CAPE TOWN’S UNDER WONDER

The first time I see a spotted gully shark, I chase it. I take a shallow, hungry breath, do a messy duck dive and plunge into the kelp, finning furiously after the large grey shape. One quick flick of its tail and it’s gone. Back on the surface I’m yabbering and making squeaking noises. My more experienced dive buddies are silent and possibly grimacing.

A few weeks later, I come across a short-tail stingray in the same bay. I chase after that too, clutching a borrowed GoPro, trying to keep up with the ray, which flies like a war machine above the sand and disappears. I chase pyjama sharks, red romans, seals, octopus… I hunt with my camera, thrashing through the kelp, panting on the surface, my eyes too quick, my cold fingers growing numb.

I’m such a wally.

Now, four years later, things have thankfully slowed down. Like meditation, freediving is an evolving practice. It requires a strange and constant