“What the hell is going on False Bay?”

“What the hell is going on False Bay?”

First it was whale watching; with clutches of binoculared cetacean lovers backing up the traffic on Boyes Drive, waxing lyrical over blubber and spyhopping. Now it’s Shark spotting, complete with Smartphones, HD YouTube video feeds and webcams mere metres from the shoreline. I’m watching this feeding frenzy of a digital kind in a state of utter confusion. You might ask why; well I’m perplexed that in a mere 10 years the number of shark encounters in False Bay has increased with such alarming regularity.

Despite the impeccable scientific method of local Shark fundi Alison Kock, I am not convinced that the recent behaviour of our cartilaginous friends is quite normal, and no cause for concern. We’ve all heard those Shark attack stats that cite lightning strikes, mangled car wrecks and malevolent toasters, and those territorial tales of becoming a link in the marine food chain every time we paddle out. As surfers, these cautionary notes have been long since filed and entered into the psyche of the sport.

I’ve spent the past 30 years in the surf zone of False Bay, surfing , paddling, or bobbing about at the backline like a human crouton. I’ve experienced a countless variety of conditions from howling North West gales, pea soup South East mush burgers to those sublime kelp glass days that are few and far between. From my 80s heydays of mid-winter Cemetery and the Berg, to classic cover-ups at Dangers and mutated wedges at Clovelly. Add to that the rare days when Fish Hoek or spots like Glencairn Reef would come to life, yet I have never seen a shark, nor have the many friends I have surfed, paddled, skurfed or fished with.

I’m utterly mystified by this and everyone from Sharkspotters to experts seem to be regurgitating the same processed response; that the increased activity is part of the natural predatory behavior of Carcharodon carcharias. My reply has become increasingly skeptical when I hear, “Hey guys, it’s normal for this time of the year” or “Great Whites have been doing just this for millennia”. Well, if that’s the case where have all the sharks been on the countless clear days that I have surfed these very spots, or sat contemplating my existence while watching the ocean from Boyes Drive? I consider myself a fairly observant and situationally aware individual, so surely I would have encountered, or at least observed a Great White from afar by now? Was I just blissfully unaware of my precarious predicament, or was it mere benevolence on the part of my maker?

I’m bewildered and perplexed by the benign response of everyone. All this scientific evidence just doesn’t add up. What has transpired in the past decade to change the status quo of the 70s, 80s and 90s? Are we paying for the sins of our fathers? Is this a precursor to a complete collapse of the marine ecosystem, a harbinger of things to come, where huge schools of Snoek “go Pirhana” on grannies taking a dip in ankle deep water?

Something or someone has pulled the trigger, but no seems to be “stepping up to the plate” to deal with this issue head on. The Sharkspotting programme has been a massive success and is to be lauded and supported. They should be receiving huge amounts from that fiendishly subtle taxation system on the poor called the National Lottery. There’s no doubt that the Sharkspotting programme has saved countless lives, but in essence they are merely monitoring the symptoms of a bigger issue, and let’s be honest, the merest puff of a Southerly or South Easter puts a huge dent in their efficacy.

So here’s a list of possible causes or triggers:
- The proliferation of Shark Cage Diving outfits and Shark related eco-tourism.
- The protection of Great White Sharks by Law
- The depletion of fish stocks in False Bay
- The increase of recreational water users
- An increase or decrease of the Cape Fur Seal population in False Bay
- An increase in the number of Great White Sharks
- Changes in the predatory territories

To follow, here’s a spine-chilling list of attacks complied by Dave Elsworth of Kommetjie in a recent letter to the Cape Times. Take note of the dates!

2002 – Paul Major, surfski, Sunnycove
2004 – JP Andrew, surfing, Muizenberg Corner
2004 – Tyna Webb, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2005 – Trevor Wright, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Lyle Maasdorp, surfski, Sunnycove
2006 – Achmat Hassiem, swimming, Muizenberg (rivermouth area)
2006 – Richard Whitaker, surfing, Danger Beach
2010 – Lloyd Skinner, swimming, Fish Hoek (Sunnycove side of the beach)
2011 – Michael Cohen, swimming, Clovelly

I’m no Marine Biologist, Animal Behaviourist or Shark expert but in my opinion it’s time to tackle this issue in another manner. And no, I’m not talking shotguns, gaffs, and nets either. The waters of False Bay is the lifeblood of surf schools, surf shops, paddlers, surfers, kiters, divers, swimmers, Lifesaving competitions and many other recreational activities. What are viable alternatives in the interest of co-existence? Stay out of the water, hell no! What about Sharkshields? Yes, Sharkshields are very effective but prohibitively expensive for most although I do believe a possible solution could well stem from a similar form of technology. We all need to put our heads together, and a find workable solution – SA style!

For now the question remains; “What the hell is going on False Bay?”, and at the very least there’s a movie lurking beneath the surface of all this mayhem.

At the Back

At the back every salty bead culminates in
the hollow slap of board against water,
and the lesser tap of polyurethane against fibreglass.

My leash is suspended,
in the last gun metal hours of daylight,
tethering leg and thoughts to one final wave,
before the scratch of each stroke grows to an ache
and joints seize like a wasted engine.

Every molecule is laced by the offshore,
even my thoughts of you at the evening stove,
are soaked by the darkest of blues at the back.

Beta Beach, Bakoven

Placed between the last fragments of day and shadow
are minutes marked by the exhaling
of a final breath of light,
weighted at the edges
by atoms of gold and copper
that infuse the horizon
to a shiver of orange and blue.

Detail melts to animated silhouettes of black card,
cormorants, dogs and flirting couples
joined to sand and rock
in a ballet of unfathomable colour.

West Coast Surf

Slug slow tendrils
of mist cancel out the peaks,
footprints crumble from
the tent with it’s rummage
of sleeping bags and surfing mags.

The car is spread in deltas of dew,
stranded at that point
where bush becomes beach.
The incongruous slam of a door
followed by the clearing of a throat -
it scares the gulls.

Beyond the muslin,
the sea breaths in metronomic crashes,
exhaling into the immensity,
reminding us why we are here,
toes curled in sand cold as crushed glass,
anticipating those first needles of water,
seeking out the gaps between skin and neoprene.

A pair of Oyster Catchers dash for cover,
as the shorebreak detonates in a blast of sand and shell,
larger patches of water now float in the fog,
and the sun has become a yellow button in the east,
burning the bite away.

We shake the night out of our wetsuits,
and unsheath the boards,
then the frenzied flap and one-footed tug of rubber
on a damp towel in the sand.

Laughter, happy curses and running headlong into
a wall of West Coast mist.

Tube

So elusive
you’ve become Heroin for some,
These days it’s become easy to avoid
my average bones and strung muscles,
me bobbing, taking water
like a holed bath toy,
above this vast pitch of dusted green.

Swells graze acned reefs of red-bait,
or mow head-on into sandbanks,
infused with littoral energy,
born in a pile-up of isobars
in the Roaring Forties.

Soaring through mercury,
fused to fibreglass by wax
crouched as fingertips taste speed,
All is quiet as a lake for Icarus at sea,
and then the ocean folds into a blur of spray,
and she holds you like a lover,
inside a mosaic of ecstasy,
breathless,
as the world dims to an almond.

Come June
and cold fronts that look like coils of razor wire,
Conrad would have paddled out too,
forsaking Lord Jim and Nostromo
for these few fractions in the tube.