By Andre Slade – Owner, Ocean Swims and OceanFit

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Back in January, following the tragic series of shark incidents in Sydney, I wrote an editorial titled Be Careful What You Wish For: Eyes in the Sky. At the time, drones were rapidly becoming the centrepiece of the NSW Government’s response, and while I could see the benefits they offered, I couldn’t help wondering whether we’d really thought through what they might change beyond simply spotting more sharks.

Six months later, I still find myself coming back to that question.

To be clear, this isn’t an argument against drone surveillance. I understand why governments invest in it, why beach safety organisations embrace it and why many beachgoers welcome it. Used well, drones are another tool available to those responsible for keeping our beaches safe. They can provide information, assist decision making and, in some situations, allow beaches to be cleared before a potentially dangerous encounter occurs.

But I don’t think that’s the whole story.

The discussion over the past six months has understandably centred on whether drones help detect sharks. Far less attention has been given to what constant surveillance does to the people using the ocean. Not physically, but psychologically. In all the announcements, media coverage and discussion around expanding the program, I haven’t seen much consideration given to how permanently placing sharks into the consciousness of ocean users might itself change our relationship with the water.

After any tragedy there is enormous pressure to act. Politicians want to reassure communities. The public expects something to change. Nobody wants to be accused of doing nothing. In those moments, it’s understandable that practical solutions are sought quickly, and on the surface drone surveillance appears to be exactly that.

In announcing the latest expansion of the NSW Shark Management Program, Premier Chris Minns said, “We know people love getting out to our beaches, and they should feel confident doing it.”

I couldn’t agree more.

He also acknowledged that “no one can ever promise no shark interactions,” before explaining that the investment was about “putting more eyes in the sky so we can spot sharks earlier” and that “more drones in the air means we’re getting a better picture of what’s happening offshore and it means we’ll get better at seeing them.”

It’s that last sentence that I keep coming back to.

We are getting better at seeing them.

That is undoubtedly true.

But getting better at seeing sharks isn’t necessarily the same as making the ocean significantly safer. Nor does it automatically mean the level of risk has increased. It may simply mean we’ve become far better at observing something that has always existed but largely went unnoticed.

For decades, sharks have swum along our coastline without anyone knowing they were there. Today, we have technology capable of detecting many of them, recording them and sharing those images almost instantly. The sharks haven’t necessarily changed. Our visibility of them has.

The problem is that our brains don’t always distinguish between increased observation and increased danger.

As ocean swimmers, we’ve always understood there are risks associated with swimming in the ocean. Currents, surf, weather, marine life and yes, sharks, have always been part of the equation. We don’t pretend otherwise. We simply place those risks in context, make sensible decisions and enjoy the ocean for what it is.

In fact, I’d argue that for many people, the fact the ocean isn’t entirely predictable is part of its attraction. It’s wild. It demands respect. It reminds us that we’re visitors in a natural environment rather than participants in a controlled one.

That’s very different from fear.

Before this summer, shark incidents understandably occupied our thoughts for a period after they occurred. We reflected on them, we exercised a little more caution and, over time, we returned to our normal relationship with the ocean. The risk hadn’t disappeared, but neither had it taken over our thinking.

Today, I’m not sure we get that opportunity anymore.

Every scroll through social media seems capable of producing another drone video of a shark. Another beach closure. Another dramatic headline. Another aerial image showing just how close a shark came to swimmers. Official organisations share footage because it’s relevant. Amateur drone operators share footage because people watch it. Media organisations know shark stories attract attention. Social media algorithms quickly learn what keeps us engaged and simply give us more of it.

The result is that sharks now occupy far more space in our minds than they probably ever have.

One statistic in particular caught my attention recently. Surf Life Saving NSW CEO Steve Pearce said the UAV surveillance program had “identified and prevented over 2,000 sharks interacting with swimmers and surfers” during the year.

It’s certainly an impressive number.

But it also left me wondering what it actually means.

What constitutes an interaction? Is it any shark observed in the vicinity of swimmers? A precautionary beach evacuation? A shark swimming hundreds of metres offshore? A shark that would almost certainly have passed unnoticed had a drone not been overhead? Or is it a shark genuinely on course to come into close proximity with people?

Without understanding the methodology behind the figure, it’s difficult to know exactly what we’re measuring.

More importantly, it’s difficult to know what the public hears.

For many readers, “2,000 interactions prevented” could easily be interpreted as 2,000 dangerous encounters avoided. They aren’t necessarily the same thing. A shark being present isn’t, by itself, evidence that people were in danger. Nor is observing more sharks necessarily evidence that the ocean has become more dangerous than it was before.

This isn’t about questioning the integrity of the statistic. It’s about recognising that the way statistics are communicated shapes public perception just as much as the numbers themselves.

That raises another question that I don’t think has received enough attention.

How are we measuring the success of these programs?

Is success simply the number of sharks detected? The number of precautionary beach closures? The number of drone flights?

Or should we also be asking how regular ocean users now feel about entering the water? Whether participation has changed? Whether anxiety has increased? Whether people who once found peace in the ocean now find themselves thinking about sharks before every swim because they’ve spent the previous week watching shark footage on their phones?

Those questions are much harder to answer.

Perhaps that’s why they rarely seem to be asked.

One thing that has surprised me throughout this discussion is how little engagement there appears to have been with the people who spend the most time in the ocean. Ocean swimmers, surfers, paddlers and divers experience the ocean differently from someone who visits the beach a few times each summer. They are the people most exposed to the cumulative effect of constant shark messaging, yet I haven’t seen much evidence that their perspectives have formed part of the broader conversation.

Earlier this year I wrote to Surf Life Saving NSW CEO Steve Pearce and members of his senior leadership team. I wasn’t writing to criticise the drone program or question the commitment of the people involved. My question was much simpler than that.

What consideration had been given to the psychological impact of constant drone surveillance and shark messaging on regular ocean users?

I never received a response.

Perhaps that work has been done and I simply haven’t seen it. I genuinely hope that’s the case because I think it’s an important question.

I often explain my thinking through a much smaller example.

At OceanFit, participants are welcome to wear a shark deterrent band if it gives them confidence. That’s their decision, and I have absolutely no issue with it. But I also have one simple rule. You’re welcome to wear it, but you don’t have the right to make someone else think about it.

The reason is simple. The person standing next to you may not have been thinking about sharks at all. The moment you point to your wrist and explain why you’re wearing the band, you’ve introduced a thought into their mind that wasn’t there a moment earlier. You’ve transferred your concern into someone else’s experience without them asking for it.

I’ve often wondered whether, on a much larger scale, we’re now doing exactly the same thing.

None of this is an argument against drones. None of it is an argument for pretending sharks don’t exist or that the risks of swimming in the ocean aren’t real. They are, and they always have been.

My question is a different one.

In a world where drones cannot eliminate the risk of shark interactions, and where nobody can promise that beaches will ever be completely safe, are we comfortable with the trade-off we’ve made? Are we happy for sharks to become a constant feature of our daily lives, our social media feeds and our thinking, even if the actual level of risk hasn’t changed very much at all?

Perhaps the answer is yes.

Perhaps that’s a price worth paying.

But if we’re going to reshape the way millions of Australians experience the ocean, shouldn’t we at least have that conversation first?

Because while we’ve become very good at putting more eyes in the sky, I’m not convinced we’ve spent enough time thinking about what happens when we put more sharks into our heads.

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