“The last strange fish is the last strange bird/ Of him no sage hath even heard,” wrote the poet John Gray. Hardly true. First, because the flying fish, thought to have appeared tens of millions of years ago, long predates any sages. Second, because by the time Gray was writing in the 1920s, the sages had thoroughly classified the flying fish family, with its forty or so species. Classification, that said, is not enough to stifle fascination, and this is one thing flying fish continue to exert: their perceived dual nature – half fish, half bird – taps into a mythological universe that includes sirens and centaurs. The ancient Greeks thought flying fish spent the day in the sea and the night on land: their scientific name, Exocoetidae, is Latinized Greek for “outside sleepers”. They’re known to hurl themselves at boats: the French anti-ship missile Exocet is named after them. In Yann Martel’s novel The Life of Pi, a providential rain of flying fish keeps the stranded hero and his tiger companion from starvation – and incidentally, keeps the first from being devoured by the second.
Flying fish are decisively fish, not birds – albeit endowed with unique pectoral fins. Deployed much like wings, these allow the fish to glide for 150 metres or more. The fins, though, do not flap to keep the fish airborne over long distances. Nor do they help propel the fish out of the water in the first place. In riding the ocean winds, flying fish may escape predators below, but expose themselves to predators above – trapped between worlds, as it were, not so much supercharged hybrids as vulnerable in-betweeners.
Fins aside, flying fish look and taste much like sardines – the flesh deliciously salty-sweet, moderately oily, and rich in heart- and liver-friendly compounds known as phospholipids. They are found and eaten across tropical and subtropical zones, from Japan – where flying fish roe, tobiko, tops a classic sushi roll – to Barbados, where the flying fish is an outright national symbol. Our recipe comes from there.
Flying fish are shaped rather like straight bananas – tubes that taper at both ends. Around 30 centimetres long (pushing half a metre on occasion), they are grey-silver in colour. The pectoral fin, delicate and semi-translucent, begins where the head ends and runs the length of the body. The eye itself is huge, with the black pupil occupying almost its entire surface. Finally, the tail is unevenly forked, with the lower lobe longer than the top one: it acts as a kick starter for flight. It’s unlikely you’ll encounter the roe, tobiko, outside of sushi restaurants: you’ll recognize it from its red-orange hue. Tobiko tastes, once again, both salty and sweet. Alongside its high nutrient value, it contains large amounts of cholesterol, so it’s best not to binge on it.
Likewise. All I can say is people should get out more. I, for one, could never afford to doubt the existence of humans. But I’m pleased that you think of me as a bit of a fairy tale character.
You’ll have to forgive me.
You make it sound as though I soar into the sky. But I don’t fly that high. And it’s not even technically flight, as you know. I just ride the wind currents for brief periods.
Well, that’s very flattering. It’s true, the sea is hostile territory. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t need to fly. Home though it is, the sea is a place of peril and menace. Tuna, swordfish, squid – they’re all after me. So you see, unlike you, I don’t fly for pleasure. I fly for my life.
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