The small town has an ancient and obscure history. The first historic people to inhabit the area may have been Samnites. They, in turn, left when the Greeks started to colonize the area in the 5th century BC. The whole coast was subject to centuries of raids by competing forces after the Roman Empire and did not become relatively stable until the end of the 800s when it came under the feudal protection of count Carafa di Spina among other members of the nobility who were gaining strength along the gulf of Policastro. Scario was and remains a fishing town, now augmented by tourism, but not enough to frighten you away, except in August. One of the reasons for that is that there is no real beach worthy of loud, sunbathing teenagers. What a shame. There is no night-life to speak of, either, again except in August. Most noisy people will head a bit down the coast to Policastro and then Sapri. No real roads go to Scario, either. No train stops there. Just boats. It's a sleepy port. And that's fine. (Like many small fishing ports, it has grown to accommodate the increase in Sunday-sailors, owners of pleasure craft. There are fewer full-time fishermen, but they have taken up their money slump a bit as port hands who help the Luigis from Naples, those who buy 6-gigaton motor launches and name them something vulgar such as Wet Dream— (yes, I really saw that one)— get into and out of their berths with minimum damage to port facilities and other boats. They remind you of the wonderful Neapolitan dialect expression, QUANN' 'O MARE E' CALMO, OGNI STRUNZ E' MARENARO (When the sea is calm every ass-hole is a sailor.") The real sailors don't need a lot of help.
A port is a delightful place to rest a soul weary of the struggles of life. The vast sky, the shifting architecture of the clouds, the changing colors of the sea, the twinkling of the lights —all a wondrous prism to amuse the eyes without ever tiring them.