Ladybugs, Sharks

and rescue

“Realities are wrapped in such a veil (as it were) that several philosophers of distinction have thought them altogether beyond comprehension …”

¬ Marcus Aurelius Meditations, book 5, no. 10.

Out on the bay my friend Sonia and I paddle. Me on a yellow stand up paddleboard, her in a white and green sea kayak. We’re swift, easy with the tide as we slip into the deeper water of the channel. 

‘If it wasn’t so cold, we could be in the tropics,’ calls Sonia.

‘Yeah.’

I’m in a 4/3 wetsuit, the water’s a cool 14 degrees celsius. The estuary is aqua-blue glass. Sunlight ripples across the sandy bottom. It’s tempting to dive in despite the cold. My thoughts drift to the warm seas off the coast of northern Australia, and a strange story I read in an old newspaper:

In 1948, Henre Titse and his fellow diver are 10 fathoms down off Melville Island. The water’s murky from September rain, and though they’re careful, their movement disturbs grit and sand as they prise oysters from rocks. Kelp streamers surge and sway along the reef. They can’t see far, but Henre knows the dive-site. The reef stretches for a mile, and teams with life. The canvas oyster bag is nearly full. Henre’s glad of this. He’s spooked this morning, and can’t shake it off. He looks up again and again from his work to scan the water. He knows this slows them down.*

The next time Henre looks up, his heart explodes in a violent rhythm. There’s a massive groper swimming towards them, it’s enormous, as big as an army jeep.** Henre taps his diving partner’s shoulder, signals. The groper circles. 

Henre controls his breathing, releases pressure from the valve, the fizz of bubbles is enough to startle the enormous fish out of the attack vortex. It shivers along a wall of kelp, pauses, then surges at them both. Henre’s partner shunts the canvas bag of oysters at it. The groper grabs the bag in one wide gulp, and shakes it like a dog with prey. While the fish is distracted, Henre’s partner ascends.

Henre is transfixed, he can’t believe the size of the thing. He realises too late, as the groper swallows the last of the bag: he should have swum up too. Henre slips behind a thicket of kelp. Don’t move. The groper begins to circle again.

In the bay in 2024, a light wind tacks stitch lines across the surface. Sonia and I turn, paddle back against the current. I’m done with looking down. This is the part I look forward to: the exertion, the fight for movement. When I glance back, I see Sonia has fallen behind, she’s turning in slow arcs as she scoops and examines her paddle, scoops again. Her dark hair is in a tight ponytail, head bent towards the water, intent.

I spin the board and stroke back, until I’m within calling distance, ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, feathering the long paddle to stay in position.

‘Rescuing ladybugs.’

I look down, no ladybugs, only an under-drift of seaweed telling the direction of the current. I force myself to slow, intrigued actually, that we can stop, that there is no race.

The sun warms, the stitching wind cools. I eddy lazily, waiting for Sonia. Stare into the blue thinking of sharks and how I’ve never mastered my fear.

In 1948, Henre’s mind is a blank cave of nothing. Sand spins underneath the huge, accelerating fish. Should he close his eyes? He can’t. In his peripheral vision, a large shadow moves deeper in the kelp. No longer concerned about conserving oxygen, he takes rapid gulps of air. 

The second shadow is a massive tiger shark, its striped back slices through the water mimicking the flicker patterns of light over reef stones. Henre’s mind staggers into action, he readies the blunt oyster knife. He’ll go down with a fight.

Except. The tiger shark doesn’t come for him. Instead, it bunts the groper. The groper swoops, knocked out of its whirl. The tiger shark prods it again. Then the two huge fish begin to circle each other, matador and bull, or, no — it’s a dance. Incredible, the grace of these enormous creatures. Henre tears his eyes away with some regret, and kicks gently to the silhouette of the anchored boat. His partner, desperately scanning the water hauls him out.

‘Jeeze mate, you took your time.’

Henre grins, his face streams with salt water, ‘Man, you are not going to believe me.’

‘Let’s put them over there,’ Sonia says, indicating a sheltered stretch of sand, plump with marram grass and lupins.

‘Okay.’ 

It’s easier for me to get to the beach and walk than it is for Sonia to exit the kayak. So I unstrap the ankle-leash and step off. Without speaking, I pass my sunhat to Sonia. Carefully, she nudges each ladybug onto the blue cotton fabric. I wade to the beach. Slosh, slosh. The functional, zinc-smeared hat has become a velvet cushion.  

If the ladybugs are Henre, does that make Sonia the tiger shark, and me the bolting dive-buddy, or the anchored boat?

Lupin leaves are spread like fingers, each leaf-palm holds a bead of water in the centre from early rain. I nudge bugs to leaves, not knowing whether this is what they need, or if they can survive here. There is so much I don’t know. I do know: I’m steadied by Sonia’s kindness; by the way lupin leaves will catch just one bead of water, and hold a ladybug. I’m anchored by evidence of kindness, meant or miraculous, both work for me, lighting paths I can follow to create a history. 

The sunlight on the deck of Sonia’s kayak flares into art. 

The Tiger shark morphs into a being of limitless possibility.

There is something about trust and fear here I can’t quite grasp, it’s a kelp shadow I’m moving towards.

---

Fish Song

flecks of light stretch and bend
over scooped sand
tessellated and placed
palm next to palm
in the outgoing tide
seaweed parades
royal green ruched opulent
burgundy filagree balls

hands dip and stretch
skin like kelp pours
through kite trails of warmth
then cool, and all the time light
swallow flickers
in a rippled sky

a small green fish
moss-like, lichen patched
rests in a palm of sand
it sees me and stays
translucent fin tender 
as a film of mist
I hold my breath
it sings, it sings

when I stand, the fish song
has settled a soft hum
in my treasure chest
patient and unafraid

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I’m neither patient, nor unafraid. I wrote this poem a few years ago, and I still aspire to it. I’d be interested to know what you make of these stories.

Kirstie

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NOTES

*While the facts of Henre Titse’s story are true, my retelling here is fictionalised.

Here’s a link to the 1948 newspaper article: https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NA19480906.2.84

**I talked to a marine biologist about this story, and she said in those days gropers could be as big as cars.