The Strait of Scylla and Charybdis

A narrow channel of water with a sheer cliff on each side and a different death on each shore. On one side, the whirlpool Charybdis: a column of water that erupts every forty breaths, so loud the deck shakes from a hundred yards away. On the other, a hidden cave high in the cliff face where Scylla lives, six necks long and thin, six heads with teeth in rows, fast as something smaller than herself has any right to be. There is no third route. To pass the strait you have to row close to the cliff, away from the whirlpool, and accept that the monster will reach down and take six men from the oar benches. Circe has told Odysseus this is the price. She has told him not to fight, that arming himself will only make it worse. He arms himself anyway, breastplate and two spears, useless on the prow, and he watches them die. The strait is the geography of impossible choices. Cunning does not save you. Calculation only tells you which six.