In May giants of the deep begin to move from the far Atlantic through the straits of Gibraltar into the warmer depths of the Tyrrhenian. Tuna, fin and sperm whale join native sharks and dolphin traversing the three-kilometre stretch of swirling water between Scylla and Charybdis. The fisher folk of Cariddi have sought these creatures for as long as men have sailed this southern tip of Italy. But here the most prized of all is never caught by net or barb. The Gladiator of the Strait, so-called for the weapon that forms its bill, is hunted, one by one, in a slow and theatrical ritual upon the gleaming waves, a ceremony so old none knows whence it came.
The swordfish is a valuable catch, prized up and down the coast in season. Elsewhere greed rules and men trawl the ocean ceaselessly with lines and hooks, grasping at everything they can kill. In Cariddi we hunt in a singular, respectful fashion, one that may reap thin rewards but leaves sufficient of these magnificent creatures to return another year.
This annual preoccupation is never without risk. The pisci spata, as we call it in our native dialect, is as powerful a fish as swims the sea, faster than the sleekest motor vessel made, weighing as much as a hundred kilos, all muscle and ready to slash at enemies with a long, sharp bill that can rip the hull of any small wooden craft foolish enough to come too close. My uncle Beppe lost half a leg to a thrashing male on the deck of a rowed felucca when he was fifteen, one damp June day off Messina. A year later he was back on board, climbing the tower in an ungainly fashion to spot for prey and steer the vessel towards its quarry. He never held the harpoon again and went with that regret to his grave.
We live, as I have said, in a land where myth is real and this annual quest for the pisci spata is one more ritual that defines us. These vessels are no ordinary fishing boats, being designed for the swordfish season alone. During the summer they can be seen slowly cruising this part of the Tyrrhenian, men scouring the waves from their high spotting towers, a harpooner perched on his passarella, a long iron bridge at the front protruding from the bows, eyes on the surface, spear in his upright arm, much like a figure from a mosaic of old. Ancient symbols of respect and good luck, eyes and holy emblems, decorate the hulls.
The colours of the craft, often black, green and red, are said to date from Phoenician days and ward off evil spirits. Once a fish is finally landed on the deck the captain of the vessel will utter a prayer of thanks to his patron saint, ‘San Marco è binidittu’. Blessings for Saint Mark. A piece of bread or a peach may be placed in the dying fish’s jaws. After which, by way of gratitude, the skipper will carve a lump of raw flesh from the wound the spear made and offer it to the harpooner who may well devour it on the spot.
Nor do we treat these magnificent monsters of the deep with anything but deference. Famous battles with legendary specimens are recorded in paintings, on wall tiles, in the many songs that praise the prey we seek. Men weep as they kill the bravest; for swordfish are admirable and amatory creatures. They come to mate somewhere between Messina and the waters around the Aeolian Islands. Monogamous, they swim in pairs, like man and wife. And like a loyal husband the male is both covetous and caring for his bride, a failing that the wise hunter will use to his advantage.
The process is much as it was back in my uncle’s days when swordfish were taken by wooden boats rowed by sturdy teams of oarsmen. The spotter scans the sea from his turret, looking for signs of rising fish, a flash of tail, the moment a fin breaks surface. Once a pair is seen, the felucca steers nearby and the harpooner stays poised upon his passarella, a five-spear weapon in his hand. If luck is with him he will find the skittish, cautious female first and aim for her. The creature’s distress brings her mate to her side immediately, offering a second chance of prey.
After the sharp barbs of the harpoon have found purchase, the victim is given a long line to escape to the depths, tiring itself, spilling scarlet blood into the ocean for an hour or longer. Then, when its weakness is apparent, the exhausted fish is hauled aboard, one man taking the deadly sword in a rag to still the weapon while another dispatches the creature with a long, sharp knife.
If the catch is the female then her mate will be close by, sometimes attacking the boat wildly in an attempt to free her. With luck, he will soon follow her onto the deck. But if the male is killed the lady will never linger. Shy or simply faithless, she’ll flee to find another. Which is why there are many songs admiring the courage and faithfulness of the male and none that praise the lady. Fidelity is much valued in this corner of Calabria, and disloyalty viewed as a sin.
Ashore the prize is sold to middlemen who will ship it to the markets of Naples, Rome and Venice at a fantastical margin. Or, more likely in Cariddi, someone will fetch a wooden trestle from their house, stretch out the silver corpse upon it and butcher delicate pale slices streaked with fresh blood for anyone who’ll pay.
The season is short. Come the darker, colder days of autumn the Gladiator of the Strait moves back to the grey Atlantic. Different, conventional vessels ply the Strait of Messina seeking more mundane, smaller catches.
Should you come across a swordfish on your travels there is a simple way to discover if it was one of ours, dragged from the ocean the old way, not with cruel and indiscriminate hooks and nets. When the creature sighs its last upon the deck, before the morsel of fresh flesh is offered to the harpooner, the skipper will reach down with his hand and scrape four fingers down the fish’s right cheek with his nails to scratch a lattice cross. This is the cardata da cruci, as necessary a benison for its passing as that murmured, ‘San Marco è binidittu’.
Those four gouged, criss-crossed streaks say, ‘This death is our doing, this creature’s agony the price it pays to keep us fed.’
I cannot count the times I’ve seen the cardata scratched upon that shining, silvery skin and on every occasion I have wept. Then ate. Happily. Greedily. Content, wiping the tears from my eyes. In Cariddi, the Bergamotti and our like do not shrink from death any more than we recoil from tomorrow.
Each year the swordfish swims to its fate in the treacherous waters between Scylla and Charybdis. Each year we work our way to our own end too.
We are at one with Ecclesiastes. All things have their seasons. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of peace, and a time of war.