Captain Coward and the Blame Game

are shuttered, the hotels and restaurants are mostly closed. Just a few hundred people live on the island all year round. Mariopelogrini is the island's deputy mayor. At ten o'clock in the evening on Friday, the thirteenth of January twenty twelve, his phone rings. It's the chief of the island's police.

Pellegrini drives onto the harbor. He meets his friend. The Mayor's there too. What's going on, Pellegrini asks, no idea, says the mayor. We've had no communication whatsoever from the ship or the coastcard. They see a lifeboat slowly being lowered from the listing ship. They realize that they're going to have to find shelter for everyone. They start to make calls to their fellow islanders. Open the school, open

the church, bring food, bring blankets. The first of the lifeboats arrives in the harbor and scrapes up against the concrete jetty. They help the passengers and ask what's happening on the ship, but nobody responds. Maybe they don't understand Italian, or maybe they're just too cold and stunned to speak. All of us should go on board, says Pellegrini, to see what's going on. The lifeboat's about to go back to the ship to pick up more passengers. Wait, hees Pellegrini.

He gets on. I didn't really think this through, Pellegrini later says. As the lifeboat approaches the cruise ship, Pellegrini makes out its name written on the side, the Costa Concordia. The lifeboat dumps up against a rope ladder, the ships leaning over them, the ladder dangling in the air. Pellegrini grabs a wrung. The ladder sways, he starts to clamber up. I'm Tim Harford, and you're listening to cautionary tales. It's

nine o'clock in the evening on Friday. The thirteenth of January on the Costa Concordia and Captain Francesco'scatino is eating dinner. He's in one of the ship's restaurants. It has five, along with thirteen bars, four swimming pools, five chacoozies, a disco, a casino, and a movie theater. Keeping all the passengers on a cruise ship fed and entertained is no small task. Of the four thousand plus people on board the Costa

Concordia over a one thousand a crew. Earlier that day, the ship had picked up passengers in the port of Cibdovekia, near Rome. They're looking forward to a week of puttering around the Mediterranean Sea, skirting the coasts of Italy, France and Spain. They haven't yet been through their mandatory safety briefing on what to do in case of emergency. The law says that the briefing must be held within twenty four hours of passengers getting on board, and surely there's

no rush. Francesco Scatino is fifty one years old. He has a wife back at home. He also has a mistress half his age, and he's with her now. She's also employed by the cruise company but currently off duty. Scatino has asked to be told when there are a few miles from Giglio, and now he gets that call. The captain and his lover finish up their meals and make their way together from the restaurant to the ship's bridge. Picture a space like an airplane's cockpit, but on a

grander scale. Screens and dials, knobs and levers wrap around windows with a view of what's ahead. When Skatino arrives, the first officer is in command. Also on the bridge of a third officer and a helmsman, and someone else too, the ship's matre d the headwaiter. He wouldn't normally be on the bridge, but he's from the island of Gilio, and Scatino has promised him a salute. It's common practice, a courtesy from the captain to a valued member of

the crew. You veer slightly off the planned route and pass closer to the shoreline so your family and friends on land can admire the impressive size of the ship. Passengers enjoy these salutes too. It can give them a closer look at a picturesque island. Not that there'd be much to see tonight at half past nine on a dark January evening. It should all be routine, But as Scatino arrives on the bridge there are some causes for concern. The speed is fifteen knots, about seventeen miles an hour.

That's a touch too fast for comfort for a ship this big and this close to land. The quicker you're going, the more difficult it is to judge your turns, and the automated navigation system is still engaged. It shouldn't be, Scatino says to the first officer. Don't we normally use paper charts and manual maneuvering when we're this close to shore. The paper charts, in truth might not be as much help as you'd expect. The Costa Concordia carries only small

scale charts of the seabed this close to Giglio. That's because detours like this to salute an island aren't part of the officially planned route, even if they are common practice. The planned route runs closer to the middle of the ten mile channel between the island and the mainland. Scatino has done this swing by close to Gilio often enough before. Still, it does look like they're heading closer to the island

than they'd usually get through the bridges big windows. You can see flashes of white as waves break on the shore. The matre d' is on the phone chatting to an old friend, also originally from Gilio, a retired cruise ship captain. He passes the phone to Scatino to say hello. The two men know each other, though they haven't spoken in years. Scatino skips the pleasantries. How deep is the seabed close to Gilio, he asks, like eight hundred yards from the harbor. The retired captain is surprised.

the mood on the bridge still seems relaxed. Nobody yet appears to appreciate the extent of the danger therein. Then Scatino sees the rock hard to starboard, hard to port. The helmsman tries to turn the ship, but it's too late. As the back of the ship swings round, it crunches up against the rock. There was a loud bang, one passenger later told reporters for Vanity Fair, followed by a great, big groaning sound, A long and powerful vibration, said another,

like an earthquake. The rock rips a gash in the side of the ship over one hundred and fifty feet long. Back in the restaurant, other passengers are still eating dinner. I took the first bite of my eggplant and feta, says one, and I literally had to chase the plate

across the table. It was exactly like the scene in Titanic, recalls another dishes went flying, glasses went flying, the waiters went flying all over, Then across the restaurants and bars, the jacuzzis and the disco, the casino and the theater. The lights went out. Cautionary tales will be back after the break. Francesco's Scatino is currently in prison serving a sixteen year sentence for his role in the sinking of

the Costa Concordia. There's not much public sympathy for reasons will come to but not everyone is comfortable with what happened to Francesco's Scatino. He's been scapegoated. The captain's lawyer insisted an Italian consumer rights organization and that represented some of the passengers on the ship, agreed Scatino should be punished, said a spokesperson, But he has been made a scapegoat. The head of a European association of shipmasters used the

same word scapegoat. But what exactly is a scapegoat? The word comes from a story in the Old Testament. A priest lays his hands on the head of a goat. He confesses all the sins of his people, which mystically transfers all those sins into the goat. Then he allows the goat to escape his clutches, and it wanders off into the wilderness, the escapegoat carrying with it the sins of the people. The underlying idea seems to run deep in the human psyche, says the author Tom Douglas in

his book Scapegoats Transferring Blame. Whenever an early society he came to believe in a God that could punish them for their sins, they often also developed the reassuring belief that they could escape God's punishment by transferring their sin onto something or someone else. Different societies came up with

different rituals. In ancient Athens, for example, the metaphorical scapegoat was an unfortunate human who would be ceremonially whipped on the genitals with the branches of a fig tree, then paraded through the streets and pelted with stones. Whatever the details of the ritual, says Douglas, the intended outcome was the same. The sins of the community are removed, like the disposal of rubbish. Douglas argues that much the same

dynamic plays out today. When a community or organization collectively screwed, its members may instinctively try to escape the consequences by shifting all the blame onto one individual. This process isn't as mystical or ritualistic as in olden times. More often it's cynical and strategic, and the punishment we want to avoid isn't typically from God. It may be from the courts of law or public opinion. Mario Pellegrini reaches the top of the rope ladder and hauls himself onto the

deck or one of the decks. The cost of Concordia, remember, has seventeen levels. It's the length of three football pitches. Pellegrini has no idea how to find his way around. The deck is filled with frightened passengers trying to get onto one of the many lifeboats that members of the crew are lowering to the water. Pellegrini finds some people in uniform and asks what's happening. They have no idea, they say, But one wants to know why he's not

wearing a life jacket. Oh, I'm not a passenger, Pellegrini explains. I'm the deputy mayor of Jilio. I've come on board to ask what help you need, sir. You have to put on a life jacket. Pellegrini tries again, I want to talk to whoever's in charge. Where can I find them on the bridge, replies the crew member. But you won't be allowed on the bridge, you're a civilian. Pellegrini walks off in search of the bridge. He can't find it.

Every time he encounters someone in uniform, he asks what's going on and who's in charge, but nobody can give him a useful answer. At length, he finds himself back on the deck, where the lifeboats are on the opposite side of the ship, this time the side that's angled upwards, and while he's been exploring, the ship has tilted further, now at such an angle that from this side they can't lower any more lifeboats to the sea. Suddenly, Pellegrini finds himself lying on top of a woman. He's not

sure what just happened. He apologizes, tries to stand up, and falls right back down again. It was very disorientating, Pellegrini recalls, you couldn't tell which way was up or down. The ship must be properly capsizing onto its side. Now, Pellegrini realizes all he can do is find something to grab onto and wait for the ship to settle on the rocks. It all started with that loud bang, then a great, big groaning sound. Plates of eggplant and feta

flew across the table. The lights went out. There were screams in the darkness. After a while, a voice over the public address system. Ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please, I speak on behalf of the captain. We are currently experiencing a blackout due to an electrical fault. The situation is under control, an electrical fault that felt like more than an electrical fault. The ship's emergency backup lights come on and they illuminate a scene of chaos. The waiters

are picking themselves up, Plates and glasses are everywhere. Panels have fallen from the ceiling. The ship appears to be noticeably listing an electrical fault. One passenger calls her daughter, who lives in central Italy. She describes what just happened and says she's not convinced that the situation is under control. The daughter, not sure what else to do, phones the local police. The police think perhaps they'd better call the coast guard. The coast guard is surprised to get the

call when a ship's in trouble. The ship calls them. The coast guard doesn't normally have to call the ship.

are just as skeptical as the coast guard. They put on life jackets and heads straight for the lifeboats, ignoring messages from the crew to kindly return to your cabin. Everything is under control. Later, some tell how they got into a lifeboat and demanded that members of the crew lower it into the water. The crew members didn't want to because they hadn't yet received orders from the captain to abandoned ship. What was happening with Captain Scatino up

on the bridge. He was getting reports about how many of the ship's compartments had flooded enough to be sure that the ship would sink, but he didn't seem to be taking the information in. According to the testimony of one crew member, he was out of his routine mental state. He was under shock. He wasn't the person I knew. A video from the bridge shows him looking stunned, says one expert analyst. The captain really froze. It doesn't seem his brain was processing. Scatino was also on the phone

to the crew's company's crisis coordinator. What exactly were they saying to each other? Later their accounts would differ, but eventually, over an hour after the collision with the rock, the order came over the public address system. Abandoned ship. One seventy two year old woman tells how she tried to get on a lifeboat on the side of the listing ship that was closer to the water. It's full. People yelled from one boat, and the next and the next.

I think there was room, she says, but those already on the boats were shouting at the crew members to lower them down straight away. The ship was tilting alarmingly. She saw that land really wasn't that far away. She was a strong swimmer. She jumped every fifty feet. I would stop and look back, recalled the woman. I could hear the ship creaking and was scared that it would fall on top of me if it capsized completely. Not

long after midnight, the ship finally did capsize completely. This was the moment when Mario Pellegrini found himself lying on top of a woman, wondering what just happened. You couldn't tell which way was up or down. Thirty two people died on the cost of Concordia that night. Experts believe that this was the moment the final cap size, when most of their fates were sealed. Would some of those thirty two have already been off the ship if the

order to evacuate had been given more quickly. Perhaps since he gave that order, Francesco Scatino has changed out of his captain's uniform into civilian clothes. He can no longer be so readily identified as the person who should be in charge. Scatino, too, later tells a story of losing his footing as the ship suddenly shifts. In his case, he explains he slipped and accidentally fell into a lifeboat. He then had no choice but to allow the lifeboat

to take him safely to shore. Cautionary tails will be back In a moment, the ship that last has come to rest on its side, and the Deputy Mayor of Giglio, Mario Pellegrini, can find his feet again. He looks around and takes in his new situation. He's standing on what used to be a wall. It's difficult to walk along it because it's strewn with things like lamps and fire extinguishers and doors. There used to be doors in the wall that led into corridors. Now they're doors in the

floor that lead to vertical shafts. You don't want to fall through one of those and plunge into the dark and chilly water below. It's hard to see because the emergency lights have gone out. Only shafts of moonlight now illuminate the ship. Dozens of people are still on board. How are they going to get off? First? It's clear that they'll have to climb upwards to get onto what's now the top of the ship that used to be its side. That's not going to be easy. They'll have

to scale a now near vertical death. Someone brings an aluminium ladder. As everyone realizes that's the only way up, all hell breaks loose. Pellegrini watches people crowd around the ladder, all trying to push their way to the front. It was horrible, Pellegrini later says, I just remember all the children crying. A woman starts to climb the ladder. A man behind her passes up a toddler in a life jacket. Someone else shoves him out of the way. The mother

on the ladder clings to the life jacket. The cord pulls tight around the falling toddler's neck. Her face starts to turn purple. Pellegrini barges through the crowd yelling in anger. You're going to kill that child. Don't be animals. Let the parents with children go up first. When the panic subsides, Pellegrini hears shouts for help. They're coming from below down what used to be a corridor and has now become a well. Together with the ship's doctor, Pellegrini finds a

rope and drops it into the shark. Someone below ties it into a harness. The deputy mayor and the doctor heave on the rope and up comes a woman, a member of the crew. She's drenched and terrified. They lower the rope again and fish out next person, and the next. At last, a man in a waiter's uniform says to Pellegrini, I'm the last. There's no one else down there, or no one's still alive. I saw a man and child, he adds to the window in the restaurant floating past me.

Get in a boat, says the coastguard. Get back on board and tell me how many people still need rescuing. Scatino says he'd rather coordinate things from where he is. Now, what are you coordinating from there, asked the coastguard. Get back on board, but it's dark, says Scatino. When the recording of this conversation is later leaked to the media. A line from the Coastguard becomes iconic vada a bordo katso, which roughly translates us, get the fuck on board. Scatino

does not try to get on board. He stays on Gilio. Later in the night, he meets a priest who says the captain broke down and sobbed for a very long time. Francesco Scatino was sentenced to sixteen years in prison for his role and the cost to Concordia disaster. But disasters like this are very rarely the fault of just one person.

Surely others could have done better too. Italian prosecutors brought charges against five other individuals, the first and third officers and the helmsman from the bridge, the officer whose job it was to coordinate the evacuation, and the crew's company's crisis coordinator, who spoke to Scatino on the phone from his office in the period after the collision and before the decision to admit to the coast Guard that they needed help, or the decision to give the order to

abandon ship. All five entered into plea bargains. They were given short prison sentences, short enough that on a technicality, they didn't actually have to serve them. Scatino, too, asked if he could plea bargain. The prosecutors said, no, what about the cup's company itself. It's their job, after all, to make sure that everyone's properly trained and following procedures,

that the helmsman can understand English, and so on. They knew, or should have known, that it was common practice for their ships to deviate from the official route to perform a salute to picturesque islands. The cruse company also cut a deal with prosecutors. They agreed to pay a fine of one million euros. Relative to the cost of a cruise ship or the value of a human life, one

million euros isn't exactly a lot of money. It takes some work to summon much sympathy for Captain Scatino, but sixteen years in prison compared to a trivial fine for his employer, no wonder there's been some disquiet about that. It's hard to disagree with the conclusion of the Italian Consumer Rights Organization I mentioned earlier. Scatino should be punished, but he has been made a scapegoat in his book Scapegoats,

Transferring blame. The author Tom Douglas discusses how societies through the ages have gone about choosing their scapegoats with actual goats. The question doesn't arise. One after all is much like another. But what about the people in Athens who were whipped in the genitals with the branches of a fig tree? They, says Douglas, were typically chosen because they were different, ugly, or deformed. In other cases, scapegoats were chosen because they'd

broken a law. If you've got someone who clearly deserves to be punished for something anyway, it makes sense to take the opportunity to load them up with everyone else's sins as well. When disaster strikes, for which lots of people may bear some portion of blame, you can expect those people to cast around for one individual who might plausibly be made to carry all the blame, letting everyone else off the hook. Captain Skatino practically thrust up his

hand to volunteer for the role. It was all too easy to paint him as a cartoonish villain, Captain Coward. The newspapers called him the sleazy, brazen adulterer giving orders on the bridge with his much younger mistress by his side, the captain who abandoned his ship by accidentally falling into

a lifeboat. Scatino made mistakes. He played his part with others in the accident and the chaotic response, but he surely would have made it harder to escapegoat him if he reacted differently to the crisis he helped to create, if he'd reacted, for example, like the deputy mayor of Gilio. Mario Pellegrini at last takes his turn to climb the aluminum ladder. At its top, he meets a young man, a second officer on the cruise ship. What's happening from here,

Pellegrini asks him. The young officer explains, rescue boats are waiting, he says, in the water below, but the only way to get to them is to descend the steep and slippery slope of the upturned bow. There's a rope ladder for people to cling to as they shuffle themselves down, but it takes time and it's hard work. Lose your grip and you'll slide into the sea. Pellegrini sees that the second officer is wearing only a shirt. It must be freezing. I've got both a jacket and a sweater on.

He says, let me give you one of them. No, no, says the young officer. I'm not feeling cold at all, but other passengers are. As they wait their turn on the rope ladder. Some people are clearly at risk of hypothermia. Pellegrini and the second officer wonder what they might do to help. They see the canvas cover of a life raft. They find a knife and cut lengths of canvas to

wrap around the shivering shoulders of those who are suffering most. Together, Pellegrini and the second officer help the remaining passengers off the ship, first to clamber over some metal railings, then to negotiate the rope ladder. By half past four in the morning, there's no one left to help, or no one they can see. I'm going down to check if anyone still trapped below, says the second officer. I'll come with you, says Pellegrini. They carefully make their way along

the floor that used to be a wall. They heave open door after door and shine a torch into the blackness. Is anyone down there knock on something? If you hear me? Door after door, only the sounds of splashing water come back. But nearly six in the morning, they finally come across some people, but they're not passengers in need of rescue. They're professional rescuers who've been helicoptered in. We'll take over from here, say the rescuers. You can leave the ship now.

The second officer starts to protest and mustn't leave the ship, he says, until I'm sure that no more passengers need help. The rescuers gently insist we'll take over. You've done enough. Look at yourself. The young second officer looks down. He sees how much his hands are shaking. He's still wearing only a shirt, and all of a sudden he does now feel the cold. He turns to Mario Pellegrini and asks,

does that offer of your sweater still stand. This script relied on a book by Mario Pellegrini and Sabrina Grammentierdi, on investigator's accounts of the incident, and contemporary reporting in outlets such as Vanity Fair. For a fullness of our sources, see the show not notes at Timharford dot com. Cautionary Tales is written by me Tim Harford with Andrew Wright. The show is produced by Alice Fines with Marilyn Rust the sound design and original music for the work of

Pascal Wise. Sarah Nix edited the script. Cautionary Tales features the voice talents of Ben Crowe, Melanie Guttridge, Stella Harford, Jemma Saunders and rufus Wright. The show wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Ryan Dilly, Greta Cohen, Eric Sandler, Carrie Brody, Christina Sullivan, Kira Posey and Owen Miller. Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. It's recorded

at Wardoor Studios in London by Tom Berry. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review. It doesn't really make a difference to us and if you want to hear the show ad free, sign up to Pushkin Plus on the show page on Apple Podcasts or at pushkin dot Fm, slash plus