Fear of Deep Water

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Why have I feared deep water for so long, practically my whole life? Not necessarily water in a pool, where I can see down to the bottom, or at the beach, where I can feel sand on the soles of my feet. My fear has always been the murky lakes, streams, and rivers that might be deeper than they appear, filled with broken glass, jagged rocks, a dead body or two, and maybe some oversized catfish or snapping turtles ready to take a bite out of my arm or leg. Growing up near polluted Lake George in Hobart, Indiana, fueled my dread—the dark grayish color, a layer of green slime floating near the shore, and the horrible smell.

If I had to come up with a reason for my anxiety around deep water, it probably started in the third or fourth grade, all because I never received a particular toy I desired. Like most kids our age, my brother and I had a couple of 12-inch G.I. Joe Action Figures with movable parts made by the Hasbro Company. Ours were the standard Army versions dressed in olive drab uniforms with a cap, dog tags, and removable black rubber boots. As I recall, we put our soldiers through rigorous indoor and outdoor combat missions where they ended up with twisted limbs bent in awkward positions while retaining the blank mannequin expressions on their plastic resin faces. As much as I enjoyed the G.I. Joe Action Soldier, it wasn’t the model I really wanted.

Whenever my mom headed downtown to the bank or the post office with its faded armed forces recruitment banner - Join The Navy - Be a Frogman, dangling from a second-story window, I’d try to accompany her. It gave me a reason to stroll through Schultz’s Nickel & Dime Store, which had an incredible toy department filled with monster-building kits, such as Frankenstein, Godzilla, and my favorite, The Forgotten Prisoner of Castle Mare’—a glow-in-the-dark partially skeletal figure chained by its neck to a dungeon wall.

One section featured the entire G.I. Joe collection with Army, Navy, and Marines prepared for battle with assorted uniforms and weaponry, along with the figure I instantly wanted. It was the G.I. Joe Action Sailor Deep Sea Diver (suit only, since the figures were interchangeable.) The left side of the box caught my imagination with its aquamarine color and underwater graphics of the diver exploring the sea bottom while a giant octopus lurks closely by. The right side contained his outfit with a gold diving helmet and accessories: weighted boots and belt, gloves, sledgehammer, buoy, compass, knife and sheath, and oxygen pump hose. Make Him Dive! Read the graphic. You Control Him - Make Him Bubble.

I had already visualized plans for my diver. He would start his training in the bath and later progress to Mom’s deeper wash tubs in the basement. Lastly, he’d be submerged in the murky gray waters of Lake George down by the pier in Fred Rose Park.

If I remember correctly, the Deep Sea Diver cost $4.99, a bargain, even in 1967. My mom wanted to buy it, bless her heart, but she reminded me that I already had one G.I. Joe, and why did I need another? “I’ll tell you what, let’s ask Daddy when he gets home from work,” she said.

It took forever until 5 pm when the Hobart/Gary bus stopped at the corner of 3rd and Connecticut Street. Mom waited until we were all seated for dinner to tell Frank (Daddy) about the G.I. Joe. “Why do you need another doll? he asked, “dolls are for sissies.”

“It’s not a doll,” I said, “It’s an action figure, and it only costs $4.99.”

“Too expensive. We can’t afford it right now.” We can’t afford this, or that, was Frank’s typical response whenever Joey, Catherine, or I wanted something every kid on the block took for granted, such as a baseball glove or a bicycle from Sears, Roebuck & Co. It didn’t stop him from purchasing whatever comforts he needed—a new air-conditioner or stockpiles of food from the supermarket, contributing to his 300-pound bulk on a 5’3” frame. Although it saddened me for a few days, I didn’t complain about his decision. After all, it was only a toy, and soon I’d be growing out of them, or so I thought.

The Indiana summers I remember from the late 1960s were unbearably hot, especially in August, but there was nowhere to swim. We “couldn’t afford” to join the privately owned Hobart Pool Association or pay a fee to swim at the YMCA. Frank eventually opened his wallet and bought us a cheap inflatable splashing pool designed for three-year-olds that we kept in the backyard.

At thirteen, out of desperation, I jumped into Lake George on a sultry July day from a rope swing in the woods near my house. I only fell in about three feet deep but panicked as though I were drowning and swallowed some of that foul water. The feeling was awful. There was no sand or solid bottom, only squishy crap under my toes. I felt like I was sinking into the muck of an artificial clay pit, similar to the one down at Robinson Lake that had already claimed the lives of two classmates. Everyone laughed as my friend, Joe S., pulled me out, and I ran home through a back alley soaking wet with the rotten stench of that filthy lake all over my clothes.

Thanks to a free program at the YMCA, I finally learned how to swim in 1975, but to this day, it still hasn’t alleviated my fear of deep water. While vacationing in Jamaica with my wife in 2018, I stood in chest-high water sipping a drink close to the roped-off barrier where the depth of the beach drops off, and as I waded back to shore, I suddenly thought of the movie Jaws, and how easily a great white shark could have swam in and devoured me without anyone ever knowing. 

My weekly therapy session is a show called River Monsters, featuring biologist, adventurer, and extreme angler Jeremy Wade. In each episode, the British-born Wade travels the world searching for aquatic predators lurking in lakes and rivers. Using reenactments, he narrates stories of local fishermen who’ve been attacked, maimed, killed, or disappeared without explanation, and the usual culprits are piranhas, eels, enormous catfish, sturgeon, or other unknown species. Wade shows no fear (nor do I, watching from the safety and comfort of my couch) as he pries open the mouths of these creatures to display rows of razor-sharp teeth while they struggle to escape his grasp.

If I went to a doctor tomorrow and described my condition, they would probably diagnose it as Thalassophobia, “a persistent fear of vast, deep, and often dark bodies of water that feel dangerous,” and prescribe some form of hypnosis. Or, perhaps I could cure myself by owning the most important toy that was denied to me as a child. Recently, on eBay, I noticed a Vintage 1964 Pre-Owned G.I. Joe Deep Diver in its original box with accessories for $185.00. I can picture it on the table next to our turtle’s tank. And Morningside Park Pond is right across the street. Hmm?