The Sharks in the Pool
By Lauren Chapman
@always.turn.left
"Mommy, I think there's sharks in the pool."
My son whispers as he stands at the pool's edge, toes gripping the tile that reads “10 FT.” A rope of blue buoys floats a yard away, beyond which the floor plunges suddenly into a midnight blue. It’s only his second lesson at this level, the one where they learn to swim in a lane “like the big kids,” and already the deep end feels carnivorous.
His swim instructor pivots away from us, shouting counts to the three eager swimmers lining the deep end, and I glance up to check the clock. We've been standing at the edge for five minutes. Other parents glance our way with subtle head turns, their polite but pointed looks dig daggers into my back. I resist the urge to push him forward, to whisper-hiss, "Everyone's watching.” My son, who’s usually so eager to hurl himself at whatever hard thing comes next, now stands fused to the deck, unable to slip in with his group.
I kneel beside him, the rough concrete abrasive to my knees. "Sweetheart, we talked about this," I say, my voice tight with forced cheerfulness. "You were so excited about swimming yesterday."
He shuffles his feet, water droplets dancing around his ankles. He's shivering. I want to wrap my arms around him—to pick him up and leave this place—but he is seven, and I am a determined, stubborn mother.
"But I can't see the bottom. What if they're hiding down there?" His speech stutters through purple lips.
"There aren't any sharks," I snap. Immediately, I regret my tone. I know what it's like to have fear take hold, to be overwhelmed by emotions so strong they steal your ability to act. It’s as if the world narrows to just you and the thing you’re afraid of, and everything else—the voices, the reassuring words—fades into static. I know better than this. I, of all people, should know better.
Suddenly, I’m not beside the pool anymore. Instead, I’m trapped in an airplane miles above the earth, watching the rapidly approaching ground outside my oval window. The airplane's nose has dipped, and my stomach lurches. In an instant, my world tilts on its axis—literally. My feet, once firmly planted on the floor, now dangle uselessly in the air.
We're falling.
Time stretches like taffy, each second an eternity. A piece of luggage rolls down the aisle, lazily tumbling end over end. It's joined by a parade of objects: a worn teddy bear, arms outstretched as if reaching for its owner; a shiny red apple, spinning in slow motion; someone's purse, contents spilling out like confetti. The tray table before me springs free, I clutch it like a lifeline. Then a scream, raw and searing. Please not my mother-in-law, I think; she’s a few rows back. A metallic bang answers, loud enough to silence the cabin. Oxygen masks unfurl, bobbing in the air above us.
Next to me, my husband moves with surgeon-steady hands fitting the mask over my face. The bright yellow plastic—reminiscent of a cheap margarine container— smells of hot rubber and my own fear. I yank it off.
“What’s happening?” I gasp. “Why aren’t they telling us anything?” He replaces the mask and tightens the straps, but I grab his hand mid-air and squeeze hard for an answer that doesn’t come. Inside myself, I’m clawing the walls—lungs buzzing, heart slamming against the belt that pins me down.
I look out the window: sky, then nothing but green earth tilting up too fast, too close. God, not yet. I haven’t even had children. I’ve barely started the life I promised myself. Images of my parents surge up—Mom in her garden, Dad in the woods—faces already mourning a daughter who hasn’t died yet.
“Pull up! Why aren’t they pulling up?” I shout to my husband, as if he’s at the controls.
He squeezes my hand, knuckles white, says nothing. His silence is both anchor and torment.
After what felt like thirty endless minutes—though it was likely less than ten—the plane levels, but my body doesn’t. Shoulders locked, I stay pitched forward, every muscle braced for the impact that doesn’t come. The ground outside becomes my only horizon until we touch it.
When we stop, my fingers fumble twice at the seat-belt latch. The pilot’s voice floats through—loss of cabin pressure, rapid descent, textbook response—but the words barely register. Later, I’ll learn it lasted less than fifteen minutes. That we were never in any real danger.
But for months afterward my body will call him a liar.
It was months before I could replay the descent without my heartbeat drowning out every thought. After a few panic-stricken follow-up flights I knew I needed help to face my fear of the air. Eventually, I enrolled in a research study specifically for overcoming fears of flying. I wanted to fly again—needed to, for family visits, for the life I pictured, but every thought of a plane lifting off was enough to set off another panic attack.
During the study, I learned that my terror wasn’t just about the event itself—it was about the catastrophic story my mind had created around it. I’d imagined every worst-case scenario, a single jolt of turbulence flips our plane belly-up, or the engines cut to silence and the cabin drops like a stone. Those nightmare visions kept my fear alive.
The study taught me to meet fear with fact. I learned about turbulence, safety protocols, and the rigorous checks pilots perform before every flight. Each piece of knowledge replaced the spiraling what-ifs with something solid, something true. In flight simulations, I practiced sitting with the unsettling sensations, grounding myself with the facts I’d learned.
Slowly, over the course of the next few years, I began to see that fear loses its grip when you confront it with understanding.
"Mommy?" My son’s voice pulls me back to the present. "Are you okay? You have your sad face on.”
I squeeze his hand, “I was just remembering something I wanted to share with you. But let’s talk after your lesson. Why don’t you go have a chat with your coach? See if you can stick to the shallow end today.”
Standing at the pool's edge, watching my son's eyes track imaginary sharks in the deep end, I recognize something I hadn't before. I want to fix this, to find the perfect words that will make his fear dissolve. But I'm learning that some things can't be fixed with words alone.
I watch him pad over to his coach, his shoulders tight with tension. There's so much more I want to share with him, but he's seven. I worry that some lessons—about fear, about courage, about the difference between real and imagined dangers—can only be learned through experience.
On the ride home, I watch my son through the rearview mirror twist the strap of his goggles between his fingers.
"Tell me more about those sharks, Lovey," I say, my voice gentler now, steadier with understanding.
"They're big. And gray. And hang out where it's dark." His voice drops to a whisper. "What if they're waiting at the bottom where I can't see them? I don’t want to swim in the deep end."
My gut reaction is to rush in and explain why this is impossible. To list every reason sharks can’t survive in the school pool. That he should get over his fear, suck it up, dive right in. But I remember the research study, all those hours I spent memorizing aircraft specifications and pilot safety checks. How each small piece of knowledge had felt like finding a way back to the sky. It wasn't about making the fear vanish. It was about building something stronger alongside it.
"You know," I say gently. "I used to be afraid of sharks in the pool too. In fact, my mind still brings up images of those sharks when I’m alone in the deep end."
His eyes widen. "Really? But you're not scared of anything!"
I smile, remembering that flight and how small I felt when fear took hold. "Everyone gets scared sometimes, sweetheart. Even grown-ups."
"Mommy, will I ever not be afraid?"
The question hangs between us in the car. Through the windshield, I watch a plane arc across the sky, leaving a trail of white against blue.
"What chemical is in most pools?" I ask.
"Chlorine," he answers, his voice small but certain.
I hesitate, giving him a second to connect the dots. "And where do sharks need to live?"
"The ocean," he says. Our eyes lock in the rearview mirror.
"What's the ocean made of, Love?"
"Salt water."
His fingers continue to twist the goggle strap, but slower now. In the mirror, I see him watching that same plane, its path steady and sure across the endless sky.
"The greatest battles we face are often the ones in our own minds," I say, catching his eyes in the mirror. "But you have more control over your thoughts than you know. When the scary images come, you can steer your mind back to what you know is true."
As the plane fades to a speck, my son bends his head in quiet thought. I hold my breath, fighting the urge to fill the car with words. Instead, I let the stillness settle. I won’t force him into the deep end, but I’ll stand close, offering each fact like a stepping stone. One day the water will feel less like an abyss and more like his own small sea—waiting for him, whenever he’s ready.
Guest essay written by Lauren Chapman. Lauren and her husband stopped their RV in Park City, Utah, and never left. These days, she’s growing roots (and sometimes vegetables), wrangling two adventurous boys, and sneaking away for sunrise runs or powder days on the slopes. When not outside, she disappears into books or her greenhouse where she writes. Say hello on Instagram @always.turn.left.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.