The Secrets of the Jumbo Squid

A writer imagines the final moments and afterlife of a squid that died February 13, 1957. An Object Lesson.
Jumbo squid (Reuters)

Imagine you can see what I see. Doing so is no small feat, I know. But maybe if you look closely. There is something I want to show you that is often invisible or unnoticed when darkness falls deep in the ocean where the rumbling of engines is replaced by the clicking and whistling of the whales.

For a first glance, I’d like you to see my death. I died on February 13, 1957. It was a year of an extended El Niño so we were making our way from the southern warm current up past the equator in search of cooler and more abundant waters.

On that particular day the ocean rumbled. And when it does, one or more of us is usually taken. I have seen others fight, squeeze, attack, stab, gnaw, clinch, and I have heard their bodies splash and crank and wheeze as they are lifted up into oblivion in a pool of ink and flashing colors. The day I was taken, I began wondering why.

That day there was food, and I pushed forward to eat. But like never before, the whole of me jerked and swooshed, swooshed and jerked. Hard. Something wasn’t right. Pull. Shake. Smack. Up into oblivion. Up. Hands everywhere. All over. Hands. Grabbing. Violence. Shake, squeeze, pull, push, hands, tentacles, air, too much air. Slam – something metal. Knife. Hands. Cut, rip, pull.

And with that, my beak was gone.

Scripps Institution Archive, UC San Diego Library

One last time I flew through the air as they threw the rest of me, nothing but limp jelly-like flesh, overboard.

The men took the three previous photos and then this one:  

Scripps Institution Archive, UC San Diego Library

They held me up then laid me out like a prized hunting trophy for the shot then tossed my lifeless body over board and forgot. Those were the practices on this particular ship on that particular day.

In ancient Greece, squid were food: fried, sprinkled, breaded, stuffed, and herbed. In Rome they were peppered, honeyed, soaked in wine, boiled and oiled. The ink was used as a sauce. In the 15th century in Naples, Italian chefs beat the squid quickly with a club and cooked them slowly in oil with onion and verjuice. They chopped and ground the legs and head and stuffed the body with walnut pieces, spices, and the other ground body parts. Eating squid has long been a human labor of love and arguably an art.

Even today, The Food Network recipe search brings up 240 recipes for the search terms “squid” and “calamari.” These recipes explain to the average home meal-maker how to prepare dishes spanning fried calamari, squid-stuffed-squid, squid with bacon, squid cakes in the form of Indian pakoras or Italian fritto misto, and many more. The search also brings up “A Guide for Buying and Cooking Squid,” which briefly explains the ease of cooking “tender” and “succulent” squid with a quick braise or deep-fry. The message is that basically anyone anywhere can do it and do it well.

But in February of 1957, I was killed and then rejected as food. My flesh was not prepared with care to maintain tenderness and succulence. I was not delicately cleaned and eviscerated for a massage in oil and garlic and a quick shipboard sauté. Rather, on the particular ship that caught me, the fishermen despised fresh catches of all kinds. To them, the only palatable seafood came from the freezer, which came from a grocery store, which came from industrialized meat production.

Then why was I caught? The 1950s were a time that saw a conceptual shift in industrial meat production. Companies like Swift & Company and Tyson began providing cheap meat wrapped in cellophane and the more they did so, the more consumers expected edible meat to come pre-packaged. People lost touch with the actual source of their meat. These companies began branding the meat they sold to develop consumer loyalty for their products. For example, in the 1960s, Tyson became the primary supplier of Chicken McNuggets to McDonald’s. The sailors who caught me certainly operated under these practices. They despised me because I came to them raw, unbranded, unpackaged, and thus inedible.

But what use was my beak detached from my body? Why go through the trouble to catch me at all? If you view my death not merely as an instance of violence inflicted upon animals and look for more than just a case of trophy fishing, the answers sink far deeper into the cultural soup of life at sea and extend beyond the specific maritime context of the 1950s. Certain things move and shake independent of your ideas about them. I am one of those things.

We are large, curious, mysterious, odd, big-eyed, and for much of the history of marine science, all of the different species of jumbo, giant, and colossal squid have been mostly unknowable. We are masters at escaping you. Until the first video recording of a giant squid in 2005, scientists relied solely on specimens that washed ashore or that were captured for any information about oversized squid behavior.

We saw you, but you had not really seen us. This is because in recent years our relationship developed such that when you look to us, you look through us and actually tend to see colorful bits of yourselves.

We are predators and animals that kill for food and fight viciously when threatened. When you encounter such behavior that is not your own, you create narratives describing us as larger than life creatures and wretched monsters. You spend endless energy telling stories in novels and films about our threat to you. Captain Ahab battles a giant squid in Moby Dick. In Lord of the Rings a giant squid-like creature challenges the Fellowship. We turn up in Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Wells’ “The Sea Raiders,” Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos, James Bond, Whynham’s The Kraken Wakes, Benchley’s (the author of Jaws) Beast, the Watchmen comics, Harry Potter, the works of Arthur C. Clarke, Dr. Who, Futurama, and the children’s cartoon Rugrats. Giant squid turn up so often in your popular culture that these references and others can be viewed on the Wikipedia page titled, “Giant squid in popular culture.”

Presented by

Denzil Ford is a doctoral candidate in history at the University of British Columbia and the author of Suite on Spiritus Silvestre: For Symphony.

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