Scilla, Calabria

Swordfish season is over in the Strait of Messina.

Chianalea, Scilla’s fishing quarter, lies quiet. I walk the narrow lane and pass only a few tourists.

I climb higher.

The strait stretches out below me. A three-masted ship drops anchor, small against the water.

A gust lifts the hair on my arms. Gulls circle and scream.

Salt-stained houses press against the shore. Fried fish drifts from the taverns. Every few blocks the sea appears again, striking the walls.

This is supposedly where Scylla lived.

I see no monsters.
Only the ship, holding position,
and tourists raising their phones.