Go Left
A humpback whale blew out its last breath, rolled over in the surf, gave up the ghost and died. The waves picked it up and washed it up on shore, where it lay stranded, half in and half out of the water. Word spread around the shark universe like a bushfire under water, and within minutes they turned up in their dozens, swirling around the bits of whale still in the water, attacking, biting, ripping off pieces of flesh, chewing; tails flogging the water, the sea boiling and heaving, the surf running red with the whale’s blood. It was a popular surf break. Immediately all beaches were closed ten kilometres north and south of the whale, while the local council scratched its head and set out working out a way to get rid of the carcass, and, hopefully, of the attendant sharks. Twelve hours later and twenty kilometres further south the Cork and I met in the dark below the moon. We are creatures of the night and only ever venture out under cover of darkness, preferably with assista