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After nearly a year’s break, I started ocean swimming again this May, delighting in the clarity of the water and the quieter beaches of Sydney’s winter. I’d stopped because of an injury but then found that the longer I was out of the water the harder it was to get back in.
It only took that first return swim, however, to remember the absolute euphoria of winter ocean swimming. Part of it is the cold water, how alive it makes you feel, and part is the wildness of it: seeing the variety of underwater marine life, the distant spray of a migratory whale. It is utterly different from swimming laps in a pool.
My local swimming beach is Coogee and I go with friends who are far better swimmers. I don my flippers and we swim out along the southern edge to the outer periphery of Wylie’s Baths then across the length of the bay and back. It is a beautiful and invigorating way to exercise. I try not to think about sharks but we all know that this is their territory.
I was far from the ocean on Saturday when the news came about local Coogee mum and teacher Leah Stewart, 35, who was attacked by a suspected great white shark in the middle of the day, while swimming between the flags at Coogee. My immediate reaction was devastation for her and her family. She has had an arm amputated and will require further surgeries.
Two years ago, I wrote that I was less afraid of sharks in the ocean than unknown men, since the risk of a shark attack is far lower than the risk of sexual assault to the average woman. But since Saturday’s tragedy my fear of sharks has changed. Do the benefits of ocean swimming still outweigh the risks? Should I ignore my amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for fear, fight, flight or freeze?
The latest incident is different from previous shark attacks. Stewart was swimming on a sunny day, between the flags, with others in the crystal-clear flat water. It was easier to say, before, how slim the chances are. Now I feel as though that pretence of safety I convinced myself of has been shattered.
One of the things I love about ocean swimming is the unknown – what I will see, how clear the water will be, the temperature of the water – every single time it is a different experience. I am certain that some of the euphoria of ocean swimming comes from the risk involved. At what point is that risk too high?
Any time we enter the ocean we are in the shark’s environment, their domain, and we ought to be the ones taking precautions. My 19-year-old daughter is currently hiking the John Muir Trail in northern California with her father. There are bears but they minimise the chance of encounter by storing their food in the bear canister which every hiker is required to carry. I’m not going to put myself in a canister to swim but I would feel more comfortable knowing more beaches – particularly between the flags – are patrolled by drones, that more sharks are tagged and tracked. I don’t support shark nets, since they entangle, suffocate and kill sharks as well as dolphins, rays, turtles and whales, which is why they are removed for whale migration season.
Tony Abbott said on social media it was “so wrong that we don’t cull sharks after attacks” but calls for shark culls are kneejerk reactions and marine biologists have already dismissed them as more dangerous and unlikely to mitigate any risk.
The great white is an apex predator and a protected species – their survival is crucial to the health of our oceans. Great white sharks cover vast ranges to feed, mate and seek out specific water temperatures. Their mere existence, their speed and size, are awe-inspiring. Do I want to encounter one up close? Of course not, but if I swam in a place where there was no risk it would be a profoundly different experience.
Wild nature is so rare in our lives; there is very little that makes us feel insignificant and small. Sharks do. The very fact that I might encounter one is terrifying and thrilling. And, still, very slim.
Just tell that to my amygdala.
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