the shark net man.
Every morning he comes along in his dinghy to check the shark net.
The shark net is a curtain of steel rings, which start about three meters below the surface, all the way down to the deep. The buoys holding them up are just visible.
Swimming over the sharknet is a terrifying thing, a psychological boundary crossed.
Sharks can swim right over or under it too, and get themselves caught in the rings, which is awful, because they die.
Two years ago, there was a dead shark in the net, and its friend was circling round and round on the surface. The surf club chased it away in the boat, and pulled out the dead one.
A colony of bronze whalers lives inside this sharknet: I have seen them, they have seen me.
A pod of dolphins cross it to fish and play.
If the sharknet man stops his boat, I know there must be something trapped. He calls the trawler over, and together they haul it up. I try to see, but they are too small, really. I see the shark net man looking down and the trawler either pass or stop.
It has just turned Autumn.
When daylight saving ends, they will pack the nets away. For six months, it will be all clear to the open sea.
