Every summer, when the ocean is full of tasty tourists, the theme from Jaws starts playing in my head, and I avoid dipping a toe in the surf, despite assurances from experts that I’m more likely to be maimed by an aggressive vacuum cleaner. (Not if I don’t plug it in.)
“Don’t be stupid,” Kathy scolds while pouring herself more of the coffee I somehow summoned enough smarts to brew. My neighbor has a huge brain filled with marine biology and fish facts she likes to fling at former art majors. “Sharks don’t want to eat you. You’re galeophobic.”
That fancy word means I suffer from a persistent, overwhelming fear of sharks—an apex predator that can generate a whole set of hull-crunching chompers practically overnight. They’re always hungry and frequently dine in oceans, much like the one beside South Carolina. The synonym for galeophobic is intelligent.
Kathy can call me names, but I still prefer swimming in pools where makos aren’t members. Every time a shark bites someone, she jumps to its defense to say it was all a misunderstanding. “Sharks don’t like the way humans taste. They’re simply taking an exploratory bite.”
Exploratory bites hurt as much as regular bites, but the shark will send a note of apology to you in the ICU. Kathy thinks it’s helpful to assure galeophobics that we’re more likely to be crushed by a vending machine or trampled by a hippo than accosted by a shark. “Hippos kill 2,900 people a year,” she says. “They weigh 8,000 pounds and eat boats.”
By comparison, sharks are less lethal than teacup poodles, but in Horry County, hippos are easier to avoid. Besides, I can only nurture one phobia at a time. And I watched Sharknado twice.
In the sci-fi thriller, cyclones sent thousands of sharks twirling through the skies over Los Angeles to rain down on the city’s terrified residents. Since sharks don’t usually fly, this must have been just as stressful for them as a plane crash is for people. A lesser animal might forget eating for a while, but sharks are very focused and went right on mauling everyone.
Kathy gave me some tips for handling close encounters with a salivating shark. Every expert says the same things:
- Don’t try to make friends with it. (No problem there.)
- Punch the predator in the nose. (Yes, the nose. It should be somewhere above the 700 gnashing teeth. Try not to miss.)
- Don’t wear jewelry. (Sharks are attracted to shiny objects. If it likes your necklace, just hand it over. Say it’s a gift.)
- Don’t play dead. (By now, overwhelming panic should make this advice easy to follow.)
Forget the experts. I’ve found a new shark mentor in Veronica-Pooh Nash Poleate, the Tennessee woman whose sage advice recently went viral on Facebook.
If you don’t want to be eaten, she says, it’s simple. Just stay out of the shark’s house. When a chicken or pig shows up in her living room, it ends up on a plate. You don’t want to be lunch? Stay out of the shark’s kitchen.
Sorry, Kathy. That works for me. You just watch out for the hippos.
Jan A. Igoe has nothing against sharks, but keeping a respectable distance feels right. She wishes everyone a wonderful, safe summer vacation. Write her here.