THE SHARK’S ATTACHÉ—QUEER WAYS OF FISHING—HINTS FOR NAVAL
WARFARE—FISH THAT _DO_ FLY.
The little pilot-fish is not the only friend that the shark has. The
remora, or sucking-fish, as we shall soon see, is still more attached
to him. This is one of the queerest fish in the whole ocean. Others may
have a more extraordinary, or, at any rate, a more terrifying appearance,
but not one of them is constructed on such an original principle, or has
such a very quaint and ingenious process of getting through the world.
What the process is may be guessed from the name of sucking-fish, but the
remora does not suck with its mouth, but with its head. The whole upper
surface of this consists of “a large, flat, plate-like adhesive disc,”
and whatever this disc touches it adheres to with the greatest tenacity.
The reason is that the air between the plate and anything it lies against
is forced out, so that a vacuum is created, and when once this is the
case, two things that touch each other always stick together. It is by
virtue of this principle that a fly is able to walk along the ceiling,
for all its six feet end in so many little adhesive discs or suckers,
which act as strongly, in proportion to their size, as does that of the
remora. But the remora, when it uses its sucker, does not walk, or even
swim, which is the equivalent of walking in a fish; all that is done for
it by the shark or turtle, to which it attaches itself. It just swims
underneath it, and presses itself against its under side, and there it is
carried along as safely as if it were riding in its own carriage—indeed,
much more so, for there is less likely to be an accident, and if ever
there is, the remora can drop off without being hurt, as people generally
are when they jump out of a carriage.
It is difficult to imagine a more secure and delightful way of going
about, and of all sea-fish, the remora, as it seems to me, must have the
easiest and safest time. To all but him the fierce and greedy monsters of
the deep—the sword-fish and saw-fish, the threshers, the sharks, and the
killers—are a terror and a menace. But what can any of them do against
a little sucking thing that sticks tight against them, in a place they
cannot possibly get at. The remora, if it liked, could fix itself to the
very sword or saw itself of these two redoubtable warriors. It would
not, probably, because when either were in action, it would have to come
off; but just behind one or the other—on the hilt or the handle—it could
manage quite comfortably. It would then be just in front of their owners’
mouth, but yet quite unreachable, so that, supposing it to be a dainty,
this would make a very good illustration of Tantalus. With the saw-fish,
at any rate, such a situation would be quite possible, since there is a
considerable space between the mouth and the beginning of the saw, and
if there would not be room enough for it there with the sword-fish, the
under part of the lower lip, or jaw, would do just as well.
It is as the friend—or _attaché_—of the shark, however, that the remora
is best known, and it is just in this position, or approaching to
it, that he is said to fix himself—on the front or head part of the
shark’s body, rather than behind, or on the tail. Now, of course, when
the shark is eating anything—when he is tearing at a dead whale, for
instance—fragments of the feast will float about in the water, and the
nearer the remora is to the mouth of the shark, the nearer these are
likely to come to it. This is the reason generally given for his choosing
the position on the shark which he is said to do, or for his swimming
at the shark’s mouth, when he chooses to swim with, rather than cling
to him. However, as the remora is free to leave the shark whenever he
chooses, and as the latter swallows his food whole, I cannot quite see
what advantage he gains by being always in this advanced position. It is
not as if he could not leave the shark, for then it might be a matter of
life and death to him to be there. But as he must always know when the
shark gets anything, and cannot well nibble the piece that goes down his
patron’s throat, as far as I can see he might as well sit lower down, as
at the head of the table.
For myself, therefore, I doubt the reason given for his choosing the
latter position, and I should doubt the fact of his doing so, if there
were not some evidence for it. For the remora often attaches itself to
the hull of a ship, and it is natural to suppose that, in such cases, it
mistakes the ship for a large shark, or a whale. Now when it does so,
it either sticks to, or swims near, the fore part of the vessel, but not
behind, or astern. Thus, Professor Moseley describes it as “swimming for
weeks, near the water-surface, just a foot in front of the cut-water,”
and he remarks on this that “if it swam just behind the stern, it
would get plenty of food, whereas in front of the bow it gets nothing
whatever.” “Nevertheless,” continues the professor, “it stays on at what,
in a shark, is, of course, the right place, ready to be at the beast’s
mouth directly food is found.” This, therefore, seems to establish the
fact. As to the reason of it, it has just occurred to me that when a
shark bites a piece out of the living body of any creature, there must
be a great rush of blood, and the remora would get the best benefit of
this, if it was just by the shark’s mouth, at the time. Or, again, the
little fish may feel more secure there than elsewhere. A shark is a large
thing—twenty, thirty, or forty feet long sometimes—and many voracious
fish that might prefer to keep away from its head, might be bold enough,
perhaps, to approach its tail or the after part of its body. The remora,
apparently, is not in the habit of going inside the shark’s mouth, as
does the pilot-fish—so it may think the next safest thing to that is to
keep as near it as it can, on the outside.
The wonderful power of adhesion, possessed by the remora, has been put to
practical use by the Chinese, who actually employ it to catch turtles.
A thin but very strong line is attached to a little iron ring, which is
fitted round the base of the remora’s tail, which, as it becomes very
narrow just there, and then swells broadly out to form the caudal fin,
seems as if it were made for the purpose. Thus armed, the fishermen
row or sail about till they see a turtle lying asleep on the water,
and having come as close up to it as they dare, they drop several of
these queer fishing-lines over the side of the boat—or sampan, as it is
called. Should the remoras attach themselves to the sides or keel, they
are dislodged with long bamboos, to which the lines serve as a guide,
and then, swimming round about, before long they generally discover the
turtle, to which they at once become fastened. If there were only one of
them it might not be possible to draw in so large and heavy a creature as
a turtle—at least, a large one—but with several it is not difficult to do
so. The remoras are then detached, and can be used in this manner again
and again, as well as to catch a fish or two, should it be so desired.
Afterwards, when they have done their day’s work, they can be eaten
themselves, for that is the way of the world, not of the Chinese only, as
some people seem to think. The Chinese, it may be remembered, fish also
with cormorants, round whose throats they weld a ring, to prevent their
swallowing the fish. Two more novel and ingenious methods of following
the gentle craft were surely never devised, but the more ingenious of
the two, perhaps—that which I have just described—seems to have been
practised by the Indians of America, when the Spaniards, in an evil hour,
first landed on that continent. Columbus himself—or if not he, one of his
companions—has described the method, and how, when the remora is thrown
overboard, it shoots “like an arrow out of a Bowe towards the other
fish, and then, gathering the bag on his head like a purse-net, holds
it so fast that he lets not loose till hal’d up out of the water.”[14]
The Indians, however, seem to have used but one remora at a time, as
apparently they do now, and if it fixes itself to a turtle, instead of
hauling it in, they dive down, following the line, and swim with it to
the boat.
[Illustration: THREE _VERSUS_ ONE
A sword-fish and two killers attacked the mighty cachalot in vain. He
first bit the sword-fish in two, then stretched one killer dead upon the
sea with a blow from his tail, and the other fled for his life.]
We do not read that the old Greeks or Romans ever used the remora of the
Mediterranean—for there are several species—to fish with in this way. If
they had, they would probably have expected it to pull in anything—even
a whale—for their idea was that this little fish, by affixing itself to
a ship, could retard its progress through the water, or even stop it
if it wished to. Thus it was believed that at the battle of Actium a
remora held back Antony’s ship, and thus contributed to his defeat. It
seems strange that no one should have thought of turning such powers to
practical account, not for fishing purposes merely, but also in naval
warfare. Even now, were the story true, much might be done in this way.
Instead of torpedoes discharged at the enemy’s ships, we might read,
then, of remoras having been successfully affixed to them.
There are several different kinds of sucking fishes, and some of
them—like the common lump-sucker which frequents our coasts—have the
adhesive disc, or part, situated on the under surface. Of the true
remoras there are also several species, the smallest being about eight
inches long, whilst the largest attains to three feet or more.
If the remoras, by virtue of their parasitic relations with powerful and
dangerous species, are the most protected of all fishes, we may, perhaps,
look upon the flying-fish of the southern seas as the most persecuted. At
any rate, it is popularly supposed to be, and equally when it leaps out
of the water, or, after a long, skimming flight, descends into it again,
the bonito—a sort of large mackerel, its principal enemy—is understood to
be hungering for it. For myself, upon general principles, I am inclined
to doubt this. Animals, it is well known, enjoy doing what they do with
ease and mastery. If they have an art, they like to practise it—they do
not seek to hide their light under a bushel. Why, then, should not a fish
that can fly, fly, sometimes, for its own amusement? That it should do
so would be in accordance with all analogy; so, as it is no more than
an assumption to hold that it does not, I shall hold that it does. One
reads, often, about the gaping jaws of a dolphin, or albacore, appearing
above the water, just as the flying-fish is about to descend into it—and
no doubt this may frequently occur. But were the dolphin or albacore or
bonito always expecting it—having pursued it underneath, in the water, as
we are told—I believe the signs of this would be much more frequent. It
would be the usual thing then, I believe, to see the jaws, or the whole
body of the enemy, leap into the air, or at least for there to be some
disturbance in the water, as the excursionist touched it. But this, as a
rule, one does not see—at least, I have not myself.
Again, one reads so much about sea-birds hovering in the air, and ready
to pounce upon the poor fish, as soon as they issue from the waves.
However, though I have made three sea voyages—one in a sailing-ship—I
have never had the luck to see this; from which I gather that there is
at least a good deal of respite from this evil, to which, moreover,
other fishes are subject—for whether in air or water, what matters it?
No doubt, however, but that the _Exocetus volitans_—to give it its Latin
name—is ardently pursued, and eaten, as it deserves to be, with the
greatest relish. That its fins have been developed into wings, for the
express purpose of escaping from such pursuit, is equally probable; and
therefore it would be very strange if they did not often enable it to do
so. A good evidence of their efficacy is, I think, the enormous abundance
of the species possessing them; so that perhaps, on the whole, these
creatures of two elements, on whom so much pity has been bestowed, have a
better, instead of a worse, time than the majority of their fellows.
The most curious thing I know about the flying-fish is that naturalists
will keep on pretending that it can’t fly. However, we must not be led
astray by this, but go by the name and what our gallant seamen tell
us. Also we should remember this, that a sailor, when he sees a fish
flying, or anything curious, is a free man, whereas a naturalist, under
similar circumstances, has his hands more or less tied by a sort of
professional etiquette, which requires that he should not let an animal
be more interesting than he can help, or give in to any picturesque fact,
unless it can be stated in a dull kind of way. The facility with which,
in able hands, this compromise may be effected, has led to many tardy
admissions; but exceptional cases arise, and this, perhaps, may be one
of them. For here is the tropic sea, blue as a sapphire, gleaming like a
diamond, glancing and throbbing with such jewels of light that it looks
as though thousands of silver fishes were jumping in the meshes of a
golden net, flung down by the sun from the sky. All at once, from amidst
these myriads of sparkles a number flash higher, leap into the air, and
fly, like bright arrows, towards you. Onwards they come, and from being
light only, they pass into form and substance, begin to live, to move
with sense and volition, and, all at once, they are fishes, flying with
wings over their home of the sea. They sink towards the water, rise
again, sink, rise, then dip for one moment, and, the next, go glittering
up into the air, and come spinning round in a curve. Thus they gleam on
for a most astonishing distance, till, near you, they disappear into the
sea, or, far away, become again the sparkling jewels of the sun. And
all around, over the great, wide sea, these showers of living gems are
leaping in and out of it. It is a most beautiful sight. The body of the
fish is of a light, gleaming blue, and the delicate film-like wings,
springing from just behind the gills, and extending backwards almost to
the tail, set it, as they rapidly quiver, in a soft and silvery haze.
It is, of course, the pectoral fins that thus perform the office of
wings, and by moving them and steering a course, their owner flies as
truly, for the time, as does either a bird or a bat. Those who deny
this—the naturalists aforesaid—say that the flying-fish never go for a
greater distance, without touching the water, than the initial impetus
of their leap out of it carries them to. Now the swim-bladder of the
flying-fish is so large that when the creature distends it, as it has
the power to do, it occupies almost the whole cavity of the body, which
thus becomes full of air, and, besides this, it has another sort of
bladder in its mouth, which it can inflate through the gills. Thus it
is all air, and everybody knows how difficult it is to throw a light,
bladdery thing to any distance—a stone goes much farther. What sort of
impetus must that be, which can, in this instance, throw it to 500 or
1,000 yards, and is it not more likely that a small fish (it is only
about a foot long), whose fins have become developed so as to support it
in the air, and whose body has been turned into an air-sac, should have
been enabled to fly, rather than leap, these wonderful distances? When I
first saw flying-fish myself, I felt quite angry at the nonsense I had
been made to believe about them, through the natural history books, and
from that moment I resolved that I would be as cautious in trusting to
what are called sober statements, as to statements that may seem to be
exaggerated. Certainly it is the sailors, here, and not the scientists,
who best know what they are talking about, and so, as they have seen a
great deal more of flying-fish than I have, instead of repeating my own
opinion, I will end the subject, and this chapter, with that of one who,
to all the advantages of a sailor, adds those of being a careful observer
and a very picturesque writer. At any rate, I don’t see how he can have
been mistaken in such matters as these, and, if not, there ought to
be an end, at last, of that long-enduring fallacy that the flying-fish
cannot fly.
Mr. Bullen then—and I quote him as an authority—says at page 188 of his
_Idylls of the Sea_: “As the result of personal observation extending
over a good many years, I assert that the Exocetus _does fly_. I
have often seen a flying-fish rise two hundred yards off, describe
a semicircle, and, meeting the ship, rise twenty feet in the air
perpendicularly, at the same time darting off at right angles to its
previous course. Then, after another long flight, when just about to
enter the water, the gaping jaws of a dolphin gave it pause and it rose
again, returning, almost directly, upon its former course. This procedure
is so common that it is a marvel it has not been more widely noticed. A
flying-fish of mature size can fly a thousand yards. It does not flap
its fins as a bird, but they vibrate like the wings of an insect, with a
distinct hum. The only thing which terminates its flight involuntarily is
the drying of its fin-membranes and their consequent stiffening.”