On Danger

And my appetite for skunk meat.

I was horrified to read about the death of Erica Fox last weekend.

Fox was a triathlete and open-water swimmer who died on December 21, 2025, in Monterey Bay, California. She was swimming with a large swimming group she helped found, the Kelp Krawlers, when she went missing. Her body washed up on a remote Santa Cruz County beach several days later.

While the news is months old, the autopsy report was made public at the end of July, triggering additional media coverage that caught my attention.

I didn’t know Erica Fox. Everything I’ve read about her describes an accomplished athlete, a leader in the open-water swimming community, and a generous human being. My heart goes out to the people who knew and loved her.

Her death triggered a lot of thoughts I have about swimming, sharks, danger, and risk.

I love to swim in open water.

My family kids me about being attacked by a shark during ocean swims all the time, although there is some real anxiety behind the kidding.

For some reason, the horrific reality of what a shark can do to a human has about the same impact on my willingness to swim in the ocean as the horrific reality of a bad car accident has on my willingness to drive a car. I’m aware of the risk. I’m also aware of the low probability.

So I continue on.

Fear and anxiety have funny ways of working in the brain.

I feel differently about road cycling. The probability of being hit by a car on a bike is also low, yet I’ve heard enough terrible true stories that they have dampened my desire to go on long road rides.

Why does one danger change my behavior while another doesn’t?

Sometime last year, I watched a mesmerizing Netflix documentary called Shark Whisperer about Ocean Ramsey. Ramsey free-dives closely with great white sharks and other species as part of her mission to change public perception of apex predators.

Watching her altered my own view of sharks, which had been deeply shaped by seeing Jaws when I was about ten years old.

To be sure, Ramsey’s close interactions with sharks have attracted both admiration and criticism. The film itself examines some of the tension between conservation, spectacle, advocacy, and risk.

More recently, I’ve developed a completely unscientific way of managing my shark anxiety.

I imagine that to a great white shark, I am skunk meat.

I have absolutely no desire to eat a skunk. But if someone somehow fashioned skunk meat into something resembling a perfect filet mignon, I suppose I could be fooled into taking a bite.

Unfortunately for me, a great white’s exploratory bite is considerably more consequential than mine.

That’s my new shark story.

And it has made me realize something about risk: we don’t experience it only through probability. We experience it through stories.

For most of my life, my main shark story came from Steven Spielberg.

Then Ocean Ramsey gave me another one.

Now I’ve apparently decided to write my own involving skunk meat.

The probability didn’t change.

The story did.

Which raises a question I find much more interesting than whether I should be afraid of sharks:

How much safety are we willing to purchase with aliveness?

Why is ocean swimming worth the risk to me?

Because swimming in salty water with the sun warming my back is about as close to heaven on earth as I get to experience on a simple day at the beach.

I get to move through the water and observe sea life below me. Feel surprise waves roll over me. Accidentally swallow some salt water. Clear my mind. Strengthen my body. Melt into the hypnotic rhythm of breathing between strokes. And eventually climb back onto shore with the wonderful fatigue and endorphin high that comes from a good swim.

I love being out there.

The possibility of a shark attack is real. The probability is very small. The consequence, as Erica Fox’s death makes painfully clear, can be catastrophic.

For me, that small probability is a risk I’m willing to accept for everything the ocean gives me.

What would my life look like if every time fear offered me greater safety, I accepted the bargain?

No ocean swimming.
No skiing.
No hiking alone.
No road cycling—maybe time to rethink my dominant story on that one.
No driving.
No flying.
No getting on boats.
No crossing the street.

Keep making those bargains and eventually I could construct a very safe little bubble for myself.

But what would be left inside it?

Certainly not the life I want.

No deal.

Safety has a price.

Sometimes the price is an incredible bargain. Wearing a seatbelt costs me almost nothing and dramatically reduces the risk of driving. Looking both ways before crossing the street costs a few seconds. Checking weather and water conditions before an open-water swim is simply good judgment.

Never entering the ocean again would unquestionably make my risk of being attacked by a shark lower.

But the price would be enormous.

So perhaps this is a kind of opportunity cost.

The question becomes: What is the cheapest sensible price I can pay for safety without surrendering the experiences that make me feel alive?

That doesn’t mean taking every risk. It certainly doesn’t mean pretending danger isn’t real. Some risks aren’t worth taking. Others can be reduced without giving up much of anything.

And sometimes the stories driving my fears deserve another look.

Maybe even the ones I tell myself about getting on a bike.

Erica Fox’s death doesn’t tell me that loving open-water swimming is foolish. And the rarity of shark attacks doesn’t make what happened to her any less horrifying.

Those two things can exist together.

The ocean is beautiful.

The ocean can be dangerous.

And the ocean owes me nothing.

The next time I stand at its edge, I’ll know what’s out there. I’ll think about the risk, make the best decision I can, and, most likely, walk into the water anyway.

With the small consolation that I probably taste terrible.