The bait has wandered far from the sunny shallows. With coats shining and eyes wide, they cling together in groups, scattered about three storeys of deep, blue opulence.

The first of the sharks has arrived, flashing a toothy grin after rising up from the dark well. Sleek and oily, he smooths down a gelled fin and with a flick of his tails, slices through the murkiness in search of a feed. Other sharks soon follow, leering and snapping their jaws as they jostle for position about the bait.

Willing to sacrifice one so that many might survive, the bait send out a timid emissary. At once, the delegate is encircled by the sharks, ushered away into the darkness with feigned goodwill and hollow promises of dialogue. Soon the emissary returns to the group, and, with tearful resignation, confirms its worst fears. They are alone and far from home; after all, one cannot negotiate with predators.

An urgent cry of gulls signals the arrival of a grand vessel. The bait flees towards the boat, sensing that safety may reside in its shadow. Alas, the fisherman is old and weathered. His hair baked white by long days on the water, he cloaks a tanned hide in old clothes of grey and black. Sometimes, when the sun is high and all life has been leeched from the waters, the fisherman falls asleep at his wheel.

The sharks have now surrounded the bait in the shadows. There, they take turns in dashing into the group, spilling out frightened individuals to offer up to the old fisherman, who occasionally, to the delight of the sharks, throws bloodied burley into the mix.

It pays not to wander too far from home.