THE MORNING AFTER the Cronulla riot dawned cool, calm and clear. Early light caught surfers lolling on the small swell and picked out twinkles of mica in the footpaths along the esplanade. The sand had already been raked clean and a soothing breeze rolled in off the sea.

The previous day, on the same patch of shore, had been a twisted Guernica of struggling bodies: hit with fists, feet and heads, spat at, chased, scratched with fingernails, slashed with fangs of broken glass, clubbed with bats and cement blocks and one man stabbed and left on the ground, a snapped knife jutting from his back.