In the wake of a spate of shark incidents along the NSW coast, many ocean swimmers are finding that the hardest part of swimming right now isn’t the conditions, the temperature, or even the headlines themselves.

It’s what happens in the space between reading the news and stepping into the water.

The ocean hasn’t fundamentally changed. Sharks have always been here. But the feeling of the ocean has shifted, and with it, the way many swimmers are negotiating their relationship with risk, confidence, and trust.

Around this idea, there’s a small, quietly powerful book that comes to mind, one many swimmers may not have come across before. Everything Is Teeth, by Evie Wyld and illustrated by Joe Sumner, isn’t a book about sharks in any conventional sense, but it offers an unusually clear lens for understanding what sharks come to represent for us.

The book explores fear, memory, trauma, and obsession, using sharks as a recurring presence rather than a literal threat. They appear as shapes, teeth, shadows, and thoughts. Sometimes they are animals. Often they are ideas. That distinction feels especially relevant for ocean swimmers right now.

Because for most swimmers, sharks are rarely encountered directly. Yet they occupy an outsized psychological space. One incident can ripple through weeks of swims, conversations, group chats, and internal debates. You know the statistics. You understand the context. And still, you scan the horizon differently. You hesitate. You choose a group instead of a solo swim. Or you don’t swim at all.

This isn’t weakness. It’s human.

Ocean swimming has always involved an unspoken agreement with uncertainty. We accept changing conditions, imperfect visibility, currents we can’t fully control. Sharks sit at the extreme edge of that uncertainty, highly unlikely, emotionally powerful, and deeply symbolic.

What Everything Is Teeth captures so well is that fear doesn’t live neatly in facts. It lives in stories. In childhood memories. In media cycles. In moments where something rare suddenly feels close and personal.

Right now, many swimmers are not just responding to events in the water, but to the accumulation of images, language, and anxiety around them. The ocean feels the same, but it doesn’t feel the same.

The book doesn’t suggest the answer is bravado or denial. It doesn’t frame the ocean as broken or dangerous. Instead, it quietly suggests that part of learning to live with the ocean is learning to recognise where fear actually resides.

The ocean contains sharks. That’s a fact.

But so do we.

We carry them as instinct, imagination, and survival wiring. As questions we ask ourselves before dawn. As the extra glance we take before committing to the swim. As the comfort we find in swimming together.

Understanding this doesn’t eliminate fear. But it can soften it. It allows space for honesty, for opting out without judgement, and for choosing organised swims, trusted groups, or quieter days when that’s what feels right.

For ocean swimmers, especially now, the conversation doesn’t need to be about pretending nothing has changed. It can be about acknowledging that sometimes the ocean feels different, and that navigating that feeling is as much part of the swim as the stroke itself.

Sharks are part of the ocean.

And the way we respond to them is part of being human in it.

More on this topic

Opinion | Sharks, risk, and why this conversation matters

Murray Cox on sharks, risk, and why fear isn’t always logical

From OceanFit: Sharks don’t need statistics. They need understanding.