Please relocate the pig

What to do when your brain wants specifics

Can I ruin ocean swimming for you?

A while ago, I did a team ocean swim in Mooloolaba, Queensland. It was me, my mum, my brother, and my partner—each of us swimming fifteen-minute legs of a 20+ km course, tagging in and out from a boat.

There was a shark net, which felt reassuring—until the boat driver pointed out, very casually, that it was mostly symbolic. It didn’t enclose anything; you could swim around it. It was basically decorative, for tourists.

‘But don’t worry,’ he added. ‘We’ve also got the shark hook.’

The shark hook, as it turned out, was not a metaphor. It was a large underwater hook, not far from where we were swimming, baited with a pig.

Apparently, this was standard practice. If a shark came by, the hope was that it would opt for the pig over, say, me.

The conviction with which this was explained to us was oddly calming. I nodded along, like it made sense. A sacrificial ham. (Boom-boom.)

About a minute later though, it occurred me that if you were going to bait a hook… wouldn’t it make more sense to bait it further away? Like, not right next to the swimmers?

Just an idea.

I didn’t bring it up. I realised I wanted to know less, not more. (Maybe if they had a feedback form, I could write, ‘please relocate the pig’ but otherwise, no.)

Instead, I just decided to not think about it.

I told myself something I sometimes tell myself and that is: that’s not how I’m going to go.

It’s not logical, but it works.

It’s also a cousin to a deeper creative truth: I don’t always want the full story. Curiosity is great—until it starts to undo you.

More information doesn’t always calm your brain. Sometimes it just gives it more specific things to panic about.

There’s a kind of self-protection in not needing to know everything—like not reading the comments, or checking Goodreads. You don’t need to know how many stars someone gave you, or whether a stranger thinks your protagonist was ‘unlikeable’.

Sometimes, staying afloat means telling yourself little white lies that help you keep moving:

Like that sharks really do prefer pork to people*.

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*Cute ending, self.

But also—a caveat: this isn’t universally applicable advice.

The ability to not know—to decide that information is too much—isn’t something everyone gets. It’s a luxury to look away.

So I’m adding this part to say: I know it’s a luxury.
This story is about how it’s okay to be a little stupid if it helps you survive—
but I also understand that only some people can afford to be stupid.

As an approach to life, it doesn’t really scale. It doesn’t solve anything systemic. It’s a coping strategy, not a worldview.

So yes, I’m endorsing selective ignorance… critiquing myself for endorsing it… and acknowledging—within that critique—that my attempt at reflective layering might just be a clever way to avoid critique altogether.

In conclusion: nothing conclusive.

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Some other cool things

• Stickers are the worst; novelty bandaids are like stickers but functional and the best

• I’m watching Ghosts (Netflix) with my kids and I lurve it

• If you have kids in the upper primary ballpark, The Weirdies by Michael Buckley is TOP NOTCH. It’s particularly excellent on Audible (it’s narrated by Kate Winslet)

Unrelated: have you ever been to a psychic? I’m going today!

Bye for now,

Katherine

PS — If you’re a writer and you like thoughts about thoughts, check out my mini course The Inner Game of Writing.