I went to see a band from Brooklyn the night Heath Ledger died. A man, a long tall drink of water: wispy blonde hair, dark denimed legs and a baritone hippo voice was on stage dancing with his hands, making those melancholy songs jaunty and real. His legs and those of the guitaring brothers were shadowed on the wall of that great classical music hall.

In front of us boys sixteen if they were a day sat bobbing. Annie said the silhouettes of their dishevelled hair were impossible to tell from those of middle-aged women. I ate mints and concentrated on not coughing until I realised I didn't have to try any more.

A boy clasped the back of my bare neck with his hand as he passed me in the bar and was gone. It was that kind of night.

The next morning I felt as if I'd been to see a film. We'd all watched the protagonist walking through Brooklyn streets with a small child on his shoulders. We'd heard him talking through the side of his mouth. His head was racing like a pro.

The Shark in my Mind

Cottesloe as our own. New Year's Day. Barefoot across the road and onto the grass to watch the sky turn indigo red. The clouds of the day let the sun fall behind the perfect watery horizon. Everything is coated pink: The Blue Duck, my green toenails and the noisy OBH behind me. Freighters twinkle in the distance. How far off is their sunset?

People and dogs swim below and yet it's dusk. In my mind the shark lurks near them. The exact same one that snapped a man in half near the Duck. The foreigners are captivated and so am I. There's a Perth boy to my left and as we begin the banter about where you live, where you're from, who you know and why you're here, it's one of the first things he mentions. He worked at the Duck. That's why he's here. The restaurant close by. The man taken by a shark in shallow water. Reality and legend. 

Consequently the shark is everywhere in my mind. He trails behind the ferry on our way to Rottnest. He's a lightning fast swimmer, this shark. Then he's there, as we walk the sandy trails from white beach to beach, at each one. Of course we don't see him. That's not the point. He's there. At The Basin he sends a cohort to remind us. The Brits are tanning and they spot the fin first. Agitation. They begin to talk loudly about the sighting and word spreads, bobbing heads looking all in the same direction. Shark is the rhubarb of this beach-wide conversation until a leathery local says: it's a fucking dolphin. And then delight. 

He's there at night as we sit on the beach after dinner, finishing our red wine, talking about the waiter and watching boys in board shorts run and dive, run and dive, run and dive. He's there under the black silvertop, but he doesn't break the surface. Perhaps he's circling the barnacled pylon. 

Most of all he's there the next morning as I wade out among families. The water comes to my knees and I think he was out further, that man who got snapped in half. Then the swell comes in and the water is suddenly around my shoulders. He certainly wasn't in that deep. A kid bobs on a boogie board next to me and I think that I would have to grab that board and put it between me and the shark, if I could think that quickly. I doubt that. In the end I just float under the threatening sky, and try to make sure that there are always swimmers further out than me. He would come across them first. They would be sacrificed, this time in front of the Indiana Tea House, but perhaps no-one would even notice as the shark cut a devastating swathe through the swimmers before me. I get out of the water and watch from the beach, because someone has to be vigilant. Still nothing. Not showing himself. Smart. 

I climb the John Street hill towards breakfast.