The Shark, the Selfie Sticks, and the State

When a three-metre dusky shark strayed into a harbour canal in Busan on September 18, South Korean authorities deployed the full weight of the state apparatus. Seven separate agencies dispatched 105 officials, while coastguard vessels fired water pumps and set nets to guide the animal back to sea. Yet, after two failed attempts, it was not officialdom that controlled the waterfront circus that followed, but a band of opportunistic YouTubers wielding selfie sticks and wearing high-visibility vests.

For over a month, the disoriented predator—dubbed Bukang-i after the city's North Port—became the centrepiece of a massive commercial and viral frenzy. A tranquil waterfront park that usually draws perhaps 2,000 visitors on a busy Saturday was overwhelmed by more than 1.6 million people. Local businesses seized the moment, churning out commemorative soju, dressing baseball mascots in shark capes, and securing an honorary city ambassadorship for the fish. Even President Lee Jae Myung made a pilgrimage to the canal in mid-October, unwilling to miss a photo opportunity in front of a national sensation.

While the state attempted to manage the crowds by closing the waterfront between midnight and 5am, the bureaucracy proved ill-equipped to police a sprawling public space. Into this enforcement void stepped the jagyeongdan—a self-appointed neighbourhood watch composed largely of livestreamers. Armed with cameras and internet connections, these men patrolled the banks through the night, confronting nocturnal visitors who shone hunting lamps and campsite torches into the water, or dumped food waste into the canal. One such light beam had already panicked the shark into hitting the canal wall, leaving an abrasion on its snout confirmed by the national institute of fisheries science.

The spectacle highlights a peculiar modern dynamic: state intervention yields to private initiative, driven by the bizarre incentives of the creator economy. YouTubers monetised the nocturnal patrols, broadcasting their scuffles with intrusive spectators to hundreds of thousands of viewers. While bureaucrats waited for seasonal water temperatures to drop—knowing the endangered species struggles below 15 degrees Celsius—civilians maintained order on the ground.

By the time the oceans ministry announced the shark had finally been guided back toward open water on the third attempt, the episode had laid bare something deeper. Marine science attributes the surge in large shark sightings off the east coast—up nearly fourfold in the first half of the year—to warming waters and shifting prey. Yet the public response was less concerned with ecology than with entertainment. South Korea managed to turn a lost, endangered animal into a lucrative street festival, policed not by the law, but by men chasing clicks in the dark.

Written by Christiane Hofreiter christiane.hofreiter@alpineweekly.com