Broken Head, just south of Byron, was three to four foot with a clean, south swell skipping the point and marching down the beach. It looked a little too straight for the banks, but after three days of eating dust, drinking cheap alcohol and shouldering through crowds at the Splendour in the Grass music festival, my mates and I were craving a saltwater rinse.
Like everyone in Australia I was well aware that for, still unexplained reasons, the north Coast of NSW had become shark HQ. In addition to reading all the press and observing a Tracks colleague make a mini doco’ about the issue, I’d also heard dozens more stories filter through the Tracks office. Needless to say, I was definitely ‘hyper-conscious’ of what I might be sharing the lineup with.
After paddling out I initially stuck to the assumed safety of the pack, happily joining in the zealous raid on closeout pits. However, eventually I tired of the beatings and spied what looked to be empty, tapering walls down the beach. Curiosity won the internal debate and I began drifting north – alone. The sun was out, the water an enticing, transparent green and the waves had the suggestion of turning on. It all felt so right, particularly given the sweep was running north anyway.
Then it happened.
The tide pushed in just enough to transform whomping straight-handers into hollow corners with clear exit signs. It was pumping and despite the fact I was in front of a rivermouth and a hundred yards North of the nearest surfer, I felt I had no choice but to keep chasing the miracle bank that had just manifested.
It was interesting to watch how quickly the dreaminess of the setting melted my fears away. In my wave-altered state even the school of fish that darted through the unbroken swells looked like something from a Disney movie as opposed to shark snacks. Enraptured by the empty barrels and zippering walls I couldn't get out the back fast enough. Eventually I found myself shouting to my mates to join me down the beach. True, I sought the false sense of security their presence may have brought, but more than anything I wanted them to experience the magic little bank I’d stumbled across.
Eventually we were all forced in.
There was a flight to catch and other people to pick up.I didn’t feel like I’d had my quota and as I stood on the beach watching barrels spin down the line unridden, I cursed the world, the clock and the people who were relying on us. Had there been no time pressure I knew I would have surfed until my arms refused to ferry me back to the lineup – sharks be damned. I guess the point I’m making is that if the waves are firing it’s easy for the pleasure-seeker within to dismiss any fears we may have about the men in grey suits. Irrespective of how much rational information you have about the risks of an attack, we’re all capable of falling victim to wave-lust.
Perhaps there was no real risk at all that morning, but the next day a big Great White was sighted at Clarkes beach to the north and a surfers was bumped at Ballina, to the south. I’ll never really know what was swimming around just beyond the idyllic bank I lucked in to.
Franklin D Roosevelt once said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.” This statement seems particularly relevant when we discuss sharks. What we hate most is not so much the creature we rarely see but the fear we experience as a result of the sharp-toothed lurkers. Sharks are like the terrorists of the animal kingdom. They may not pose any real threat most of the time, but they only need the odd random attack to make the fear spread. Perhaps what scares me most, however, is the fact that if the conditions are right I might not be afraid at all.
