In a development that should surprise absolutely no one who possesses more than a single functioning synapse, the ocean has once again reminded the residents of Australia that it is not, in fact, a giant, salt-water-scented swimming pool maintained for their personal leisure. We are currently witnessing the height of summer in the Southern Hemisphere, a time when the great unwashed masses of the Australian public—joined by a flock of equally deluded international tourists—descend upon the coastline. They do so with the inexplicable confidence of a species that has forgotten it is made entirely of soft tissue and bone, encased in nothing more protective than a layer of SPF 50 and a sense of unearned entitlement. Four shark attacks in forty-eight hours. It’s not a tragedy; it’s a statistical inevitability. It is nature’s way of saying, 'Get off my lawn.'

The response from the authorities has been the usual blend of performative panic and bureaucratic theater. Dozens of beaches have been shuttered, their golden sands now guarded by signs that suggest, quite optimistically, that a shark might respect a municipal ordinance. One must admire the sheer arrogance of the human animal. We have spent the last century poisoning the atmosphere, acidifying the oceans, and overfishing the very stocks these apex predators rely on, and yet we are genuinely shocked—outraged, even—when the local residents decide to sample the slow-moving, neoprene-wrapped buffet that has bobbed into their living room. Closing a beach because a shark was spotted is like closing a library because someone discovered a book. The shark belongs there; you, with your inflatable unicorn and your lack of a dorsal fin, do not.

Naturally, the political discourse surrounding these events is as predictably moronic as a lobbyist at a buffet. On one side, we have the performative environmentalists, clutching their crystals and weeping over the 'misunderstood' sharks, as if a Great White is just a Labrador with more teeth and a slightly more aggressive approach to mealtime. They ignore the reality that these creatures are efficient, prehistoric killing machines that do not care about your 'oneness with nature.' On the other side, we have the standard-issue reactionaries, the greedy mongrels of the Right who view any disruption to the tourism economy as an act of war. Their solution is always the same: cull them. Kill anything that threatens the quarterly profit margins of a surf shop or a beachfront gelato stand. It is the quintessential human response to any problem—if you can’t monetize it, or if it dares to bite back, destroy it.

Let us analyze the sheer absurdity of the 'beach closure.' It is an exercise in futility designed to make the public feel as though the government is actually capable of controlling a three-million-square-mile ecosystem. The ocean is not a controlled environment. It is a chaotic, ancient, and indifferent wilderness. To suggest that closing 'Beach A' makes 'Beach B' safe is the kind of logic usually reserved for toddlers or people who believe in trickle-down economics. The sharks are still there. They didn’t check the local government’s Twitter feed to see which zones were designated for 'safe recreation.' They are simply following 400 million years of instinct, while humans are following the latest trending hashtag. We have become a species so insulated by technology and comfort that we view the natural world as a backdrop for our selfies rather than a theater of survival.

There is a deeper, more pathetic irony at play here. Australia prides itself on its 'rugged' identity—a land of 'dangerous' creatures and 'tough' people. Yet, the moment the local wildlife acts according to its nature, the entire country retreats into a frenzy of safety protocols and news alerts. We want the aesthetic of danger without the actual risk of being digested. It is the ultimate manifestation of modern vapidity: we want to stand on the edge of the abyss, but only if there’s a sturdy guardrail and a gift shop nearby. The four individuals who encountered the business end of a shark this week are, in a way, the only ones having an authentic experience. The rest of us are just spectators in a dying world, complaining that the monsters in the water aren't following the script.

Ultimately, the closures will end, the signs will be taken down, and the sunburned hordes will return to the surf, convinced once again of their own supremacy. They will paddle out, hearts full of unearned confidence, while beneath them, the real owners of the planet continue to wait. We aren't the masters of this world; we are just the most annoying guests at the party. And if the sharks decide to thin the guest list by four every two days, who are we to complain about the service? In a world filled with hypocritical politicians, greedy corporate ghouls, and a public that couldn't find their own dignity with a map and a flashlight, the sharks are the only ones acting with any integrity. They're hungry, and you're made of meat. It’s the most honest interaction you’ll have all year.