Sharks, the Sea and Me

By Rodney Fox

My life has been seven-tenths water, Rodney Fox tells us in his extraordinary story. Attacked and almost killed by a great white shark in 1963, spearfishing champion and insurance salesman Rodney Fox's life was changed. He overcame his fears and returned to the sea, determined to make his living there. In 1964, he built the first shark cages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wakefield Press Pty Ltd
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781743052631

Book preview

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Wakefield Press

1 The Parade West

Kent Town

South Australia 5067

www.wakefieldpress.com.au

First published 2013

This edition published 2014

Copyright © Rodney Fox, 2013

All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced without written permission. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

Some of these many adventures may be a little out of sequence and a couple of names have been changed or forgotten.

Except where indicated, all photos credited to Rodney and Andrew Fox Collection.

Edited by Julia Beaven, Wakefield Press

Cover designed by Liz Nicholson, designBITE

Shark image used in text by Rodney Fox, adapted by Liz Nicholson

Suba diver, seaweed and blue sea background used in text © sabri deniz kizil, Shutterstock.com 

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author:  Fox, Rodney, 1940–    , author.

Title:  Sharks, the sea and me / Rodney Fox.

ISBN:  978 1 74305 263 1 (ebook: epub).

Subjects:

Fox, Rodney, 1940–    .

Conservationists – Australia – Biography.

Shark attacks – Australia.

Sharks – Australia.

Dewey Number:  597.340994

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: Death at Victor Harbor

Chapter 2: Octopus Club

Chapter 3: Two Horrific Attacks

Chapter 4: Spearfishing Champion

Chapter 5: Attacked by a Great White Shark

Chapter 6: Return to the Sea

Chapter 7: Powerhead

Chapter 8: Noumea

Chapter 9: The First Shark Cage

Chapter 10: Abalone Adventures

Chapter 11: Sharks and Abs

Chapter 12: Blue Water White Death

Chapter 13: Jaws: Hollywood in South Australia

Chapter 14: Mysteries of the Sea

Chapter 15: Caged in Fear

Chapter 16: Shark Cage to the Sea Floor

Chapter 17: The Christian Bach—and Fluffy

Chapter 18: Underwater Eden

Chapter 19: National Geographic Shark Expeditions

Chapter 20: First Voyage of the Christian Bach

Chapter 21: Under Arrest

Chapter 22: Piccaninnie Ponds

Chapter 23: Last Voyage of the Christian Bach

Chapter 24: Hammerhead

Chapter 25: Deadly Chain Mail

Chapter 26: Expedition to the North-west

Chapter 27: Whale Sharks at Ningaloo Reef

Chapter 28: Kimberley Adventures

Chapter 29: Meg Fever

Chapter 30: Reunion

Chapter 31: The Fox Shark Research Foundation

Chapter 32: Super Teachers

Chapter 33: Eye to eye

Extras

Sharks still need our help

Shark-spotting

Awards

Films and documentaries

Acknowledgements

Plates

Preface

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I have always been drawn to the water’s edge and beyond to go beachcombing, boating and diving. When I got my first goggles and flippers at 13, I was amazed at the sight of so many species of fish. I was soon spearfishing each weekend, honing my hunter-gatherer instincts. Fish were plentiful and I brought home many delicious meals of fish, lobsters and scallops to feed our family of seven.

Sharks, the Sea and Me recalls the events and highlights that shaped my life, in particular how a terrifying chance encounter with a great white shark influenced almost everything that came afterwards. Many of my adventures occurred when I was diving for abalone or leading shark expeditions for filmmakers, photo­graphers, journalists and tourists. From the National Geographic Society to Disney, Universal Studios, Discovery Channel and IMAX—they all want exciting close-up action, big teeth and jaws. But each film crew demands a fresh approach, new ideas to try, and when working with big sharks in the wild, strange and unexpected things are bound to happen.

Some of the activities that occurred in the early days are not considered above-board today, but have been written as they happened at the time. There was a saying: ‘The best shark is a dead shark.’ Now sharks are better understood and represented by passionate conservation groups, some inspired by the films and articles I have been part of. I do not dwell on the science, biology and research of our Fox Shark Research Foundation—that is for another book—but on elements that led to my understanding and desire to help the sharks.

Of course, sharks are not the whole of my journey. Mine has been a fulfilling, eventful life, shared with much help, love and understanding from my wife Kay and our three children Andrew, Lenore and Darren.

Chapter 1

Death at Victor Harbor

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The sea conditions were far from what we’d hoped for. The big ocean swell rolling into the bay crashed noisily onto the beach, building up a bank of brown seaweed. The day before, strong south-westerly winds had made the water dirty—really poor visibility for spearfishing. The cold wind, now easing, had left the water sloppy and confused, not much good for anything.

Feeling dejected, Des, Bruce and I leant on Des Folland’s catamaran at the boat ramp at Victor Harbor. It was mid-morning on Easter Friday, 1962. We had planned this trip for weeks, looking forward to some wonderful spearfishing and diving over the four-day Easter break. My lovely girlfriend Kay and I had hired a four-berth caravan with my good mate and diving buddy Bruce Farley and his wife Colleen. We expected to catch and eat lots of fish. I was a happy and fit 21-year-old, and felt wonderful. This was the first time Kay’s mother had allowed her to go away with me and sleep in the same room—on condition we had single beds and shared with a married couple. I was excited, as there was a small chance I could progress to a bit more than just a kiss and cuddle. Kay had been my serious girlfriend for three years; she was a good Catholic girl and the love of my life.

As Bruce, Des and I looked out to sea, a police car drove down the boat ramp, dodging large mounds of seaweed. Two policemen climbed out and one asked, ‘Are you divers?’

‘We’re spearfishermen,’ I said. ‘Skindivers. We dive holding our breaths.’

He explained that five fishermen had been washed off the rocks by a king wave on nearby Wright Island. Two scrambled out and two swam to the lee of the island, but one was still missing. Would we help? We gingerly agreed, thinking this was not a good start to our holiday.

We quickly pulled on our wetsuits and put our masks, snorkels, fins and weights into the three-metre boat. Bruce and Des pushed and juggled the boat through the breaking surf and, motor running, gunned it out through the waves. I parked the car and trailer then swam out to join the boat waiting at the back of the break. We made our way up and over the two-metre swells to the island, where fishing boats were combing the sloppy seas. One came closer and a man pointed to a huge, sloping granite rock.

‘They were fishing from up there when they were washed off,’ he yelled.

I looked up to see people on top of the little island with binoculars, searching the water. A huge swell broke over the rocky shore. Green and white water raced three to four metres up the rocks and rolled back down again, causing a rough cross wave. Des drove the cat to about 25 metres off the rocks and yelled ‘I can’t go any closer than this!’ Bruce and I put on our masks and fins and jumped in. The water was cold but my wetsuit soon warmed up and gave some comfort. I cleared my face mask and saw the underwater visibility was about two to three metres, a little clearer than expected. All I could see in the surging water were seaweed pieces swirling around as if in a washing machine. I took several big breaths, upended, and headed down. After descending for some time with no bottom in sight, I stopped and levelled out. It was too deep.

I swam swiftly up towards the light and a few seconds later, broke surface. Breathing deeply, I aimed for shallower water nearer the island. Starting a search pattern, I swam along the rocky bottom amid the surging kelp and seaweed. In the back of my mind, I had a real fear of death. I had never been to a funeral. I hoped I wouldn’t find the fisherman’s body. Bruce told me later he had the same thoughts.

Out a bit deeper, the bottom was covered with huge round granite boulders, some with waving arms of kelp attached. Small fish darted about, but for the first time I wasn’t interested in fish. I saw Bruce swimming on the surface closer to the island, and made for him. He pointed down into a large crevice and I swam over to look. Lying along the bottom were three or four fishing rods in about three to four metres of water. So this was the spot, I thought, just then feeling the suction of an ocean swell. I took a deep breath, dived, and grabbed hold of a big rock as a huge swell went surging overhead. My ears ached under water suddenly two metres deeper. Bruce was closer to the shore and not so lucky; the big wave washed him up the big sloping rock.

As I surfaced for air, I saw him hanging sideways seven metres up the rocks, mask and fins still on. The huge wave had receded and he was grasping for a hold, trying to stop himself crashing back down into the crazy surf and rocks below. Heart in mouth, I finned into deeper, safer water away from the surge. Bruce was still stuck on the granite slope. I thought he might escape by scrambling higher, beyond the reach of the next wave. But when the next big swell came he stood up and launched himself over the foamy white water into the thick green water. Riding the receding wave down away from the rocks, he finned as fast as he could to escape the danger zone. After he swam out to me and signalled he was OK, we headed to deeper water. Later he said he was so shocked to find himself washed onto the rocks that he didn’t have time to think about what he was doing.

We resumed the search separately—it was too hard staying together in the dirty water. About three metres underwater, I started to see the tops of big round boulders. I swam down another four to five metres between these giant rocks, levelling out when I could see the bottom, and into the darker crevices. The kelp and seaweed waved and a few fish darted about in the gloom. A large moving shape at the edge of my visibility took my full attention. I finned closer, thinking it might be another diver looking for the lost fisherman. Then I saw the figure wore shorts, shirt and sandshoes.

It had to be the fisherman, and he had to be dead. He was about seven metres under and had been in the water over three hours. The realisation struck me hard. I wanted to escape to the surface to breathe, but knew I probably wouldn’t see him again in such bad vis and rough seas. It was near the end of my dive time; I could stay underwater for about a minute at a time, but felt I should get him out as soon as possible. He was face down with legs slightly bent, as if he was looking under a ledge. Approaching him, I became confused. I’d never seen a dead body before, much less touched one. The idea filled me with dread. How should I hold him? I grabbed one of his ankles, far away from his face and eyes, the gateway to his soul. Later I realised that if I’d thought he was alive I would have held him differently, by the hand or shoulder.

My fear gave me extra strength to swim the body upwards. Nearing the surface, I decided bringing him up this way was disrespectful, so I turned him around and held him by the shoulders, face to face. Immediately I wished I hadn’t—his eyes were still open and fish, probably leatherjackets, had eaten parts of his nose and ear. With my arms around him and needing air, the last three metres were the most difficult with the surging water bumping us together. We burst through the surface, buffeted by the sloppy seas. I waved my hand to attract attention. A fishing boat arrived and they dragged the dead fisherman into the boat. Des’s boat came by and, exhausted, I swam over and climbed aboard. This event had put quite a damper on our holiday plans and, with continued bad weather forecast, we decided to pack up and drive home.

About eight months later, fellow dive-club member Fred Weston told me someone badly wanted to meet me. ‘You’ll be surprised,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m not gonna tell you who it is.’ He picked me up from work at lunchtime, parked in front of a big city building and led me inside. A pretty girl at reception smiled and put out her hand as Fred introduced us. ‘Rodney, this is Barbara.’

Keeping hold of my hand, Barbara said, ‘I just wanted to personally thank you very much for finding my husband when he was drowned last Easter.’ I was taken aback and it must have showed on my face. ‘It’s OK now,’ she continued. ‘I’ve learned to live with it. We were on our honeymoon, you know. I hadn’t known him long.’

Months later I was in the city when a girl with a baby in a pusher stopped right in front of me. ‘Remember me?’ Barbara said. ‘You pulled my husband out of the water at Victor Harbor.’ I looked at her, quite surprised, then glanced into the pusher at the small toddler. ‘No, it’s not his,’ she said. ‘I got married again.’

Chapter 2

Octopus Club

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I was born in Adelaide on 9 November 1940, and my hunter-gatherer instincts were strong from an early age. In my boyhood I’d often shoot wild rabbits with a .22 rifle and catch fish with my spear gun, all welcomed and cooked with pleasure by my mother and father. My spearfishing had its first big boost when I was 15½ years old, the day I took my first date, Helen, to the pictures. Afterwards she invited me spearfishing with a few friends who were talking about starting a club.

Early the next morning I rode my bicycle ten kilometres to Adelaide railway station, my hand spear tied along the bar. My flippers and goggles were in a bag on my back, along with the old woollen jumper I wore diving—these were the days before we had wetsuits. Shrunken and matted as thick as felt through use in the water, it gave a tight fit that kept me warmer.

At 8 am I was picked up in a very exciting car, a 4WD Land Rover. The owner-driver was Des Folland and we were off to Victor Harbor, 100 kilometres away. To me it was like going to the moon! There were four boys and Helen; I think she only invited me along to make her old boyfriend jealous.

I put on my woollen jumper and joined the others in the water by the Bluff. I didn’t know the area and swam for 15 to 20 minutes over seaweed beds looking for a reef and fish. Spotting only a couple of very small fish, nothing edible, I thought I’d gone in the wrong direction, but then I came across a long-set fishing net with a large Australian salmon in it—about three kilos, a big beautiful fish. It was caught by just one gill and had almost freed itself. I speared it in the head, killing it instantly and stuffed it inside my jumper. I speared a small magpie perch on the way back, and by the time I got ashore the boys had a fire going. I nonchalantly dropped both fish on the ground with my gear, and stood by the fire to warm up. They were very impressed; my fish was the biggest by far. I became good friends with Des and the other boys, and a few months later we formed the Octopus Spearfishing Club.

Not too long after leaving high school I got a job with Bill Clifton, a boat builder who made wooden-planked clinker speedboats and fitted them with hotted-up motors. Sometimes he invited me to try them out at Snowdon’s Beach in the Port River. Bill built a big swimming pool in front of his boat shed and opened it to the public. Local kids flocked there, and quite a few times I had to drop my dolly or sanding block and run to dive in, fully clothed, to pull out some kid who had jumped off the diving board and got into trouble in the water.

I’d helped swimmers in trouble before. Once at Grange Beach when I was about 11, I heard a younger boy struggling out of his depth near the jetty. He grabbed me in panic and, arms and legs clawing wildly, climbed on top of my shoulders and head, forcing me underwater. When my feet touched sand I found the water was less than a metre over my head so I grabbed his hips and shoved him upwards; when his head and chest were clear of the water he stopped struggling so much. His weight pushing down helped me to step towards a nearby lone pylon with a cross rail extending at water level. Bursting for air, I took two more steps underwater and thrust him towards the rail. He grasped it and climbed on. I also hung on the rail, gasping for breath. I couldn’t help him anymore and, still frightened, I paddled into the shallows and ran up the beach looking for my mum. I didn’t tell her what happened, as I wasn’t allowed to go that deep. Later, I felt quite proud of how I reacted under difficult conditions, although I often wondered how that little boy got back to shore.

I really learned to swim properly—both at and under the surface—in a big round concrete market garden storage tank owned by our neighbours, the Jamisons. My father bought a seven-acre block on North East Road, Klemzig, in Adelaide, with enough room to plant vegetables—Mum’s family had always been market gardeners. Over a couple of years, Dad built our house from Mount Gambier stone, cut from fossil coral reef. Meanwhile our family of seven all lived in a big tin shed on site, which Dad made from cheap black corrugated iron. Dad painted the iron with a mixture of tar and silver paint, giving it a strange, streaky black and silver colour. It was cold in winter and hot in summer. I vividly remember arguing with Mum one summer day when she wanted me to rake the bedroom floor. It was gravel with a few small carpets placed where we stepped in and out of bed. We always wore slippers or shoes as the gravel was sharp. ‘But, Mum,’ I said, ‘it’s 90 degrees. You said I could go swimming anytime it’s 90 degrees. Bruce is waiting for me.’

Mum reluctantly gave in. Bruce Jamison was my age and his mother had similar rules. Their concrete tank was two metres deep and the water wasn’t too clear, as our swimming and diving stirred up the few inches of dirt on the bottom. We would spend hours chasing each other around, just like water rats, and we’d compete to see how many times we could swim backwards and ­forwards underwater.

Growing in a big paddock next door were watermelons and rock melons. When they were ripe we would sneak in, select a beauty each and throw them into the pool to cool, bobbing on the surface while we swam. Afterwards we’d smash them down on the end of a piece of tin, breaking them open, and tear out pieces of sweet flesh with our fingers, gorging ourselves. It was such a feast. We then had to have another swim to wash the sticky juice from our skin.

By my late teens I was very fit and a good snorkeller, training and diving ­regularly with Octopus Club members Bruce Farley and Brian Rodger. Two or three times a month we went to different beaches, exploring the reefs in our woollen jumpers. It was a while before neoprene wetsuits became available, allowing us to snorkel for hours without getting cold. Scuba (self-contained underwater breathing apparatus) took even longer to arrive. The first time I saw scuba gear was one summer Sunday at Port Noarlunga, when I was 18. A wealthy diver from the Lone Sharks Club had bought it while on holiday in Italy, and a few of us snorkellers went out on the jetty to watch him breathe underwater. He wore khaki overalls for protection and warmth, a tank on his back and a twin-hose mouthpiece around his neck. Everyone looked on with interest.

‘What’s he doing, Daddy?’ a little girl asked her father.

‘I don’t know, dear,’ the man replied. ‘I think he’s going to paint the reef.’

Port Noarlunga’s long jetty ran out to a stone reef parallel to the beach, forming a wonderful protected fishing and snorkelling area. As the scuba diver travelled six to ten metres deep along the reef, we snorkelled with him. I found I was much more active without a heavy tank and thought I saw as much as he did. Scuba equipment was very expensive and almost impossible to get back then; it would be many years before it became easily obtainable and popular.

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It seems my wife Kay has always been a part of my life and adventures. We met at a Christmas party not long after I turned 17. She immediately took my eye: tall, fresh and curvy, and wearing a pretty dress. When the time came to partner up and play games, I quickly claimed her and asked her name. We formed two teams for a contest in passing an orange from chin to chin. Kay was first in our team and, at the command go, put the orange under her chin. I put both arms around her and thrust my chin forward to pin the orange. It gave her such a start she dropped the orange, which lobbed between her breasts and my chest. Keen to win—and holding her tight so the orange wouldn’t slip lower—I tried to secure the orange under my chin. After several attempts with my face thrust in her bosom, I succeeded and passed it to the chin of the next girl. I can’t remember which team won, but I’ll never forget our introduction!

We didn’t meet again for a few months, when the football season was underway the following winter. I played Australian Rules for the Gaza club with her brothers Bob and Jim; she asked them what I was like and must have had an acceptable reply. After the game I came out of the changing sheds to see an athletic girl, arms outstretched, balancing on the fence around the playing field. It was Kay, there with a couple of her friends. When we were alone, I asked if she would come with me to Bullen’s Circus on Saturday. I didn’t own a car so we had to walk a fair way and catch two buses to get there. Inside the big tent I put my arm around her and we sat almost cuddling. I was acutely aware of her soft warm body close to mine. Afterwards at Kay’s front door I put both arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. She didn’t pull away. We kissed! A real kiss, not one like one you give your auntie. I was so thrilled I ran all the way home.

Kay was a member of the National Catholic Girls’ Movement Athletics Club. A naturally good all-rounder, even without much training, she was placing in long and high jump, javelin and sprints. A no-fuss girl and a lover of the outdoors she readily took to the beach life and was a great partner for me.

Soon we were seeing each other two nights a week, but on Fridays I’d go out with Dennis Burman and another friend, Alan Nicholas. The three of us often went to Norwood Town Hall, dancing rock’n’roll to Elvis Presley’s Blue Suede Shoes, Little Richard’s Tutti Frutti and Bill Haley’s Rock Around The Clock. The music was infectious; I would dance until I nearly dropped, building up stamina and strength with no pain—it was better than any gym. Bands would usually play two or three sets of rock’n’roll, then slow the pace, turning the lights low so you could cuddle your girl on the dance floor.

All the girls sat on chairs around the edge of the hall while the boys stood by the door, eyeing them off and occasionally walking outside for a smoke. When the music started, the boys would rush casually to ask a girl to dance. I had made a good choice and was thinking, This girl is a great dance partner, I must find out more about her. When the slow music came on, the lights went down and we cuddled, taking a few steps now and again to look like we were dancing. She pressed in closer and whispered something in my ear. It took a moment to sink in. It’s something that I’ve never forgotten, something I’ve been waiting to see come up in a film, joke or a book.

‘Plug me in and I’ll electrocute you,’ she whispered.

Lightning flashed between my stomach and my loins. My face tingled as blood ran to my head. What have I got here? Between short fast breaths, my mind kept saying, You’re too fast for me!

I would have loved to play with her boobs. But until then, all the girls I’d met had brilliantly defended their virtue, keeping even their boobs under wraps. Their mothers would have been proud. This one’s far too advanced for me, I thought—she must be what the boys called a ‘hot one’. I said nothing, just kept dancing and, when the music stopped, walked her back to her seat, thanked her, then quickly retreated to mingle with the boys by the door. I didn’t dance again for the rest of the night.

Christmas 1959 I went on a two-week camping holiday 650 kilometres away at Coffin Bay. Dennis Burman drove Alan Nicholas and me in his car. We planned to swim, dive and spearfish every day, shoot kangaroos and rabbits and generally live off the land. But after a few days I missed Kay and realised how special she was to me. I didn’t want to be away from her and went to all sorts of trouble to get back home early, finally catching an old coastal steamship, the Karatta, on an overnight passage. The boys gave me hell over it.

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Kay and spearfishing were now the focus of my life. I only worked to earn enough money to go spearfishing on the weekends, sometimes with the boys from the Octopus Club, usually accompanied by Kay.

I was brought up with trucks—Dad was a cartage contractor and drove pipeclay from a mine at Tea Tree Gully to the Adelaide potteries works at Brompton. And so, after compulsory national military service at 18 years of age in 1959, I took a job driving an explosives truck, delivering gelignite, fuses, gunpowder and detonators. The explosives were carried in a specially manufactured wooden box, a maximum of one tonne at a time. I collected them from the government magazine at Dry Creek and delivered to stone quarries all over the state. To pass an explosives licence, my red truck had its exhaust directed out the front, well away from the box at the back. The cabin floor had a few holes, with a few plates missing from the firewall, so carbon monoxide exhaust got in. As a result I used to get dangerously drowsy, although I didn’t know why at the time. Several times I was woken up by the bump of the wheels running off the bitumen onto the dirt. Once I had to swerve to dodge a telegraph pole and, another time, I awoke heading towards a dangerous culvert. Sometimes I pulled up for a short sleep, unable to drive any longer. This was bad enough, but I unwittingly increased the danger by practising breath-holding during the long drives, in order to improve my diving times.

Free divers sometimes used hyperventilation to stay underwater longer, taking half a dozen or more fast, very deep breaths to flood themselves with oxygen. It wasn’t then known that this could make you faint, but several divers have since passed out and drowned after hyperventilating.

While driving I’d breathe deeply for a few minutes until I felt a bit fuzzy. Then I held my breath, counting up to 71, 72, 73 telegraph poles and more as I passed them. Each time, I would try to count more poles until I became too dizzy, a dangerous game when coupled with carbon monoxide poisoning and one tonne of high explosives.

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The Octopus Club took on a flash new name, The Knights of Neptune. We had 30 paid-up members and organised a spearfishing weekend at Port Victoria. Kay and her friend Pam Wiles were allowed to come, as long as they slept in the car together, but without me. We camped at a rocky bay by the sea. They slept warm on a mattress in the back of my Holden panel van. I slept outside on the cold hard ground. Early the next morning, I climbed from my blanket and canvas cover and, with two or three other divers, rekindled the campfire we had sat around the night before, barbecuing our lamb chops and toasting a few marshmallows on sticks.

The fire soon warmed the front of my body and I turned around to warm my back, facing a couple still sleeping together only a couple of feet away. A Latvian club member and his girlfriend had stitched together two thick colourful continental quilts into a large sleeping bag. I felt quite jealous. I hadn’t seen a double sleeping bag before and, as I was admiring this wonderful invention, my eyes spotted something in the grass, hanging out of the end of the sleeping bag through a few inches of broken stitches. I leaned over and pulled at it—a pair of lacy knickers. My pulse beat fast, my loins ached and my face went red as I realised what they must have been up to! The other guys laughed their heads off. I quickly handed the girl her knickers, saying, ‘You might need these later.’ I was more embarrassed than the girl, who just looked at me with wide brown eyes.

As the sun rose Kay and Pam cooked some eggs and baked-bean jaffles over the fire. It was a real treat that the girls had thoughtfully packed food. It’s surprising how little food the boys normally took