In a development that has left marine biologists, trauma surgeons and satirists alike in a state of collective whiplash, the survivor of Sydney’s most recent celebrity shark attack has regained consciousness. The man, identified only as ‘Lucky’ by the tabloids, reportedly opened his eyes, saw a Royal Navy officer standing at the foot of his hospital bed, and promptly asked for the sedatives to be turned back on.
Let us pause to admire the beautiful, terrible absurdity of this moment. A man who has just had a close-quarters theological discussion with the ocean’s most efficient eating machine is now being offered ‘maritime safety expertise’ from a navy whose primary contribution to Australian waters is the occasional ceremonial cannon fire and a historically shaky grasp of which hemisphere they’re in. The Royal Navy, I remind you, is the organisation that once confused a pod of whales for a Russian submarine and spent six hours trying to hail it on the radio. Their idea of safety expertise is knowing which end of the boat the rum comes out of.
The attack itself was a masterpiece of tabloid fiction. The surfer, a 30-year-old man who had reportedly consumed two flat whites and a quinoa salad before paddling out, was bitten on the leg by a creature that the press immediately dubbed ‘Bruce’ and described as “a 14-foot great white with a grudge”. The shark, for its part, appeared to be acting in accordance with millennia of instinct, which is more than can be said for the government response.
But no. The real story, the one that makes me want to mainline gin directly into my frontal lobe, is the Royal Navy’s sudden and inexplicable interest in Australian maritime safety. This is the same navy that, just last year, had to abandon a training exercise because a seagull ate their navigational charts. This is the navy whose flagship was once delayed for three days because the captain couldn’t find a parking spot. And now they are here, in Sydney, with PowerPoint presentations and laminated leaflets, ready to teach Australians how not to be eaten by fish.
One can only imagine the briefing. “Right, chaps. The colonials are having a bit of trouble with the local sea life. We need to project an image of competence. Wotzit: sharks. I propose a diagram. First, draw a circle. That’s the shark. Now draw a smaller circle. That’s the surfboard. Now draw a line pointing away from the shark. That’s the solution. Any questions? No? Excellent. Gin o’clock.”
Meanwhile, the actual survivor lies in a hospital bed, his leg stitched back together with what looks suspiciously like fishing line, being lectured by a man in a uniform that hasn’t been relevant since 1805. I imagine the conversation went something like this:
“Good afternoon sir. I’m Lieutenant Commander Reginald Bottomley of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. I’m here to offer you our maritime safety expertise.”
The survivor, still groggy from anaesthesia, squints. “Did you just say ‘maritime safety expertise’?”
“Yes sir. We’ve prepared a series of flashcards. First: do not get into the water if you are bleeding. Second: do not wear shiny jewellery. Third: do not impersonate a seal. Fourth: if attacked, punch the shark on the nose.”
“I was attacked by a great white shark,” says the survivor. “It bit my leg off and then spat it out because it didn’t like the taste of quinoa. What part of ‘punch it on the nose’ is supposed to help?”
The lieutenant commander pauses. “It’s in the manual, sir. Page seven. ‘Defensive techniques against larger marine predators.’”
“And you’ve tested this? Against actual sharks?”
“Well, no. But it works on dolphins.”
This is the state of our world. A man who has just been chewed by a prehistoric eating machine is being subjected to safety advice from an institution that still thinks the answer to most problems is ‘more cannon’. And the really tragic part is that the survivor, in his moment of lucid agony, probably realised that he would rather be back in the shark’s mouth than listening to one more word from the Royal Navy.
So here is my advice, free of charge, to anyone who finds themselves considering a career as a shark attack survivor. First: avoid sharks. Second: avoid the Royal Navy. And third: if you must become a headline, do so in a country that doesn’t have a colonial hangover and a navy staffed by men who think ‘GPS’ stands for ‘God’s Pointing System’.
As for the Royal Navy’s ‘maritime safety expertise’, I would suggest they start by learning how to read a map, then move on to not getting lost in the English Channel, and then, perhaps, they can come back and teach us how to not get eaten. But by then, the sharks will have evolved into jet-powered accountants, and we’ll all have bigger problems.
