Western Australia is the largest state in this huge country. It covers 33% of its area, but is home to only 8% of its population. There are fifty times more sheep than people and its capitol, Perth, is the most isolated major city in the world. Still, the usual offerings of terrible fast food, excellent coffee and friendly people provide for a cosmopolitan setting near some of the most beautiful beaches any city can offer.
I was walking along the main shopping street in Perth City with a few friends. It was on a Saturday in June. There were quite a few people around, sitting at cafes, and shuffling between stores. Halfway down the pedestrian-only street, I stopped. There was something wrong. I asked the others if they could hear anything. They couldn’t, and I immediately knew what was missing. There was hardly a sound. Here, in the middle of this oasis in a state of mostly nothing, no one was talking and there wasn’t any music. None of the cafes had atmosphere. The people sitting seemed to be whispering. Someone sneezed. I shushed them.
The afternoon we arrived in Perth, Michael and I drove straight to the beach in the popular and affluent area of Cottesloe. We hadn’t showered in a few days and, having come across the Nullaboor, were itching to have a swim. Parking alongside a café overlooking the coast, we walked down to the white sand beach. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. It was warm. This was the first time I had seen the enchanting turquoise of the Indian Ocean. I threw off my shirt and sandals and ran into the water.
I had briefly wondered why I couldn’t see anyone else in the ocean.
Upon splashdown, I was shocked. It was fucking cold. For some reason, I still had this vision of Australian beach culture centred around good surf, hot sand, and warm water. Not so in winter, I now know. Still, I swam around for a while, soaking up the much needed cleansing liquid.
Now I was thinking again. Cottesloe. That name rang a bell for some reason. A minute later, I exited rather quickly (although not so quickly that it was apparent to those watching from the café that I was actually trying to exit quickly). Two years ago, a surfer had been taken by a great white a few hundred metres from where I was splashing around. As in eaten. By a shark.
I’ve now met four people who have been bitten by sharks (that number is higher than normal, I feel, due to involvement in the dive community). I was once attacked by a school of dogfish (little sharks with the temperament and dentition of a puppy). While in Perth, I met Frank. He had been bitten by a small shark whilst surfing. At Cottesloe Beach.
I spent the rest of that sunny afternoon soaking up rays on the beach. I mean, what’s so great about the ocean anyway?
The afternoon we arrived in 
