In a development that has stunned absolutely no one with a rudimentary understanding of the food chain, the residents of Sydney are currently in a state of pearl-clutching hysteria because the ocean—a vast, dark, terrifying void filled with monsters—is behaving exactly like the ocean. According to reports that the BBC has breathlessly compiled, there have been four shark attacks in a mere 48 hours along Australia’s New South Wales coast. The collective reaction from the land-dwelling bipeds who insist on frolicking in the sharks' living room can be summarized in two words that represent the absolute pinnacle of human intellectual analysis: “Really scary.”

It is truly a marvel of modern journalism that the BBC felt compelled to send reporters out into the streets to confirm whether getting chewed on by a prehistoric killing machine is considered a positive or negative experience. One can only imagine the rigor of the investigative process. Did they expect a surfer, bleeding from a fresh nibble, to look into the camera and declare that the adrenaline rush was better than a double-shot espresso? The consensus, apparently, is that nature red in tooth and claw is “scary.” This is the level of discourse we are operating on. We have paved over the planet, temperature-controlled our environments, and sanitized our existence to such a degree that when biology actually happens, we treat it like a customer service violation at a resort.

Let us look at the facts, stripped of the weeping and the sensationalism. Four attacks in two days. Is it a tragedy for the individuals involved? I suppose, in the way that sticking your hand in a blender is a tragedy for your fingers. But let’s not pretend this is an anomaly. The Great White Shark and its jagged-toothed cousins have been patrolling these waters for roughly 400 million years. They survived the extinction event that wiped out the dinosaurs. They have perfected the art of killing with an efficiency that makes the military-industrial complex look like a start-up run by toddlers. And yet, every time a shark does what a shark is genetically programmed to do, humanity acts as if a binding contract has been breached.

There is a specific, pungent arrogance to the Sydney reaction. This is Australia, a continent famous for being entirely populated by organisms designed to liquidate human life. You have spiders the size of dinner plates, snakes that can kill a horse with a glare, and jellyfish that are essentially floating nerve gas. Australians usually wear this danger as a badge of honor, a rugged signifier that they are tougher than the soft, pampered Westerners in Europe or America. But the moment the ocean decides to participate in the carnage, the rugged facade crumbles into breathless interviews about how “frightening” it is to go for a swim. Here is a radical proposition: if you do not want to be eaten by a shark, do not enter the aquatic Thunderdome where the shark lives. It is really that simple.

But no, the modern human cannot accept boundaries. We view the ocean not as a wilderness to be respected, but as an extension of our leisure infrastructure. It is a blue gym, a selfie backdrop, a place to wash off the stench of our own mediocrity. We overfish the sharks' food supply, we heat up the water until the coral bleaches white, and we pollute their currents with microplastics. When the starving, confused predators venture closer to shore and take a bite out of a soft, slow-moving mammal thrashing around on a fiberglass board, we call it a “monster” and demand action. The politicians will inevitably get involved, proposing nets, culls, or drone surveillance, burning taxpayer money to solve a problem that is entirely self-inflicted.

The cynicism of the situation is compounded by the inevitability of the cycle. The media will milk the “Jaws” narrative for a week, terrifying tourists and giving locals something to gossip about over their avocado toast. Then, boredom will set in. The sharks will continue to swim, indifferent to our moral outrage. The humans will return to the water, convinced that their statistical likelihood of safety is a divine right. And I will be here, watching from a safe, dry distance, rooting for the fish. In a world of performative politics and digital brain rot, there is something refreshingly honest about a shark attack. It is one of the few interactions left on Earth that cannot be spun, branded, or filtered. It is just nature, reminding us that despite our skyscrapers and our smartphones, we are still just meat.