Ichthyophobia
Let me tell you a little something about myself.
I suffer from ichthyophobia.
You guessed it… a fear of fish (if you really did guess that, wow!)
So, yes; I am afraid of fish. Big fish. Little fish (yes, minnows). Good fish. Bad fish.
All fish.
Feel free to laugh. Really. It’s pretty irrational. It’s real, though. It evokes a visceral reaction. To be honest, my heart races just thinking about them.
In 1990, my family took a trip to Australia (awesome!), specifically the east coast. While we were there, we visited the Great Barrier Reef. I was 13. Fear of fish firmly established. We got on a boat and went out to a pontoon in the middle of the ocean, which was really cool ’cause I loooove boats. Part of the deal was that we “got” to go snorkeling over the reef and see all the colourful fish. Wonderful. I was ecstatic (not in the least).
I can’t even swim in a lake if a see a minnow. I am not exaggerating. So, here I was poised to face my fear. At 13. My parents urged me, saying that if I didn’t snorkel at the reef, I might regret it. Fair enough. If you’re gonna face the fish, where better than the Great Barrier Reef? Right? Wrong.
In order to get in the water, we had to step in little cage-like things that were immersed in the water. Little cages. Perfect for catching fish. Awesome. I waited until there was not a single fish in the cage-thing as the guide-dude grew increasingly impatient. I am sure he was wondering what I planned on doing in the open water. So was I.
My dad swam with me the short distance to the reef. I put my face in and FREAKED out! Not going to happen. Not on his life. Not on mine. No way. Not wanting to ruin his opportunity (I was so giving, even then), I offered to wait on a raft where people sat to take breaks from swimming.
It was fine – I was out of the water and soaking in the sun in the middle of the vastness of ocean. Until. Until, three huge men (read: average-size teenagers) speaking a language I didn’t understand jumped on the raft, upturned it, and CATAPULTED me into the water. CATAPULTED. As expected, I freaked right out. They tried to help me. I didn’t understand them. They tried to put me back on the raft-thing, but it was upside-down and full of barnacles and slime. Everything intensified and I was a lost cause, floundering in the sea (luckily, I can hold my own in water, so that wasn’t an issue).
My dad rescued me pretty quickly and we swam back to the pontoon. He swam over the reef. I swam over the endless abyss of nothingness that is the deep sea. Yes. I was less afraid of that than fish.
I dried off, got dressed and watched the rest from the safety of the underwater observation window.
So, the moral of this story is… ichthyophobia, though irrational, is real. Fish in the grocery store. Fish in tanks. Dead fish. Live fish. Any fish. Fear of fish.
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This post is dedicated to the fish that Mr. T convinced me would be nice for Q to have. Almost a year later, they have all passed. I hope they find peace in their rest because I sure do.
