her web

I do, however, appreciate their industriousness. Once, on a Viking River Cruise, I watched a spider spin her web over and over. She had chosen a place on the bow near the radar sweep, the bell and the running light on Viking Modi, where there were plenty of anchors for her web: a smart strategy. The insects were drawn to the light and got caught in her web, where she either ate them or stored them away for later.

That’s like Door Dash meals for an arachnid.

Every morning, however, the longship’s diligent crew would clean up the area and sweep away her web. In the evening, after dinner, I would sit out on the Aquavit Terrace with friends and watch the ship’s industrious spider start over. Every night she rebuilt her web completely. Every. Single. Night. I found it a real lesson in perseverance. The spider had selected her territory and it worked for her. Spinning a new web every night did not deter her. She simply went about her business and got it done.

Where Did She Go?

I don’t know what happened to the rocking-chair spider on my porch. When I went back out later, she had disappeared and I didn’t find any new web to show where she had gone. Now when I go out there to sit, though, I check the chair and the cushions very carefully. Although I wish my little visitor well, I really don’t want a big spider in my hair.

Spiderwebs on the Bridge of Spies in Potsdam (Elegant Elbe cruise)