The Shark Is in My Head

A short story about jet skis, irrational fears, and finding God in what you can’t see

I wasn’t always like this.

I used to be an ocean girly.

Born in the Lowcountry. Raised near the Georgia coast.
Bounced around the beaches of the Southeast like it was nothing—Florida, the Carolinas, the Keys.
Sand in my hair. Salt on my skin. I thought I belonged to the sea.

But somewhere between growing up and growing more aware, my imagination turned feral.

Suddenly, I was the girl who couldn’t make it past the first sandbar without thinking I was about to become someone’s snack. And I wish I meant that figuratively.

I once got out of a chlorinated pool because I was convinced there was a shark in the deep end.
At night.
Alone.
In a pool with lights, steps, and no connection to the actual ocean.

But fear doesn’t need facts. It just needs a whisper.

And if you’re wondering when that whisper got loud, I can tell you.

Key West. Mid-20s. A Jet2 holiday.
(Why we trusted that, I do not know.)

My husband, who occasionally forgets I am not an action movie stunt double, thought it would be the perfect time to live out his hydro-thrill fantasy.

So there I was, clinging to his life jacket on the back of a jet ski somewhere between Florida and oblivion, while he hit the throttle like we were late to qualify for NASCAR.

And of course, because this is how these stories go, I fell off.

Middle of the ocean. No land in sight.
No bottom beneath me. Just waves, saltwater, and open water panic.

My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it.

Every ripple felt dangerous. Every shadow beneath my feet felt sinister.
The jet ski kept getting smaller. And I was just… floating there. Exposed. Vulnerable.

My mind was spiraling.

This can’t be how my story ends.

But then, the jet ski turned around.

And in that moment, between panic and rescue, another thought cut through the fear:

Peter.

Peter stepped out into wind and waves, too.
He felt the fear. He saw the chaos. He sank.

And in the panic, he didn’t quote Scripture. He didn’t compose himself.
He cried out one thing:

“Lord, save me!”

And Yeshua didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t wait for Peter to regain balance.
He reached. Immediately.

Floating in the water, heart still racing, I saw it clearly:

Faith isn’t the absence of panic.
It’s knowing exactly Who to call when it hits.

Peter’s story didn’t end with sinking.
And neither did mine.

Now, whenever fear tries to pull me under, I remember:

Even if there was a shark in the pool—
He’d still be King.

The waters would still answer to Him.

And I’d still be getting out, wrapped in a towel,
processing it all with snacks,
held securely by the One who pulls me from the deep,
every single time.

Scripture:

But seeing the wind, he became frightened, and when he began to sink, he cried out, saying, ‘Lord, save me!’ Immediately Jesus reached out with His hand and took hold of him, and said to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’”
— Matthew 14:30–31 (NASB)