The Winter Sea
Authors: Di Morrissey
About
The Winter Sea
Escaping an unhappy marriage and an unsatisfactory job, Cassie Holloway moves to the little NSW coastal town of Whitby Point. Here she meets the Aquino family, whose fishing business was founded by their ancestor, Giuseppe, an immigrant Italian, some ninety years before.
Life for Cassie on the south coast is sweet as she sets up a successful restaurant and falls in love with Giuseppe’s great-grandson Michael. But when the family patriarch dies, a devastating family secret is revealed which threatens to destroy her dreams. Cassie’s future happiness now rests on her quest for the truth.
For GianCarlo Manara
Through your friendship and your films, you were the first to open my eyes to the magic of Italy!
The Aeolian Islands, off the coast of Italy, 1906
The ocean unfurled in
a glassy curve as the boy leaned over the side of the boat, seeking his reflection in the mirrored surface of the wave’s underbelly. For an instant Giuseppe d’Aquino thought he saw the face of an old man staring directly at him. It was somehow familiar with its popping pale blue eyes, fat lips and bulging cheeks; the expression was questioning, with a slight air of disappointment.
With a sudden surge, the foaming wave doubled in size and slammed against the wooden
barca
, pushing the little fishing boat sideways. The face disappeared into the splintering water and a hand quickly grabbed the boy by the back of his shirt.
‘Giuseppe! You must be careful.’ His father’s admonishment was nearly ripped away in the mounting wind as he pushed the boy under the small shelter in the bow of the boat. The covered space had just enough room to stow some food and water, as well as a lantern.
‘Lie down. The rain is coming, but it will soon pass.’
Despite the sea swell and the pelting sheets of grey rain that blotted the sky, the small boat ploughed on. It rode to the crest of a wave before crashing down into a trough, then climbing another wall of water rising ahead of them.
The boy lay curled, his face buried in his arms, breathing in the salty fishy smell he knew so well. He imagined he could see through the hull of his father’s boat, down through the churning ocean, down to the sea floor where the deep-ocean creatures lived. He knew about many of the fish that swam beneath them. His father had taught him about those that skimmed just below the surface, moving fast and furiously; and the fish that liked to cruise midway between the surface and the bottom, greedily eyeing the bouncing fishing lures; and those fish that lay in wait – camouflaged in crevices, weeds and sand – on the sea bed.
He heard his father curse as the small craft, after being momentarily airborne, slammed into a wave, its wooden hull shuddering. Giuseppe remembered the time when the men had returned to the dock swearing and shouting. The villagers had waited in fear on the seafront as news of an accident at sea, the loss of a man overboard, spread among them. Uncle Salvatore had drowned during a storm, swept overboard too swiftly for any rescue.
In spite of the dangers of the sea and the men of the village who had been lost to it, Giuseppe knew that the sea was his present and his future, as it had been for his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather. The people of their island village lived with and for and by the sea. No one asked for, or expected, more than what had gone before and what had always been.
Lying in the bottom of the fishing boat, waiting for the scudding rain to clear and the sea to calm, Giuseppe felt grown up. He was ten years old and at last his father had brought him out to hunt the bluefin tuna. He lay still and quiet as the storm blew itself out and the clouds rolled away to reveal the twilight sky, studded with glowing evening stars. His father nodded towards him, and Giuseppe sat quietly as the other fishermen, his two older brothers and his Uncle Rocco, continued to row further out into the Mediterranean Sea. Their island, just one of the scattering of Aeolian Islands off Sicily, receded from sight as darkness fell.
Giuseppe could no longer see any of the other boats that had set out with them, but he could hear the men who manned them shout to each other across the water, their voices tinged with eagerness and excitement. No matter how many times they had already faced the challenge of catching one of the great kings of the sea, the thrill as well as the danger of the hunt was always there.
His father said to him, ‘Now we must find our bait so that we can lure a
tonno
.’
Giuseppe knew that the bait his father was after were small silvery fish, which were attracted to the boat when the fishermen shone their lanterns on the surface of the ocean. He had no idea how his father knew where to find them, but he did, and the nets were quickly lowered over the side to catch the tiny fish.
‘Careful, careful,’ shouted his father as the fishermen began to raise their nets. But the men didn’t need to be told. They knew that if the delicate fish were not netted gently, they would panic and try to escape through the net and quickly die in a shower of sparkling scales. So the small fish were carefully placed into specially made baskets that were tied to the side of the boat, just below the water line.
After the fish were settled, the men tried to grab a few hours sleep curled in the bottom of the boat. They’d need all their strength for the morning, when they would travel west in search of the powerful bluefin tuna. Uncomfortable as they were, they slept well, dreaming of the fight ahead.
Before daylight, Giuseppe’s father woke them and they all shared a meagre breakfast of bread and cheese. As the first streaks of light glowed across the sky, they began to row.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, my son,’ Giuseppe’s father said. ‘Watch for sea birds. In the mornings the big
tonno
likes to laze in the water near the surface, so that he can bake in the sun after a night catching fish. The sea birds will see his fin and go to investigate. When we see those birds, we will investigate too.’
Giuseppe’s eyes scanned the horizon until they hurt, but he could see nothing. Suddenly one of his brothers shouted, ‘Look, over there,’ and pointed to the north.
Giuseppe still could see nothing. The oarsmen began rowing hard in the direction his brother had pointed and at last Giuseppe saw several sea birds diving into the water.
‘I can see the birds,’ he cried excitedly.
‘Quiet,’ his father hissed. ‘If there are
tonno
there, we don’t want to startle them.’
As their little boat drew closer to the diving sea birds the men saw that there was indeed a school of tuna. A boat could take only one fish, which could weigh up to five hundred kilos. The fishermen needed to select a suitable catch and detach it quietly from the school before the rest of the tuna were startled and dived deep into the sea, beyond their reach.
As the men pulled the heavy wooden boat towards a huge fish, one of Giuseppe’s brothers took up a position beside one of the baskets of bait fish. Everything now depended on his precision and accuracy. His task was to attract the tuna to the boat by throwing some of the little fish into the water. Judging just how many little fish were needed to make the tuna interested in coming close enough to the boat so that the harpooner could strike was a skill. There would be only one chance.
The little silvery fish flashed in the sunlight as they were released. When a tuna saw them darting free it rushed and grabbed them. A few more fish were thrown to the tuna, bringing it closer to the boat. Then Giuseppe’s brother took one of the bait fish out of the basket and squeezed out its eyes before throwing it into the sea. As the sightless little fish hit the water, it was confused and, rather than swimming away, it began to swim in circles beside the boat. Quietly the rowers brought their oars into the boat. Full of confidence and lured by the bait, the tuna lunged towards the blinded fish, almost bumping the boat in its eagerness. Holding his breath in excitement, Giuseppe realised that this was the moment they could catch the
tonno
.
He watched as his eldest brother stood in the bow of the boat holding a harpoon, which they called a
traffena
. It was a fearsome weapon, somewhat like a farming fork except that it had seven prongs, each with a barb at the end. With the confidence and skill gained through years of practice, the young fisherman braced his legs and then hurled the harpoon at the tuna, aiming at the vulnerable spot at the back of its head where the spinal cord met the brain. Hitting anywhere else on the fish was useless, for the tuna was well protected and the harpoon would not be effective. Giuseppe’s brother had told him this many times for he was proud of his ability as a harpooner; their father had trained him well.
The aim was true. Giuseppe found it hard not to shout with excitement. Although everyone else was elated, they remained tense and watchful as the fish still had to be landed.
The wounded tuna dived deep, desperately trying to escape its attackers, and the attached harpoon line raced through the water. Because the fishermen knew that a tuna could dive to great depths, the line attached to the
traffena
, made of the finest Italian hemp, was three hundred metres long. But this tuna did not dive very deep at all, perhaps only half that distance. Giuseppe’s brother placed his hand on the line to judge how much weight would have to be applied in order to bring the fish to the surface and gradually he began to haul it towards the boat. He pulled slowly, working out how much fight was left in the big fish. Sometimes a tuna tested and tricked the man with the line, swimming slowly upwards, before spinning and turning to dive deeper, catching the fisherman unawares. They all knew there was no point in hurrying. Time was on their side and they didn’t want to lose the catch now.
After a while, Giuseppe’s brother spoke to his father. ‘He is getting tired. It won’t be long.’
But the great fish was not yet ready to give up. It made one last desperate lunge and, as it neared the fishing boat, Giuseppe glimpsed its flashing, distressed eyes.
‘It is nearly finished,’ said his brother. ‘He is weakening.’
The sun was high now and as Giuseppe peered over the side of the boat, he could see the
tonno’s
glittering silver-blue skin, small golden pectoral fins along its spine shining in the sunlight.
As they hauled the huge fish in closer to the boat, Uncle Carlo made a final
coppo
– death strike – spearing the fish with a second
traffena
to ensure that the magnificent fighter was truly dead. Only then was the tuna carefully brought to their boat and tied alongside.
Now it was time to celebrate. Giuseppe’s father shouted across to another boat in the distance to tell them of their good fortune. Someone from that boat shouted back that they, too, had had good luck.
When they returned to the village with their catch there would be celebrations to acknowledge the prowess of the fishermen. Giuseppe was proud he had been part of the hunt. He longed for the day when he would be the one standing in the bow,
traffena
poised, ready to strike, pitting his skill against the sleek, powerful kings of the sea.
*
Giuseppe was a shy teenager, brown skinned, barefoot, with laughing eyes and a mischievous grin that showed his neat white teeth. On market day the village girls clustered around the stalls, flirting with him behind their mothers’ backs. He was strong and looked older than his fifteen years. Older girls teased him and watched him as he sat on his father’s boat mending nets, or moved nimbly around the dock where fish and shellfish were laid out for sale on wet wooden tables and in cane baskets. But his father kept a wary eye on him and warned Giuseppe about straying into the alleys and lanes tucked between the little stone houses where young women called cheekily to him from windows and doorways, some threatening to empty their chamber pots into the alley.
Giuseppe had felt very proud when he began to work with his father. Not only was he doing a man’s job, he was contributing to the livelihood of his family. In a very poor region of Italy, their island was one of the poorest, not that Giuseppe was aware of how deprived his family was. Their small home sheltered them, and his mother and grandmother always had food on the table even if, at times, it was very simple fare. Everyone was expected to pull their weight.
Their island was dry and rocky. It was set among a group of active volcanic islands off the coast, which included Mt Stromboli. It had no natural water source so could not produce much food. The villagers relied on the treasures from the sea. They collected water from the roofs when it rained and stored it in barrels but there was not enough water to grow much in the way of crops. They grew tomatoes and eggplants in tubs and hand watered them. Fig and olive trees survived in the hills. Wheat could not be grown on the island, so it was
infrequently imported from the mainland, and bread
was baked only once a month. At the end of four weeks it was dry and hard. Giuseppe’s grandmother was often heard to mutter, ‘No water, but plenty of earthquakes. What was God thinking when he made this island?’