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Fathoming Fear Among the Fishes
A Humorous Self-Psychology Article About Transforming Fear
by Dr. Melissa Andersson, copyright 1991

What’s short and skinny and afraid of a little bitty fish?” My step-sister would tease. “You are, you are!” Then, she’d chase me around with the slimy old things. I’d be terrified, simply terrified. One time, when she threw one at me, it hit my chest and it cut me. The gills (or something) actually cut me. Then, more than ever, I was convinced: fish are ugly, they smell bad, and they bite—and if they’re too dead to bite you, they just cut you instead. Terrible creatures for sure.

Then, I grew up and had a long talk with myself--a few of them in fact. "So you are afraid of fish? I told myself. "sill, isn't it? Shame too. Much as you love the ocean...can never relax completely in the water, lest some wild ,deranged fish decides to come up and eat you. I mean really, there are no piranhas in the ocean. Actually, there are very few things in the water that are apt to jump up and get you.

Well, ok, there are sh…sha…sharks—the immortalized epitome of ferocious fishes. But reports claim the incidences of shark attacks are quite rate compared to say…getting run over by a car or having the pieces of a dismembered spacecraft drop on your head. They even claim that there are no reports of submerged scuba divers being attacked unprovoked. Of course, “unprovoked” takes one the broad meaning of not haggling with a shark over the rights to afreshly speared fish and/or avoiding the urge to hang around in waters laced with fish guts—activities that I can gladly do without ; they’ve never been really high on my list of “fun things to do.

“Think about the statistics,” I continued. “You’re at greater risk on the highways, and just going through the routines of daily existence, than you are from hanging around in the ocean under sensible conditions.”

“Why on earth,” I bantered on, “should a fairly reasonable person like yourself allow a phobia to continue—a fish phobia of all things? I mean, Jacques Cousteau is no dummy and he swims around with the things. It all looks quite beautiful, in fact. Perhaps you should learn to scuba dive. That’s what you do with phobias. You confront them face to face (or in this case face to fish).”

I’m not really afraid of the water. Not anymore anyway. Not since I was little and the mean old boy sat on my head in the swimming pool. Sat on my head he did, like I was an underwater chair. Thank goodness for mothers and psychic powers. She’d barely glanced away, and in the blink of an eye, I was gone. Zap—disappeared from sight. Not an unusual feat for a youngster with my reputed energy, I am sure. But how did she know I wasn’t just hiding? Yes, mothers are psychic. They can hear you calling—even underwater—your mouth full of chlorinated water. Like Wonder Woman, she’d sprung to my rescue, retrieving me from the depths (of the baby pool), saving me from death by drowning—under the weight of a bully’s gluteus maximus.

But like they, “you fall off a horse; you get back on.” You nearly drown; you keep on swimming. There is an infinite wisdom in that, which saves us from a lifetime of unreasoned fears.

Scuba diving it is then, I decided, and signed up for a course.

Soon that fated day was upon me—the open ocean dive—my journey into the unknown. Suited up with all sorts of gadgets and paraphernalia, I sat balanced on the edge of the boat. “There should be some sort of ceremony,” I muttered, feeling like a sacrificial offering about to be thrust into the hungry mouths of the deep, “a tribal priest and some drums perhaps.” But no such condolences were offered. Only an instructor, a boat driver and a half dozen other fools were in attendance. The only acoustical accompaniment came from my heart, banging un-rhythmically in undignified protest.

“Well this is what you wanted stupid,” the chicken-me snorted.

Whereas, the stubborn-me fought back with an, “its now or never!” retort.

Then, with the dexterity of a pregnant sea cow, both mes went tumbling backwards off the boat.

“Your call that a back-roll?” the chicken-me said.

“It got us in water.” The stubborn me responded.

“Lucky us.” Said the chicken-me.

“Look, demanded the stubborn-me. “We’re gong down there, so you might as well make the best of it ok?

“Well, ok,” pouted the chicken-me, but I’m not going to like it. Not one little bit.”

“So be it.”

Taking a few deep breaths, I pulled myself back together, put the regulator in my mouth and began the decent.

Beneath the water’s surface, the world became still and quite—quite except for one strange and eerie sound—the sound of my own breath reverberating through the life support system. “It’s like something from a horror movie,” I thought, “that awful heavy breathing noise they haunt you with right before somebody dies. How appropriate for the occasion.”

“Don’t think about it, “ I told myself, letting more air out of my buoyancy vest so that I could catch up with the other divers who were already assembled on the ocean floor.

“Eeekk, there are things swimming around in here,” I screamed, to no on in particular, My mouth full of a rubber breathing apparatus. “Oh my god, there are FISH here and everything!” The theme from “Jaws” began playing in my head as the fish came even closer. “Here they come; they’re going to attack me.”

Bright blue and yellow forms slipped by me and in an instant they were gone. “Those must be the nice ones,” I decided, “either that or they’ve gone on to gather more forces.”

Just then I felt a tug on my shoulder. “Lord have mercy, its jaws. He’s found me. Just get it over with please,” I pleaded mentally. “Don’t torture me slowly.”

Another tug on my shoulder and I turned to face the attacker. It was big and black with enormous glassy eyes. The instructor’s new wetsuit and mask weren’t very becoming, I concluded. “I must inform him of that later—that is if I am still alive.”

In his hand he was holding something that he was trying to give me—a plastic bag with something in it. “Take I,” he motioned. “Uh uh.” I thought, trying to look as if I didn’t understand. “That’s food and fish eat it. They are probably attracted to it. First they’ll eat the food, then they’ll eat me. Furthermore, they’ll get in a frenzy and knock my mask and get tangled up in all my hoses and things. No way!” I babbled in my mind. “You’re the fool that brought it down here. You keep it!”

Then, some angel fish meandered into our vicinity, followed by a school of softly colored colleagues. Out came the food from the bag and that crazy man started to feed the vicious monsters. They darted all around him and gobbled up the pieces. When it was over, the man was still alive and he still had all his fingers.

“I can do that,” I decided. “It doesn’t look so awful.” Accepting some dried dog food, I proceeded with my experiment. The next group of fish that happened by were a bit larger than the last ones but their graceful movements and brightly colored hues made them appear marginally harmless. Cautiously at first, the creatures approached, then gently accepted the offering from my hand.

Soon I was enveloped in a dancing rainbow of graceful sea life. Like ribbons of light, swirled all around me. “More,” I gestured to the instructor, “more food.” But he wanted me to follow him instead.

Purple sea fans swayed gently with the current and tiny inhabitants scurried into hiding as we glided weightlessly over the reefs. Stopping at a crevice beneath a brain coral, the crazy man motioned me to his side. “Look,” he pointed. And when I looked, I thought I’d die. Eyeing me from less than two feet away, there lurked a hideous sea monster. With teeth like a vampire and the eyes of evil, the creature was pure unadulterated ugly. The crazy man went closer and I held my breath. The beast slithered out.

Oh my god, it’s a spotted moray eel,” I realized. “What was that the book said?” My mind was reeling. “Something about shy hermit-like creatures…will not attack unprovoked, but when threatened can engage teeth in unrelenting grip. Oh great, I thought. “This crazy man is going to make it mad. Then, it will attack me. At which time I’ll have a heart attack and have to be buried with the monstrosity still attached.” They say you life passes before you before you die. Leave it to me to get it backwards. It was my death I was viewing, in full cinematic detail.

The next thing I saw was beyond my comprehension. The eel cuddled up against the crazy man as if he were his long lost friend. The man was petting the eel like it was a puppy dog.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” I said. “I must be hallucinating. “Rapture of the deep’ they call it—nitrogen narcosis. The books warned about this—a reaction from diving too long too deep.” I checked my depth gage. “Thirty tree feet. Not deep enough to be affected. Obviously, I’m either crazy or I’m dreaming.”

“Come, come,” the instructor motioned. “Ok,” I said “if I’m dreaming, I’ll just wake up. If I’m crazy, it’s better to just get it over with. I’d hate to be a burden on the family.”

Slowly, I moved closer. The instructor took my hand. The monster looked at me. Then, he looked back at the man. The monster came at me. I willed myself not to panic.

The next thing I knew, the sea monster snuggled up to me with a display of endearing affection.

“So, I’m an old softy,” I conceded. I never could resist kitty cats and puppy dogs. “So this fellow’s a little ugly—a lot ugly actually—beauty is, after all, only skin deep.”

The other divers came upon us and our shy little friend retreated to his hide-out.

The instructor wrote a note to me on his dive slate. His eyes conveyed the seriousness of his message: “Never pet elsewhere/Monty is old friend/knows me many years/morays can be dangerous/will fight if frightened—like us all.”

‘Like us all,” I thought, “like us all.” Why shouldn’t the little fellow get grumpy when his home or his life is threatened? At least his fears have a basis. So many of our human fears have little substance, beyond our own imaginings. Maybe the crazy man isn’t crazy after all—perhaps he’s a philosopher (or psychologist) with fins.

“This way,” the instructor motioned and I knew we were heading back to the dive boat. The coral reefs spread beneath us like a colorful garden. There was beauty all around me—beauty that I’d been too frightened to notice and beauty that my eyes were only just learning to see.

I was calm now, wonderfully relaxed, and thoroughly contented. Part of me knew I didn’t want to leave and part of me knew that, for now, I had to. But all of me knew that this trip would be only the first of many. I’d be back time and time again, experiencing the untold mysteries of what I had yet to explore.

Ascending towards the surface, I saw the bright rays of sunshine beaming a surrealistic light through the clear blue water. “Thank you,” I said silently. “Thank you Jacques Cousteau. Thank you crazy-man-instructor.”

A condensed version of this article was published in Discover Diving, January/February 1991.