The Guardians of Crescent Cove

Uncle El was a man shaped by the sea.

He stood at the mouth of Crescent Cove, breathing in the briny air and contemplating the contours of the shoreline. The inlet had acquired a lilac hue in the gentle morning sun, the calm waves lapping against the sand.

‘Now, wasn’t this view worth the early start?’ Uncle El said, turning to face his half-asleep nephew.

‘Nice,’ Lachlan grumbled. ‘Can I go back now?’

‘Absolutely not.’ Uncle El knelt in the sand and shrugged off his rucksack. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’

‘I’d still prefer another hour of sleep.’

‘So would the tourists.’ Uncle El unzipped his rucksack and handed Lachlan snorkelling gear and a pair of flippers with a wink.

Lachlan looked away. He still felt shy around his uncle, a stranger who was at once both recognisable and familiar. With long, blonde hair and skin tanned to leather, Uncle El bore little resemblance to his late father. Only similar mannerisms affirmed their brotherhood; the relaxed cadence of his voice, his easy laughter.

‘I’ve come here nearly every morning for over twenty years,’ Uncle El said, retrieving a moleskin journal from his bag and turning to a blank page. ‘I’ll come here for twenty more, if God permits. There’s a certain magic in having a whole beach to yourself.’

Good for you, Lachlan thought derisively. He would’ve said the words aloud, had he felt more comfortable around his uncle. He struggled to get out of bed on a normal day, and the thought of spending his entire summer rising before dawn made him stew with resentment. He had never wanted to come to Queensland in the first place; he was already counting down the days until his return to Sydney.

Uncle El surveyed the cloudless sky. He looked thoughtful as he scribbled notes with a blunt pencil.

‘What is it you wanted to show me?’ Lachlan asked.

A shadow passed his uncle’s face, but his expression remained guarded as he snapped the book closed. ‘Your mother told me you were a strong swimmer. Follow me.’

They pulled on their wetsuits and waded into the ocean. In the shallow water, Lachlan lunged awkwardly behind his uncle, his movement hindered by the flippers. The water eventually deepened; Lachlan secured his snorkel and mask and dove in.

He couldn’t remember the last time he went swimming. As his body temperature adjusted to the chill, he was bolstered by an unexpected surge of energy. He felt good. Happy, even. Swimming had always offered Lachlan a special kind of freedom. His body moved in a streamlined arc through the crystal water. Following his uncle, he occasionally dove to the sea floor, picking up shells and spinning around to watch the waves curl over his head.

After several minutes of swimming, his uncle began treading water.

‘We’re here,’ Uncle El said. ‘Are you alright?’

Lachlan peered at the string of yellow floats that bobbed on the serrated waves before him. ‘Am I supposed to be seeing something?’

‘The shark net starts here,’ Uncle El said. ‘On a good day, there’ll be nothing to see.’

Lachlan thought he’d misheard. ‘Shark net?’

Uncle El grasped Lachlan’s wrist and dove under the surface. A net descended into the murky depths of the water, undulating with the currents of the ocean. The meshing was torn in places and crusted with algae. It cleaved the ocean in two distinct boundaries; the safe human space beside the uncontained vastness of the sea.

Lachlan kicked his way back to the surface. ‘That net looks like it needs replacing...Can we turn back now?’

‘Only once we’ve checked it. Call me if you see something.’ Uncle El disappeared with a splash.

‘What? What am I meant to be looking for!?’

Lachlan continued treading water, peering into the ocean. His uncle methodically surveyed the net. He swam towards a large clump of seaweed, prising it from the net and tossing it over his shoulder.

Lachlan was considering returning to shore, when his uncle burst through the skin of the water. ‘Over here! Come quickly!’

Lachlan hesitated, before diving beneath the surface and following his uncle’s lead.

A juvenile hammerhead shark lay entangled in the net, ensnared by the broad blades of its head. The meshing had sliced into his denticles, the bleeding welts suggesting a struggle. At first glance, Lachlan thought the creature was dead. But as Uncle El approached the hammerhead shark, it twitched in fear.

Despite his trepidation, Lachlan felt pity for the despondent animal, exhausted and helpless.

Uncle El withdrew a penknife from his wetsuit and came up for air. He promptly returned to the hammerhead and began cutting away at the net, eventually pushing the shark free.

The disorientated creature floated aimlessly. For a tense few moments, Lachlan feared it would drift back into the meshing. But the injured shark managed to manoeuvre itself, turning around and slowly meandering away into the ocean.

Lachlan rose to the surface and gasped for air. ‘That was brilliant!’ he said, beaming. ‘I’ve never seen a shark up close like that - are you ever afraid it’s going to -’

Lachlan’s voice caught at the sober expression on his uncle’s face. ‘He was in poor shape, Lachlan. I’ve released him but there’s no guarantee he’s going to survive.’

Lachlan blinked. ‘You don’t know that.’

Uncle El turned away. Lachlan was suddenly reminded of his uncle’s former words. I’ve come here nearly every morning for over twenty years. I’ll come here for twenty more, if God permits.

Uncle El dove underneath the surface and swam lengthways across the shark net. Lachlan followed him, drifting to the seafloor and fingering the holes that mottled the ageing mesh. His uncle had created each one of these holes, destroying the shark nets that had been erected for public safety. Realisation sunk in; his uncle’s journal, his insistence that they set out before dawn.

‘Just how many of these sharks have you saved?’ Lachlan asked.

‘It’s not just sharks.’ His uncle’s expression was grim. ‘But now is not the time. Everything else looks clear; let’s return to the cove before anyone sees.’

Lachlan’s strength was starting to fade as they reached the shallow waters. He ripped off his flippers and stumbled onto the beach. Uncle El emerged from the ocean a few moments later. For the first time that day, he made no attempt at conversation.

Lachlan watched as his uncle peeled off his wetsuit and towelled himself dry. ‘The hammerhead may not survive, but at least you gave it a chance,’ he offered tentatively.

‘Perhaps.’ Uncle El lifted his gaze to the first beachgoers, a middle-aged couple taking a stroll across the beach. The balmy humidity forecast a hot day ahead; soon tourists would be arriving in droves.

Uncle El retrieved the moleskin journal from his rucksack and added a new entry: Hammerhead shark. Juvenile. Alive but injured. Released. He wordlessly passed the book to his nephew.

Lachlan scanned through the list of dates and animals; dolphins, gropers, grey nurse sharks, turtles, hammerheads, several species of stingrays.

Deceased. Injured. Deceased. Deceased. Injured.

‘But most of these aren’t sharks,’ Lachlan said.

‘And the sharks on that list aren’t even dangerous,’ Uncle El said, taking the book from his nephew’s hands. ‘Most marine life trapped in those nets are non-target species. They suffer so pricks visiting from Sydney can enjoy a day at the beach.’ A pause. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Lachlan said.

‘There’s something you learn when living in a place like this. The windows of my home look out to sea, and I fall asleep each night listening to the ocean. You become humbled.’ Lachlan got the sense that Uncle El had been wanting to talk about this for some time, but had been waiting for an opportune moment. ‘We cull sharks not for what they do, but for what they may do. I hope you can understand that distinction.’

Lachlan nodded. Shark culling had always been a contentious issue in Sydney. There’d been recent conservation efforts; changing the term “shark attack” into “shark bite”, replacing lethal drumlines with drones. But this modern technology was only used in Sydney’s most popular beaches. It would take some time for such technology to be brought to such a quiet cove, if ever. Until then, a simple net would suffice.

‘But people care about the ocean,’ Lachlan said. ‘If they knew about the number of turtles and dolphins being inadvertently killed -’

‘Their fear of sharks is greater. State governments cull these animals out of a warped sense of duty to “protect” the public. But they conveniently ignore the studies proving shark nets to be ineffective. Destruction of marine life aside, those nets don’t always work at their given purpose.’

‘Then why keep using them?’

Uncle El shrugged. ‘Get rid of the shark nets, and maybe tourists would be more reluctant to visit these beaches. Economic and political interests always come before ecological concerns.’

There was a lengthy silence as a pair of gulls wheeled overhead. The image of the helpless hammerhead shark turned in Lachlan’s mind. He thought about the hundreds of shark nets across Australia, trapped marine life suffering without people like Uncle El to look out for them.

Lachlan suddenly felt a rush of pride for his uncle. Uncle El was a man shaped by the sea; there was much Lachlan could learn from him. For the first time this summer, he looked forward to the days ahead.

They packed up their belongings and began the walk home.