it’s almost funny how quickly the town’s mood shifts. the same folks who fret over a few missing millimetres of rain, who keep tabs on which way the breeze is blowing over their morning toast, are now deep in the drama of a bloated whale washing up on west beach. the day before, it was all, “bit of a southerly coming in, should keep the temps down,” but now? it’s a full-blown shark documentary playing out in real time.
a carcass rolls ashore, and suddenly, every idle chat about the next storm front is swapped for whispers of dorsal fins and drone sightings. honestly, if i had a coin for every time someone mentioned “dead whale” or “shark feeding,” i’d have enough to buy two of the three overpriced coffees i bought today. call it my mental health fund—a little treat for keeping sane while the town spins into its latest frenzy.
the media eats it up, amplifying every toothy silhouette, every splash of a fin, turning the whole thing into a horror show. it’s all about keeping that tension in the air as if the beach itself might just reach out and grab you. tourists clutch their towels a little tighter, eyes fixed on the water as if they expect a great white to waltz right up and order a cappuccino.
they push it like it’s the end of days as if each wave is a reminder that the ocean has a score to settle. but the irony hangs heavy, like the stench of that rotting whale no one can ignore.
while we’re wrapped up in this morbid fascination, the real struggles stay tucked in the shadows. isolation hits harder than any rogue wave, but you won’t see that on the evening news. no one’s zooming in on the folks who feel like they’re sinking, even when the beaches are clear of fins.
they’d rather turn west beach into a battlefield, and paint the town as some dangerous outpost where sharks are as close as the next high tide. but the real predators aren’t in the water—they’re spinning the story, chumming the waters with fear, letting the realities of everyday life slip away with the tide.
accessibility? mental health? that doesn’t sell airtime. but show a fin, talk about danger, and suddenly, it’s a story. they can’t wait to slap a label on esperance, to define it by these big, scary moments, like we’re some backwater town living in terror of the ocean’s next move. but the great whites have always been here, and so has the beauty of this place, the untouched beaches, and the rhythm of the sea. the dead whale, the sharks—they’re part of the landscape, just like us.
maybe it’s time to shift focus back to the stuff that matters, the things that won’t wash away with the next tide.