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.

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

Dark clouds gather. Wind roughens the water. A three-masted ship lowers its sails and drops anchor.

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

These waters have always pulled things under.

Scylla lived on these cliffs. Once a nymph. Now a mouth.
Across the strait, Charybdis turns the sea in on itself.
Even Odysseus kept his distance.

The ship holds against the wind.

I watch it and feel something familiar move beneath the surface.