It seems the Mediterranean has finally managed to produce something more terrifying than a British tourist with an all-inclusive wristband and a bad sunburn. Reports confirm a Great White shark has been sighted off the coast of Spain, sending the usual wave of panic through holidaymakers who believe the sea is a sort of aquatic theme park designed for their amusement. Let us be clear: the shark is not lost.
It is not confused. It is precisely where it ought to be, which is more than can be said for the average tourist who cannot locate the hotel beach without a GPS. The Great White, dear reader, is a reminder that nature does not care for your holiday plans.
We have spent centuries taming the wilderness, building concrete jungles and air-conditioned resorts, only to scream when a creature of the deep reminds us that we are, in fact, edible. This is a phenomenon I call the 'Decadence of Denial': we have sanitised our world to such an extent that any brush with genuine peril is treated as a cosmic injustice. Consider the typical reaction: 'But I paid for a safe vacation!
' As if the shark consulted TripAdvisor before deciding on its hunting grounds. The Victorians, for all their prudishness, understood that nature was a force to be respected, not placated with sunscreen and travel insurance. They would have faced such news with a stiff upper lip and perhaps a note in the diary: 'Great White sighted.
Carried on regardless.' Instead, we have headlines urging British tourists to 'stay vigilant' as if the shark is a pickpocket or a nuisance neighbour. Let us not forget that the Mediterranean was once the cradle of civilisation, teeming with mythical monsters and real dangers.
The Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans did not issue warnings; they offered sacrifices to Poseidon and sailed on. We, in our infinite wisdom, offer only selfies and complaints to the tour operator. There is something profoundly revealing about this panic.
It speaks to a deeper anxiety: the realisation that our control is an illusion. The Great White is a symbol of the untamed, the unpredictable, the genuinely Other. It does not respect borders, Brexit, or your right to a relaxing getaway.
And that is precisely why we should welcome it. Not literally, of course; I am not suggesting we invite the creature to tea. But we should welcome the reminder that the world is still wild, still dangerous, still capable of humbling us.
The decline of the Roman Empire, as Gibbon noted, was accompanied by a softness of character, a reliance on comfort over courage. Are we not seeing the same? A single shark sighting prompts headlines that would have been reserved for a declaration of war a century ago.
I blame the internet, but that is another column. So, to the British tourists currently scanning the horizon with trembling hands, I offer this: the shark does not care about your holiday. It does not care about your sun lounger or your cocktail.
It is simply being a shark. And if we are wise, we will let it be a lesson. Fear is healthy.
Panic is not. The Mediterranean has given us a gift: a chance to remember that we are not the masters of all we survey. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a appointment with a fish and chip shop.
The cod, at least, knows its place.
