A Discovery of Freshwater Sharks

Seven. That’s how old I was when a science book single-handedly ruined my life…

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Warnings: predatory ocean creatures and earth-shattering realizations

Seven. That’s how old I was when a science book ruined my life. It was one of those illustrated books for kids, each exploring a separate topic like Dinosaurs, Volcanoes, or Bugs. On a class trip to the school library earlier that day, I’d perused the different options and slid one off the shelf that made me feel curious inside: Sharks.

The creatures piqued my interest now more than ever because just a couple weeks before, I’d heard of a blonde surfer girl only a little older than me, who’d survived a shark attack. The thing bit off her whole arm, and she lived! It was the first time I’d realized a monster could crawl up from the deep just to use me as an afternoon snack. And even though I knew it was macabre to be curious, I simply was. It was like staring as we drive by an accident, even though my mom is telling us not to look. Besides, sharks are nowhere nearby. I lived in land-locked Utah, multiple states away from any ocean. We vacation in lakes, not oceans, anyways.

Deep into southern Utah, where the scenery grows from green and piney to red and baked, you’ll find Lake Powell. It is glorious. A blue spidery splat on a map, the lake sprawls across the borders of Utah and Arizona. Characterized by its sun-toasted sandstone cliffs, the lake is filled by seasonal snow melt from the Colorado mountains. My family goes there every summer, at least once, to swim and kneeboard and tube and hike, just about any lake activity one can do. It’s my favorite place on earth. And what’s even better: no sharks. Just catfish that swirl, mouths agape, at the marina. Slimy slithering on top of each other, fighting for the catch of bread or drip of ice cream cones. They’re creepy little things, but they can’t bite my arm off.

Snuggling into the pastel quilt my Grandma made me, I cracked open my book, prepared to be wow!-ed by science. In the safety of my bed, I read about hammerheads, great whites, and whale sharks, in awe over the illustrations of these beasts from the deep. Fun facts about their coloring or anatomical function in bright, poppy “Did You Know?” blurbs. How they have rows of teeth that are often replaced throughout their life. How they use electro- and magnetoreception to sense their prey. How they eat seals, fish, plankton, seabirds, and sometimes — humans.

It’s near the end of the book that I am slammed by an unexpected section. When I see it, I freeze. I re-read it. Then re-re-read it. And there, in the thick boldface capital letters at the top of the page, I see the words that send me into a tailspin.

Freshwater Sharks.

Suddenly, I can’t read fast enough. My eyes light down the page, racing to read words that shatter my universe. That freshwater sharks exist. That lakes are freshwater. Lakes. As in, Lake Powell. The place that is supposed to be my safe haven, a body of water that is completely secure, completely without sharks. Or so I thought.

The book slides out of my hands, thudding on the floor beside my bed as the pieces click together to reveal a terrifying image of my arm getting chomped off by rows of razor-sharp teeth as I fall off the kneeboard, disappearing into a cloud of red. How could nobody have warned me?! Maybe they don’t know. I have to tell my parents. Our family is in danger!

“Knock knock, time for bed, kiddo,” my dad peeks into my room, completely oblivious to the threat I’ve just discovered. I have to tell him! But how? Breaking news like this is something adults do, and I’m only seven! The words stick in my throat, even as I try to punch them out.

The bed sags as my dad sits on the side of it, asking me what’s the matter. Gosh darn it, how do I tell him? I almost don’t want to tell him. The minute I share the news, he would likely run to my mom and declare, “There are sharks in Lake Powell, we can never take our family there again!” And while I’d miss the water dancing on the red rocks, and pushing my siblings off the tubes, I would do it to keep our family safe. Safe from sharks.

I clear my throat and set my shoulders, despite the way my bones still rattle at my horrifying discovery. In my most serious adult voice, I say slowly, “Dad, there are sharks in Lake Powell.”
The words sit like that, in the air between us. I expected shock and frenzy. But instead, I got just a simple, straight-faced, adult question: “Where did you hear that?”

I leaned out of bed to snatch my book, which had tented on the floor. My chest twists a little as I try to correct the pages that had crumpled in the fall, but I push on. Flipping to the page I’d just been reading, I explain, “There are freshwater sharks! They live in lakes, which are freshwater bodies. And, well, Lake Powell is a lake. So… Lake Powell has sharks in it.”

Even after my science book proof, he stays still, methodical. His lack of reaction makes me wonder if I’m doing a poor job of relaying this adult message. Curse my seven-year-old-ness! But then again, he’s an accountant, and maybe accountants don’t deal with sharks.

“Hayley, Lake Powell doesn’t have sharks.”

The words slam straight into me. “But… But my book says sharks live in lakes!”

“Not all lakes have sharks,” he says. “Some lakes do, but Lake Powell doesn’t.”

Well, that specification wasn’t in my science book! If what he says is true, they should have definitely included that information.

I feel small. Smaller than my seven years. What if he’s wrong, and we go to the lake, and someone gets bit by a shark? I mean, if anyone gets bit, I hope it’s my younger brother. But even then… Bubbles fill my tummy at the thought of a murky red cloud and sudden disappearance of limbs. Thousands of teeth, my science book had said. All of them razor sharp.

“How do you know Lake Powell doesn’t have sharks?” I ask, desperate to know which science book he’s reading.

“Because,” he says slowly. Seriously. Adult-y. “They’ve sent submarines down to check.”

The word clangs around in my brain, like a firework banging around the insides of the very vessel that may be my saving grace.

Of course! Submarines! Why didn’t I think of that?

Scientific explorers and researchers in white lab coats piling into a high-tech submarine with lights and scopes and radars, bubbling down to the bottom of Lake Powell to ensure all humans (including, but especially, me) would be safe swimming in this beloved lake. Wandering through all the fingery appendages, through the ancient canyons of sun-toasted sandstone, checking in all the murky nooks and crannies to find ugly catfish, lost-off-the-boat vacation relics like solitary flip flops and boat keys, and — most importantly — no sharks.

It turns out that while science burst my safe little cocoon with the double-edged sword of knowledge, it could also restore a sense of safety.

My dad gently placed my loved-then-hated-then-warily-appreciated science book on my nightstand, tucked me tight under my pastel quilt from Grandma, and turned out the lights with wishes of sweet dreams. Instead of nightmaring about thousand-tooth creatures chomping off my arms or legs in my favorite place on earth, I dreamt of scientific explorers puttering around the dark recesses of the lake, making new discoveries that put the world at ease.

I was a little nervous the next time we went to the lake, but only for a moment. After dipping my toe into the deep blue, the familiarity of it all overcame me. I held my breath and took the plunge. Summer after summer of continued family trips to Lake Powell, I’ll admit, I’ve never seen a shark there — freshwater or otherwise.

But I’ve also never seen a submarine.

This story was originally published on my Medium.