I read every report of the attack (the whole town had clippings). Like most “It’s still bloody out there, big as a station wagon!” locals, he planned on staying out of the surf for a month. Zed’ was rational with his theories, but still clearly spooked. “I’m one of the accepted spokesmen for the hierarchy,” he explained. What was agreed to speak to me, provided I didn’t use his name, or take his photo. The surf was doing? Back in Penong, I fronted a local surfer/businessman who empty still, the sweep of beach devoid of all humanity. At dawn, the Commodore skimmed across salt plains. “Kill every fucking shark!” snorted a truckie. Pictured is Creed McTaggart shooting for the Tracks Wanderlust series. Despite the constant fear of Great White’s, surfers continue to risk it in South Oz for waves like this. Greg, and a few other locals, haven’t surfed since. A great white bit off the boy’s leg and he bled to death on the way to Ceduna Hospital. In 1975, one of Greg’s grommet mates, Wade Shippard, swam out to meet a fishing boat at Port Sinclair. “I used to surf,” admitted the publican, Greg Warrington. ![]() The sole bloke with all his front teeth intact was staying overnight, en route on a solo ultralight flight from Geraldton to his home town, Kingston. Yet I met only non-surfing locals of all hues. ![]() So we wouldn’t want to rile them.” Back at the pub I had a few beers and a countery, fearing confrontation at any moment. “The locals have left us alone,” explained one, “other than warning us not to take any photos of the surf, and the odd weird stare. The Lorne guys didn’t want to have their photos taken (no-one in Cactus did). They’re just dumb fish!” “I’m lucky because I haven’t got much imagination,” said his mate. They can’t learn tricks or remember things like dogs. “Yeah, we’ve been surfing this morning,” said one. Because of my rented Commodore, they thought I was an undercover cop. I fronted three Lorne locals drinking beers. The camp was mostly deserted, but for a few scattered feral tents and two German women on a horror pilgrimage in a sparkling campervan with an annex. Despite the brisk onshore, there were waves. I checked the surf – right where Cameron Bayes was taken. Still, I was hoping and half-assuming the locals would be pleased at all the tourist-deterring publicity but as happens with assumptions, I wasn’t even warm. ![]() Now here I was with a room out the back of the Penong Hotel that couldn’t be easier for a lynch mob to locate – just get pissed and turn left at the beer garden. They have scared off marauding surf media trips to the point where most surf journalists I know won’t even visit relatives in Adelaide. The Cactus locals are renowned as the most paranoid and protective in the land. “If the locals want to talk, they’ll find you soon enough.” “Thanks.” I’d just been reminded how much I didn’t want this assignment – part because of my shark phobia, part the vampiric nature of tracking down the grieving, but mostly because of the location of the first attack. Tributes have poured through for local school teacher Simon Baccanello, who is believed to have been killed in a shark attack at Walkers Rock Beach on Saturday morning l /DRmnputc0Q- 10 News First Adelaide May 14, 2023īelow is a feature from Tracks Issue no.363 (Dec, 2000), where Tracks writer DC Green travelled to South Oz to see how the community was coping in the aftermath of a shark attack.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |