Sicilian Fishermen

Harbor in Siracusa, Sicilia
photo by Gretta Larson

          Preface: The best times during travels are when you discover something unexpected. That was the case in the city of Siracusa, in the summer of 2012 at the far southeast tip of Sicily. All of the elements came together for a great moment on a trip: quiet time with the one you love, anticipation of a big day, good food, and discovery of the unfamiliar. It was a brief point in time I'll never forget.

Sicilian Fisherman

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

Accordion player in Siracusa
photo by Gretta Larson



           I sat up in bed after the short night of sleep, running fingers through my hair and rubbing my eyes. The vivid memory of the last evening returned in the sights and sounds of the seafood restaurant. Wine, laughter, and clapping to the accordion music of Sicilian folk songs  was combined with visions of endless plates of steaming pasta and seafood — everything imaginable from tender calamari the size of onion rings, to scallops and a variety of fish from anchovies to swordfish.

          But there was no time to waste, as Gretta and I packed our bags and prepared for an epic day ahead on the bicycles. It was necessary to begin a mental focus on the proposed route that would put us in morning rush-hour traffic and eventually take us to the countryside where we would traverse over mountainous ridges along the eastern coast of Italy’s largest island.
          As the sunrise was breaking, we were the first to arrive at the breakfast buffet on the rooftop of the Grand Hotel Ortigia in Siracusa, at the harbor’s edge.  We ordered our cappuccinos and filled our plates with powdered pastry, fruit, and cheese, then sat out on the rooftop deck of the hotel to appreciate the cool, quiet moment before the long hot day began. I put the scene in my memory to recall it later in the day when it was hot and the climbing was difficult.
          The town was barely waking and the pastel colors of the sunrise on the sea at the city’s edge painted a serene picture from the rooftop deck. That’s when I noticed a fishing boat entering the harbor. It was but a speck about a half-mile away. Other boats of various shapes and sizes were lined up behind the first boat, all spaced about a quarter-mile apart. It made me think of the airliners cueing up to land at an airport. What’s going on? My interest was sparked and I stood up at the railing to get a better view.


Fishing boat in Siracusa Harbor
photo by author

          I looked down at the stone quay at harbor’s edge and noticed two men standing by a white van, peering out to the horizon. My guess was the boats were arriving at the prescribed time to sell their overnight catch to the men in the van, who would then distribute the seafood to the restaurants in town. It was a simple scenario that I’m sure had continued in some fashion for as long as man inhabited the island.
          Being a Kansas man, I wondered what it was like to go fishing on the ocean at night and complete the day’s work at dawn. Did the men swap stories and a bottle of grappa while the stars shone overhead? What kind of fish did they catch? Were their wives happy or sad when they returned home after sunrise? These were a few of the questions that popped into my mind. I assumed the small boats were collecting mussels or other creatures from traps, because there wasn’t much space or equipment on board. The larger boats probably brought in the bigger fish.

Sicilian fishermen in small boat - June 2012
watercolor painting by author

          From the railing, I was able to photograph a few of the boats as they approached the inner harbor. My favorite boat was the tiny, three-man craft with the bright yellow and black stripes. The scene was so simple and worthy of a painting: three men in a boat. One man steered the motor in the glassy harbor, the second man wrote on a note pad (probably calculating the money they would receive), and the third man leaned over a tank, checking the ‘take’ for the night to make sure it was still fresh. It was a scene from the Hemingway era, one that was played out day after day, year after year. 
          For a few brief moments, Gretta and I stood at the railing to watch the discussion between the fishermen and the market men — then it was back to thinking about the big day ahead.
          With words unspoken, we sipped our cappuccino and enjoyed the quiet of the morning, happy to have witnessed a simple ending to the fishermen’s workday, and wanting to savor the moment just a bit longer before our journey continued.