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.
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.