Swimming With Sharks, and Other Stupid Ways to Die

When my husband, Dennis and I were on Saint Simons Island recently, a standout feature of the beach outside our hotel was a massive sandbar just off the coast that was exposed only during low tide. Getting there took a short swim from the shore, but it was worth it to stand on what felt like a tiny, barren island in the middle of the ocean and explore the riches washed up by the previous tide.

A few people used kayaks or paddleboards to get to the sandbar, but having neither, we decided to swim. The waters were calm, the day was clear, and the short swim to the sandbar shouldn’t have been an issue.

And yet.

As Dennis and I waded into the water, I hesitated. I couldn’t see more than a few inches into the murky Atlantic, and at eye level, the sandbar suddenly seemed ridiculously far away. Then I thought of something our bellman had told us when I’d jokingly asked him at check-in if they were having any problems with shark infestations.

“Actually, this area is one of the largest breeding grounds for sharks in the world,” he had helpfully answered.

I’d laughed him off then, but his words came back to me as I waded into the ocean up to my neck. Breeding ground for sharks. Breeding ground for sharks. Breeding ground, breeding ground, breeding ground for sharks.

Suddenly, the sand sloped sharply beneath my feet and I had no choice but to swim. As I paddled toward the sandbar, it occurred to me that anything, literally anything could be in the water beneath me and I wouldn’t know it. I kicked faster, imagining that my legs probably looked like two writhing drumsticks to the many large and sharp-toothed creatures that were surely making their way toward me at that very moment.

Ahead of me, Dennis’s head bobbed in the water like a cork. Would he even notice if a shark clamped its razor-sharp teeth down on my leg and pulled me under? Probably not. My mind began racing. Death by shark would be a horrible way to go! It would hurt! Bad! There would be blood! Local news stations would send 21-year-old girls in scratchy Jones New York suits and too much makeup to stand on the beach and talk about the “gruesome scene” and the rumors that I may have had a frozen strawberry daiquiri shortly before plunging into the ocean! And my kids! My kids would be so disappointed! “Why did Mommy want to go swimming in the largest shark breeding ground in the world?” they would ask themselves for the rest of their lives. “Did we somehow drive her to it with our constant tattling?” I swam faster. My kids needed a mother more than these sexed-up sharks needed a meal, dammit.

After what seemed like hours, I made it to the sandbar and scrambled out of the water, breathless and suddenly exultant. “Wow, that was great!” I told my husband. “I can’t remember the last time I actually swam to get somewhere! Swimming with a purpose! It’s real! And it’s spectacular!”

I didn’t mention my shark panic attack, which, on land anyway, seemed slightly embarrassing. But I’m telling you this story because it’s a perfect example of my number one fear now that I’m a parent: not merely dying before my kids are grown, but dying stupid. And death by shark attack, after having been warned that I’m about to splash right through a shark breeding area, absolutely qualifies as a Stupid Way to Die.

Sadly, this wasn’t my only near-stupid-death-experience while on vacation. Just a few days earlier, Dennis saved me from being flattened by a trolley in Charleston, pulling me sharply back onto the curb after I stepped in front of a trolley just as the light turned green and the driver took his foot off the brake.

“You saved my life,” I told Dennis gratefully as the trolley driver gave me a contemptuous look and rumbled past us. “And you saved my reputation,” I added, after thinking about the wild gossip that would have ensued if Dennis hadn’t been there to yank me back into the land of the living.

“Did you hear that Lindsay Ferrier was flattened by a trolley in Charleston?”

“Oh my, really? Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“I know! What a stupid way to die.”

“Dear me, yes! She must just be so embarrassed up there in heaven!”

My children would never live down the shame of it.

I worry so much about Stupid Ways to Die (or SWTDs, as I’ve come to call them) that I drive my husband a little crazy with them. They include things like bungee jumping, not wearing a seatbelt in the car, eating food that’s past its expiration date, and smoking in bed. (Just kidding. We don’t smoke. But that is a TOTAL SWTD. Don’t do it, okay?)

A recent family vacation to Fall Creek Falls, home to many narrow, winding hiking trails that end abruptly at overhangs over a terrifyingly deep gorge, was an SWTD-o-phobe’s worst nightmare. While everyone else enjoyed the many (oh so many) breathtaking views at the very edge of terrifyingly steep cliffs, I stayed busy envisioning what had to be one of the ultimate Stupid Ways to Die:  falling off a cliff– for no reason whatsoever. It could happen, to any of us. It could so totally happen. But NOT ON MY WATCH.

Here is my memory of our Fall Creek Falls vacation:

“No running!”

“Stay away from the right side of the trail!”

“Hold my hand!”

“Keep away from that ledge!”

“Be careful!”

“Be careful-ler!”

“NO! RUNNING!”

At one point, we got to what seemed like the 137^th panoramic rock-ledge-with-no-railing and I… Well. I cried. Like a baby. I cried. My husband looked at me incredulously.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Everyone is fine. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I… (hiccup)… can’t take… (choke)… any more dropoffs!!” I sobbed. “With the kids, I just get so nervous! I know it’s irrational, but I’ve just… I can’t! I’ve had enough!”

My husband, bless him, was understanding. He says my SWTD obsession is part of what makes me a good mom. And there’s definitely an upside to it—I never speed or text when I drive and I’ve decided to save things like skydiving and traveling to potentially dangerous locations until the kids are teenagers and hate me anyway.

I realize, too, that as careful as I am, accidents happen and some things really are beyond my control. I have come to terms with that- as much as a person can, anyway. It’s those things that are technically within my control that I’m obsessed with… controlling.

My children are growing up too fast as it is- I’m not at all excited about the prospect of them leaving us one day and striking out on their own. But I have to admit that a small part of me is looking forward to a time when I can hike without fear of falling, jump out of a plane without worrying about my parachute, and swim with the sharks to my heart’s content.

One day, no one will need me anymore– and while that’s sort of heartbreaking, there is some comfort in knowing that I can die just as stupidly as I want to.