Shark Drunk

by Morten Stroksnes

  In addition, there are many mysterious animals that belong only in the ocean and nowhere else.

  Included on the Carta marina are drawings of forests, mountains, towns, people, and animals on the Scandinavian peninsula, as well as on the landmasses of Denmark, Scotland, the Faeroe Islands, the Orkney and Shetland Islands, and Iceland. On the Orkneys, the animal life on land has been given a fairytale quality. It was said to include a tree that bears fruit from which live ducklings hatched.17

  But it was the extremely lifelike drawings of monsters in the waters between these countries that would make Olaus Magnus’s Carta marina famous. The northern and western sections of the map, which are mostly ocean, are illustrated with beasts, one more sensational than the next. Some have hellish, glowing red eyes and fangs in their lower jaw. Others are capable of swallowing ships whole and are filled with evil intentions. Or their size alone may make them deadly dangerous. In his book, Olaus Magnus provides detailed descriptions of how unaware seamen might drop anchor on the back of a sea monster and then light fires to cook their food, believing they were on dry land. Of course, the heat from the fire would wake the gigantic fish and make it dive. The men on its back would be dragged all the way down into the deep.

  Carta marina depicts sea unicorns, giant flying fish, sea cows with horns, sea rhinos, sea horses as big as bulls, poisonous sea hares, sea mice, and a polypus, which with one of its ten claws could lift a man out of a boat and carry him down to its family, waiting on the seafloor.

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  Life could not have been easy for seamen in the days of Olaus Magnus. And those who happened to see copies of his map, or maybe were even educated enough to know Latin and hence were able to read his book, must have been terrified. They were already familiar with many of the sea’s dangers. But the learned Olaus Magnus’s amazing catalogue of horrifying monsters surpassed any rumors they might hear in even the worst flea-ridden tavern down at the harbor. It would have been perfectly understandable if a man started looking for work on shore.

  What are you supposed to do, for example, if you encounter a ziphius, as depicted in the sea off the Faeroe Islands? This gigantic monster has an owl’s face with a nasty curved beak. It uses its dorsal fin to jab or saw huge holes in the bottom of ships, and through the holes it then devours the crew.

  And what about the hairy sea swine? It looks like an enlarged pig, but it has four dragon feet and two eyes on either side of its body, as well as an eye on its belly, near the navel. Sometimes the sea swine is accompanied by its “companion,” the sea calf. Each is bad enough on its own, but if they appear together, they incite each other to new heights of malice. These two assailants are among the worst you could ever meet.

  Olaus Magnus writes that a sea swine was observed in the “German ocean” in 1537. This prompted the Vatican to initiate a study into what its appearance might augur. The learned men in Rome decided that the presence of the sea swine was by no means a good portent, and the papal commission finally concluded that the animal symbolized a distortion of the truth—not the stories about the animal, but the beast itself, with all its perverse physical attributes.

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  The book also contains a great deal of practical advice for seafarers. Olaus Magnus writes, for instance, that some monsters will stay away if you blow war trumpets. This works for the spouter, or sperm whale (Physeter), which can spout huge gushes of water and, in the worst case scenario, sink even the strongest of vessels. The whale finds the sound of war trumpets so torturous that it will “flee” back to the fathomless deep. As his source for this fact, Olaus Magnus cites ancient Greek and Roman authorities on geography and natural history, such as Strabo and Pliny the Elder. Seafarers are also advised to hurl big vats and barrels after the sea monsters, because that might make them start playing instead of attacking. But if that doesn’t work, you could always shoot at them with catapults or cannons; the loud explosions might chase the monsters away.

  Ships could also be attacked by birds, a type of quail that settles on masts and sails in such numbers that even the mightiest of ships will sink. In this case, the crew should light torches. And by the way, not all dangerous fish are enormous. There’s a fish that is only six inches long. In Greek it’s called echeneis, and in Latin remora. Locals call it the “ship holder.” As the name clearly indicates, these fish cling to the ship and hold it in place. The winds may blow, storms may rage, but the ship cannot budge. It’s as if the vessel is rooted to the spot. Olaus Magnus received this information from Isidore of Seville (ca. 560–636). But Aurelius Ambrosius of Milan, better known in English as Saint Ambrose (ca. 340–397), also mentions the phenomenon and calls the ship holder a “bad and pitiful sea animal.”18

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  Olaus Magnus was an extremely learned man. His work presents a panoramic picture of customs and phenomena in the north, with many described in precise detail. But he doesn’t think the way we do today; he divides up the world very differently. The title of chapter 8 in book 21, for instance, is “About hostility and harmony among certain fishes.” Here, as in many other places, Olaus Magnus reveals that he assumes fish not only possess a consciousness but also free will, morality, and culture. Some fish live in a natural state of harmony, like the baleen whales. Others are hypersocial and live in huge shoals. But even the herring and other shoaling fish have one particular individual that leads the way, just like humans.

  Olaus Magnus writes that in the fish world there are also loners. For some of them, it’s simply “impossible to have any comrades,” since they spend their whole lives in a state of hostility toward others. The Greenland shark definitely belongs to this category.

  Olaus Magnus had read all of antiquity’s known authorities, and he doesn’t hesitate to quote them. In the opinion of Saint Ambrose, for instance, all animals, both on land and in the sea, possess at least one positive trait that humans would benefit from emulating. In several places in the book, such as the chapter titled “A beautiful comparison of fish and people,”19 Olaus Magnus describes the enormous parental love that some fish feel. A callous desire for gain is largely unknown among fish, since they have no interest whatsoever in material goods or money. Doesn’t the story about Jonah in the belly of the whale demonstrate that piety is greatest in the sea? The people had cast Jonah out, but the fish welcomed him. Olaus Magnus’s readers were aware that the story about Jonah was supposed to point to the death and resurrection of Christ. As Olaus Magnus writes, Jesus saved not only the earth, but also the sea.

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  In this epic work, no area is described in a more dramatic manner than the waters where Hugo and I are spending our time drifting and bobbing in a rubber boat, trying to catch a Greenland shark. Olaus Magnus writes, “Along Norway’s coasts, or in the surrounding sea, wondrous fish abound that have no name. Yet they are thought to be whales. Their wildness is apparent at first sight, for they induce fear and terror in everyone who encounters them. They are gruesome in appearance with their blocky heads, which are covered with spikes and points and encircled by long horns that resemble the roots of a toppled tree…When it’s dark, the fisherman can observe from a great distance the glowing eyes, like blazing fire, among the waves.”20 The creature also has hair that looks like goose quills that are thick and long and might also remind someone of a dangling beard. Compared to the rest of the body, the head is small, writes Olaus Magnus. Yet this creature is able, with the greatest of ease, to overturn and sink huge ships filled with strong seamen.

  The part of Olaus Magnus’s amazing book that is of special interest for Hugo and me deals with sharks, or sea dogs, as some people call them—though not in Norway, where they’re called håfisk (the Norwegian name for the Greenland shark is håkjerring). In the chapter titled “On the gruesomeness of some fish, and the kindness of others,”21 Olaus Magnus comments directly on a scene depicted on his map. The illustration shows a man being attacked by sharks in the sea southwest of Stavanger. But one of the nice fish, more specifica
lly a skate, comes to the man’s rescue. Olaus Magnus explains that sharks will attack in large groups and exhibit unusual ferocity. Making use of their weight, they’re able to drag people down into the deep, where they consume their softer body parts. But a skate intervenes to put a stop to this “abuse.” The skate attacks with anger and then protects the man until he swims away or, if he’s dead, until his body floats up when the sea “cleanses itself.”

  The sharks, which are innately malevolent, lurk beneath vessels, waiting to grab people. They attack noses, toes, fingers, and genitals, especially keen for every pale part of the human body. Could this be one of the first, highly unreliable, descriptions of sharks attacking people? Could it offer tenuous support for Hugo’s speculations on the same topic?

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  Olaus Magnus refers to the learned Albertus Magnus, also known as Albert the Great (ca. 1195–1280), who claims that dolphins will always carry drowned or drowning people to shore—except for those who may have eaten dolphin flesh in their lifetime. As early as the fifth century BC, the Greek historian Herodotus tells of a poet and musician named Arion who is thrown overboard from the ship that is supposed to take him home because the other seamen want to steal the prize money he has won. Arion is allowed one final wish: to sing a song. And with this song, he summons the dolphins, who carry him safely to shore.

  Maybe Olaus Magnus had seen in Italy the famous marble sculpture Boy on a Dolphin, created by Lorenzetto, a contemporary of his. (Today the sculpture is in the Hermitage in St. Petersburg.) It shows a naked boy, his arms flung out, sleeping on the back of a swimming dolphin. The dolphin, which is only slightly bigger than the boy, displays a determined expression. It knows—just as we, the observers, know—that it represents goodness, and it must rescue the vulnerable human child.

  Olaus Magnus explains that both old and new monsters are most often discovered off the coast of Norway because of the sea’s unfathomable depths in those areas. In spite of all the dangers surrounding them, the fishermen of northern Norway dare to venture far out in the ocean, where they are constantly encountering the most fearsome beasts.

  Not far from the area that Hugo and I have chosen for our hunt, directly south of Lofoten, is the location of perhaps the most spectacular creature of them all. It’s a huge, bright red sea serpent, at least two hundred feet long. On the map it’s coiled around a big sailing ship, holding a man in its maw.22

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  Over the next centuries, Olaus Magnus’s descriptions of this monster were to spread far and wide. This becomes eminently clear when you read the book Norges naturhistorie (The Natural History of Norway) from 1752, written by Bishop Erik Pontoppidan of Bergen. He describes and discusses a number of monstris marinis. The proof of their existence was overwhelming, with special emphasis on eyewitness accounts, many of which were from northern Norwegian fishermen.23 Pontoppidan can’t help but conclude that the monsters do exist—just like the huge snakes in Ethiopia and other African countries. Snakes that, according to reports, are big enough to devour elephants after twining around their legs and toppling them over.

  Olaus Magnus also writes about the kraken, the mythological giant octopus, which was thought to live off the coast of Norway. The Icelanders called it the hafgufa. As a reliable witness who could vouch for this creature’s existence, Olaus Magnus cites Erik Valkendorf, the archbishop of Nidaros (today the city of Trondheim), who, in “the year of Our Lord 1520,” wrote to Pope Leo X about the monster. Two hundred years later, Bishop Pontoppidan’s descriptions are equally extravagant. He claims a kraken exists that can grow as long as an English mile. It has horns as big as a ship’s masts, and it lures fish into its mouth by means of its special smell. When it dives, it creates a tremendous downward suction. The kraken, also called the “Crab” or the “Harrow,” is “without doubt” the largest sea monster in the world, according to Pontoppidan.24

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  In the Middle Ages, people thought there were mermaids and mermen off the coast of Greenland.25 Five hundred years later, they seem to have moved closer to Norway, if we’re to believe Pontoppidan. The bishop of Bergen cites several reliable accounts from witnesses who had seen such creatures in the ocean off Denmark and Norway.

  One such report came from a Danish mayor by the name of Andreas Bussæus after three ferryboat men claimed to have seen a merman. This caused enough of a stir to launch an official investigation. The merman looked to be of an advanced age but broad-shouldered and very strong. His head was small, his eyes deep set, while his hair was curly and reached only to his ears. He had a lean look, with sharp facial features and a short beard that had apparently been trimmed. From his waist down, his body was as sleek as a fish. Twenty years earlier, the witness Peter Gunnersen had seen a mermaid with long, flowing hair. But perhaps of even greater significance, she had strikingly large breasts.26

  In Lofoten of old, there were also reports of mermen similar to those mentioned by Olaus Magnus and Pontoppidan. They had the torso of a human and the lower body of a fish. These marmæler (merpeople), as they were called, were generally much smaller than the draugen. In fact, the smallest of them measured no more than a half inch.27

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  Pontoppidan’s book of natural history is illustrated with technically advanced and hyperrealistic copper engravings of Norwegian animals, birds, insects, and fish. Two of the pictures show a big sea serpent in the process of sinking a ship. Pontoppidan’s work is worthy of the Age of Enlightenment, since he was a stringent rationalist who wanted to separate superstition, myths, and fairy tales from hard facts. On one hand, no one can refute that the sea is filled with unusual and wondrous things. On the other hand, Pontoppidan has no desire to seem naïve. The sea captains and fishermen, who are the source of such stories, may have misinterpreted or exaggerated what they saw, or their testimonies may have been distorted by others.

  For instance, Pontoppidan doesn’t believe the Old Norse saga about the merman who was allegedly held captive for a week by some fishermen in Hordaland, on the western coast of Norway, and who sang an unpleasant ballad for King Hjorleif. Or the story about the mermaid who called herself Isbrandt and supposedly conducted long conversations with a constantly drunk farmer on the Danish island of Samsø. But even though Pontoppidan finds the reports of mermen and mermaids to be exaggerated and overly embellished, he does believe in their existence—just as he believes in sea horses, sea cows, sea wolves, sea swine, seal dogs, and the other creatures that Olaus Magnus also describes.

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  Carta marina is most likely an attempt to depict reality as viewed by Olaus Magnus and his informants—from antiquity’s writers to northern Norwegian fishermen. Though it can’t be ruled out that the Norwegian fishermen may have been poking fun at the learned bishop who came and asked them about all sorts of things, dragging along a less-than-competent interpreter. It’s possible that some of them deliberately exaggerated their stories. But not in every instance.

  Great mapmakers like the German cartographer Sebastian Münster (1488–1552) and Abraham Ortelius (1527–1598) of Belgium were nearly as generous with their illustrations of monsters in the oceans of the world. Even Hans Egede (1686–1758), known as the apostle of Greenland, recorded eyewitness accounts of monsters that are no less fascinating than the drawings on Carta marina. By the way, from 1707 to 1718, Egede was pastor of the Vågan municipality in Norway, which includes Skrova.

  In 1892, when the Dutch zoologist and insect expert Antoon C. Oudemans published a critical monograph on the great Norwegian sea serpent, he was able to list more than three hundred written sources in which the monster was mentioned. Olaus Magnus had set the whole thing in motion, but belief in the sea serpent was still thriving at the end of the 1800s. In his extremely exhaustive book, Oudemans clearly reveals many eyewitness accounts to be no more than lies and deception. The Dutchman’s work became the scientific death knell for the existence of the monster. But even Oudemans did not completely dismiss the fantastic; he made his
own contribution in cryptozoology. In his opinion, many observers had actually confused the sea serpent with a gigantic sea lion–like creature (Megophias megophias). Yet it too was a mythical beast.28

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  Olaus Magnus, Erik Pontoppidan, and Hans Egede all lived in a time when very little was known about whales and other animals and fish in the deep—and before modern science had established principles for classifying life on earth. Many of the life-forms actually known to science today are even more unlikely than those Olaus Magnus depicted.

  Somewhere in his book Olaus Magnus mentions “polyps,” described as “many-footed creatures.” They have eight feet with suction cups, and four of the feet are extra long. (The octopus has, of course, two tentacles that are much longer than its other six arms.) On their backs these polyps have “pipes” through which the water runs in and out. They have no blood, and they live in holes on the seafloor, changing color according to their surroundings.29

  If we compare this to what scientists today actually know about squids and octopuses, this is a realistic description. For instance, what does the vampire squid (Vampyroteuthis infernalis, or the “squid from hell”) do if it’s attacked way down in the deep? In the pitch-dark, it wouldn’t do much good to spray ink to fend off the attacker, but the vampire squid has another means of defense. It bites off one of its eight arms, which then drifts through the water alone, with tiny blinking blue lights. This diverts the attacker and gives the vampire squid an opportunity to escape. The vampire squid, which can live at a depth of five thousand feet, earned its name because of its eyes, which are the biggest in the animal kingdom, when compared to its body weight. Usually the eyes are light blue, but in a fraction of a second the squid can turn them as red as blood. It looks like a special effect in a cheap horror film.