In Texas, alligators are not so much a threat as a promise. Lakes, pools, bayous, or ditches—any sporadic water body—may hold scaly secrets. Driving or walking, I stare down as I pass.
I have always been afraid of, and fascinated by, these prehistoric predators. They outlived the dinosaurs! As a child, I had multiple recurring dreams which featured alligators or crocodiles—up close, far away, hidden just beneath the surface of the water. In one nightmare, I was forced to run across their backs, Indiana Jones-style, or to swing over their treacherous moat on vines that were snakes. I chose the crocodiles. As if running over hot coals, my feet barely skimmed their bodies as I fled my temple of doom.
In waking life, I didn’t try to avoid the gators’ grip. In fact, I pursued what scared me, watching every water monster movie I could. RIP, Betty White. I once even orchestrated a family excursion to Gatorland in Florida. By the light of day, throwing hot dogs to the churning mass of scales, the alligators failed to frighten. At the time, I remember thinking I was conquering a fear.
In an article originally published in The Conversation, “The science of fright: Why we love to be scared,” authors Arash Javanbakht and Linda Saab, both assistant professors of psychiatry at Wayne State University, explore fear from a scientific perspective:
Thinking about the circuitry of the brain and human psychology, some of the main chemicals that contribute to the “fight or flight” response are also involved in other positive emotional states, such as happiness and excitement. So, it makes sense that the high arousal state we experience during a scare may also be experienced in a more positive light. (Javanbakht and Saab, 2017)
The authors go on to distinguish between the emotional and cognitive brain. The emotional part responds to the stimulus, and the cognitive interprets the context to determine whether there is actual danger. We respond with a pleasant thrill if a threat hits the sweet spot. Tipped too far in either direction, the emotional or rational response dominates. Translation: If the gator gets out of his cage, we might experience real terror. If he turns out to be made of rubber, we quickly lose interest.
In answer to its original question, the article cites distraction from mundane problems and the chance to relabel and contain what scares us. While both of these reasons are broadly applicable, the authors acknowledge that fear is subjective and personal, especially when influenced by individual traumas, disorders, and phobias. As ever, there is no simple answer.
While playing at terror by watching a scary movie or visiting a well-contained pit full of alligators, we can experience some of the adrenaline of the fight/flight response, without pesky consequences like death or dismemberment. Through exposure to a terrifying thing, we can exert some level of control over it (and dangers like it). So far, so good.
That day at Gatorland did take some of the bite out of my gator-phobia. Confined to the boundaries of their habitat, I even felt sorry for them, curbing my excitement. To tell the truth, I was a little disappointed.
Perhaps another reptile, the sneaky, slithering snake, would have been a more formidable foe. But snakes fill me disgust, loathing, even righteous indignation—none of the fear and awe I hold for their crocodilian cousins. While responsible for the Biblical fall, snakes could not tempt me. To my adolescent mind, seeking entertainment or enlightenment, loathing was not instructive or profitable. Painful and hated experiences were to be avoided. The scary, spooky, and shocking beckoned me to take a long look.
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For the purposes of this discussion, I have so far lumped together crocodiles and alligators as equally toothy and toothsome members of the family Crocodylidae. But while we’re on the subject, crocodiles are even more impressive than the almighty alligator, if less relevant to my Texas experience. Their sheer size, speed, and bite force command respect.
Imagine encountering a saltwater crocodile and a tiger shark in the same river in Australia—the combined number of teeth would be overkill. Meanwhile, in Florida, you can experience the whole crocodilian cocktail, plus pythons and sharks. To satisfy my adolescent curiosity, I might chance the beach, or skim the Everglades in a large, sturdy boat. The mysteries of its swampy depths could, and likely do, fill a book.
Maybe it was not only the alligators I feared, but the water itself, a dark and vast unknown. I was especially afraid of lakes; a friend of our family would swim underwater, snapping at the legs of children with arms and hands like jaws. But to this day, if I wade too far into the ocean, I fear what might float in on the jagged teeth of waves.
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Lately, I’ve been watching clips of Australian and Bornean wildlife experts managing their rebounding crocodile populations. There is something beautiful about the crocodile doing as nature intended. There’s a rhythm and logic to their hunt, kill, feed. Assaulted daily by news of human violence, I find relief in the crocodile’s nameable instinct for survival. Predator versus prey, crocodile versus crocodile, man versus nature, occupying a shared space. A village mourns for an experienced fisherman feared eaten by an aggressive croc. When they find the animal, both man and beast are respectfully laid to rest. For locals, the river means sustenance and livelihood; for crocodiles, it is home.
In adult life, and in childhood, there are many unknowns, sensed but not seen. Strong emotions like fear can be named, tamed, quantified. Unease, uncertainty, vague discomfort—much more difficult to comprehend. Like a vaccine, do safe encounters with danger train us to cope with other traumas? And some days, do we just need the distraction of a good, clean alligator bite?
But there is something else, something more in this urge to look at unlovely things. I’m not there yet. For now, we leave the stone unturned.
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