(Content Warning: unreliable narrator)

I am certain that I saw Jaws in a movie theater, with my older brother, and my father. Except I’m not really certain, but I just looked it up and Jaws came out in 1975, and I would have only been five years old, and my brother eight, and my dad is among the best, most careful little c conservative men on the planet. So I couldn’t have. But I know I did. I remember freaking the fuck out at a certain point in the movie (we’ll get there), and I remember ducking my head behind the back of the chair in front of me. I remember the tilted floor of the theater. 

I know the movie was a huge event; the first summer blockbuster. Dad was a teacher, and definitely could have had off, and wanted to see it, and taken his kids along. It was just PG at the time (that’s all they had between G and R), and honestly, how the hell were people supposed to know just how freaking scary that movie was going to be. There had never been a movie like it. So maybe he took us. It doesn’t matter. In my mind, I was there. 

Probably my solid memories of the film are from some rewatch on HBO later into my pre-teen/teen years. I definitely saw Jaw 2 on HBO, and I have definite very strong opinions. One actress spends the second half of the movie screaming. Just screaming. Not complaining and saying “game over man” or anything like Bill Paxton does in Aliens. Just shrieking in a ear-puncturing register. Forever. I distinctly remember changing allegiance to the shark as that movie went on. But HBO movies are for a different day. 

Relatively early in the movie, the Chief takes the Scientist out at night to look for a missing fishing boat. Scientist gets geared up and goes underwater. His big hand-lantern’s light beam illuminates the wreck, and he approaches a great gaping wound in the wooden hull. He sees a reflection of his light amidst the dark of the crack, and approaches, removes a tool from his belt and starts working a white tooth loose). As he’s intent on his labors, as we’re focused tight BAM! the waterlogged, severed head of the fisherman jumps into the frame of his light and scares the bejeezus out of us all! I can still see that face in the darkness. That face is why they invented PG-13. 

We had a pool when I was growing up. Half of it was a nice little-kid friendly three-feet, but then it sloped off to the deep end, all of eight feet. Deep enough to dive, and a nice challenge for fetching things from its bottom during the warm summer days. But oh at night. When the low sun cast shadows, or worse, when the moon was the only light after a hot summer soccer game the deep end of that pool had its own soundtrack. A low thrum of menace. Duhhh-dun… Duh—dunnn…. It was almost bad enough to turn around, go inside, and take an actual shower. I was in high-school dammit.  I knew it was irrational. 

The thing about fear, it’s pre-rational. The ancient, animalian fear part of our brain mocks our fancy new frontal lobes.  So I’d hesitate there, at the far end of the pool, with my toes curled over the cool metal edge, gazing out toward the safe light of the kitchen; not down into the abyss. The longer I hesitated, the darker it would get, the faster the bassoons and basses would play in my head and my heart. Duh-dun, duh-dun, duh-dun, dh-dn…. Eventually I’d dive in with my best, shallow racing dive and swim like hell for the safety of the shallow end, stand up in the belly deep water, and whip around to check behind me, gasping for breath. Survived another day.