Sharks Again

I'm sure you've all been hearing about the latest spate of shark attacks which I noticed made several bits of the UK media. I suppose it's not surprising given that the fatal attack on a young woman in waist-deep water off Hamilton Island on the east coast was quickly followed by the nibbling of a diver off the west coast.

They certainly generated a lot of coverage here, though despite the volume, certain aspects remained remarkably murky. Was the woman killed by one shark or three? Was she at a popular swimming spot or one that the locals studiously avoid? The latter is particularly important because avoiding certain places is reckoned to be a good way of avoiding sharks. Most attacks happen in the waters off the southern and western coasts. You should avoid anywhere where there are seals, lots of bait fish, murky water, and bathing or surfing at dusk or dawn.

Much of the media furore that followed the Queensland attack was due to the fact that we're in the silly season here in the height of summer and news is short. Not that I want to diminish what happened, which was clearly horrific, but the way the story was taken on was pure silly season stuff. The Shark Attack File maintained by the Taronga Zoo in Sydney has a more sober view of the subject.

I also read that box jelly fish have been responsible for something like 70 deaths in the last century but we don't hear so much about those. Equally horrible but not so box office. What would you call the film? Jelly? Tentacles? Doesn't have the same ring, does it?

Start As You Mean To Go On....

You’ll be glad to hear that I started the New Year as I mean to go on. At seven am on New Year’s Day, I was bobbing up and down on the Pacific Ocean, on my surf board, in the company of neighbours John and Liz. They’d called round for “a quick glass of wine” at seven on New Year’s Eve and left just after one am, when John said: “Liz, we’re all talking crap. It’s time to go to bed.” I really can’t remember what we are talking about myself, but I remember thinking he was right.

And that’s been the tone of the whole holiday period, really. The previous day, I’d been on the beach and bumped into Carl, another neighbour who is married to Ann, who is English but grew up in Bethesda (though she seems remarkably unscathed by the experience). Carl had bagged the pandanus palm, which offers unrivalled shade, and we were able to chat happily for a good hour while his daughter, Darius, and dog, Took, played in the waves.

On Monday, I’d just got back from a rather unsatisfactory surfing session (too windy, tide turning) and was rinsing off the salt under the garden shower, when John stuck his head over the fence and suggested a trip to Arrawarra, a fine surf beach to the north (sheltered from the southerly wind, see) and off we went. As I was paddling out, I recognised Ken, a California surfer-cum-steel erector and the partner of one of Sara’s colleagues, so paused for a while to talk.

The reason I mention all this is not to rub in the fact that most of our spare time is now spent on the beach, under glorious blue skies, swimming in, or surfing on, a clear blue sea. No, really, it’s not. It’s just that it struck me that even six months ago none of this wandering about and bumping into people we know would have happened and yet I have no idea when the turning point came, if there was one at all. You settle into a new life imperceptibly, I think.

Oh yes, and on Christmas Eve a pod of ten dolphins glided past me as I waited for a wave. An early present.