Scilla, Calabria

Swordfish season is over in the Strait of Messina.

Chianalea lies quiet. I walk the narrow lane, pass a few tourists. Salt-stained houses press against the shore. Fried fish drifts from the taverns. Every few blocks the sea breaks back into view, striking the walls.

I climb higher.

The strait opens below me. A three-masted ship drops anchor, small and steady on the water. A gust lifts the hair on my arms. Gulls circle and scream.

This is where Scylla supposedly lived.

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