Never Have I Had the Urge: To Go Back Into the Water

Why do people willingly return to the ocean, lakes, rivers, and deep water environments despite knowing the risks?

In this episode of Never Have I Had the Urge, Victor Jimenez explores the psychology of fear, risk-taking, adventure, and humanity's fascination with the unknown beneath the water's surface.

From childhood beach memories and shark attacks to the lasting cultural impact of Jaws, we examine why people continue swimming, surfing, diving, boating, and exploring waters that both attract and terrify us.

What drives us to step into places where we aren't completely in control? Why does fear sometimes push us away—and other times pull us closer?

Join us as we explore one of humanity's oldest and most mysterious urges: the urge to go back in the water.

The urges we resist... and the ones we surrender to.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:23

You can feel it in the air, can't you? Even though the calendar hasn't officially flipped over to summer yet, the vibe has definitely changed. Here where I'm at, the days are getting that golden stretch to them. The humidity has woken up, and suddenly the conversation in every break room and office is the same. Hey, where are you going on vacation this year? Everyone's mind is already on the move. We're talking about that first big barbecue of the season, the weekend mountain getaways, and of course, the big one. The beach. You know, there's something about that first heat wave that triggers this collective urge for people to head towards the coast, to hear the waves, and to just get in and get wet. Hello everyone, my name is Victor. And this is never have I had the urge to go back into the water. It's a pull as old as time itself, but it comes with a high stress ritual. You're rushing to get the house ready, the air conditioner humming in the background while you're frantically packing the cooler, stacking the sandwiches just right so they don't get soggy, making sure the drinks are buried deep in the ice. You find yourself hunting for the sunblock, that specific one, coconut heavy scent that practically smells like June because you cannot forget the sunblock. Then comes that game of Tetris. You know, loading the beach chairs, the umbrellas, and the families into the car, sweating through your shirt before you even backed out of the driveway. You're running through that frantic mental checklist. Is the stove off? Is the dog's water bowl full? Are the doors all locked? Did we grab towels? You're white-knuckling the steering wheel for hours, eyes locked on the bumper in front of you, all for that one goal, to reach the edge of the world and finally let go. Then you get there, you kill the engine, and for a second, it's just the ticking of the car's radiator cooling down that you can hear. And you open the door, and a wall of hot salt air hits you in the face, thick and heavy. You lug the gear up the boardwalk, through the tall grass, over the dunes, your feet sinking into the hot, sometimes burning sand, and then you see it. The ocean. Most people see a playground. They see the white caps and the sunlight dancing off the surface. They hear the rhythm of the waves and the cry of the seagull circling overhead. And they just want to dive in and let the water wash away the stress of the city. But for me, I stand there at the edge of the foam, watching the water pull back into the deep. And I realize the ocean doesn't care about my vacation. It doesn't care about my checklist or my cooler. It's an entirely different world out there. And it's inviting me in a world where we are just visitors. And then I hear it. Over the sound of the waves rushing into the shore, over the seagulls overhead, and even over the sound of people enjoying themselves, the laughter, the yelling. I hear it. That familiar theme music. In my head, louder and louder. The theme from Jaws. Playing in my head as if John Williams and his orchestra were standing next to me in the surf playing that famous score. And then my mind immediately drifts to the movie made way back in 1975. To a small island called Amity and a movie that changed the way we look at the horizon forever. Steven Spielberg didn't just give us a summer blockbuster, he gave us a permanent nagging what if. Because while everyone else is adjusting their goggles and running towards the surf, I'm standing there looking at that dark line where the sand drops off into the deep blue, and I'm looking for a fin. There was a time when none of this even crossed my mind. When I was younger, I went into the water without hesitation. Oceans, lakes, rivers, it didn't matter. If everybody else was swimming, I was probably right there with them. You dove in, you laughed, and you stayed until your fingers, your fingers wrinkled up like raisins, and your skin smelled of chlorine or salt water the rest of the day. Back then, water felt exciting, freeing, almost magical. But somewhere along the way, something changed. Maybe it's age, maybe it's experience, maybe it's wisdom, or maybe it's just awareness finally catching up with me or us. Because when you're younger, you feel almost untouchable, invincible. You don't think about undercurrents, you don't think about what you can't see beneath you, you don't think about how quickly a fun day can turn into tragedy. You just go in, and maybe that's part of growing older. Maybe age and experience slowly replaces fearlessness with awareness, or maybe not, because sometimes awareness changes us, and sometimes it doesn't. A those the stories we later end up reading about? The stories on the evening news, the interviewer standing near the shoreline, the helicopter flying low over the water, the missing swimmer, the overturned boat, the person who underestimated nature for just one moment. And is it only me? Am I the only one who thinks this way now? Because at this stage of my life, I'm not sure I need to swim out into some unknown body of water to prove anything to anyone anymore. In fact, truth be told, the shallow end of the swimming pool back home, or even one of those lazy kitty pools at the water park, sounds like a pretty solid plan these days. Honestly, I might be happier standing in a long hot shower at home where I can see the floor beneath my feet, control the temperature, and know with absolute certainty that nothing with teeth and a fin is circling in my drain. Surely a lake is safer, right? Wrong. So maybe you're listening to all of this and thinking, alright Victor, maybe the ocean isn't your thing anymore. Fine, but lakes and rivers are different. Those are calmer waters, safer, more familiar. Are they though? Because that's the thing about water, it doesn't always announce danger the way we expect it to. The ocean at least looks powerful. You can see the waves crashing, you could hear it roaring in the distance. But lakes and rivers, they almost feel deceptive, peaceful, quiet, sometimes even still. And maybe that's why people let their guard down. Every summer there are stories that begin the exact same way. It was supposed to be a normal day at the lake, a family cookout, a fishing trip, somebody diving off a dock, somebody underestimating a current, somebody slipping beneath the surface and never coming back up. Rivers can look calm on top while moving like freight trains underneath. Lakes can suddenly drop off deeper than expected. Murky water hides everything. Tree branches, sharp rocks, strong currents, wildlife, debris. You can't always see what's below your feet. And once again, we're entering environments that don't belong to us. And maybe that's what unsettles me the most. Not just sharks, not just the ocean, but the simple reality that human beings have this unbelievable confidence around water. We walk straight into it smiley, carrying pool noodles and folding chairs as if nature signed some agreement promising to keep us safe. And meanwhile, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Jaws theme is still playing. Let me share something with you that I've become more and more certain of as I've gotten older. We live on a hostile planet. And I don't think most people really stop to think about that. Most people move through life distracting, focused on work, bills, errands, social media, dinner plans, vacations. And I understand it because life is exhausting. So when you finally get a day or two off from work, of course you want to relax. You want to get together with the family or friends, sometimes both, or maybe just want to be left alone somewhere, peaceful for a while. I get it. But make no mistake about it, the world we live in is a very dangerous place. This planet is constantly trying to remind us of who's really in charge. Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, wildfires, floods, lightning strikes, rip currents, animals, accidents, human beings hurting other human beings. Every single day, somewhere on this planet, nature is cashing in a reminder that we are not nearly as in control as we like to think we are. And sometimes I honestly think the earth itself behaves almost like a living thing trying to shake us off of it. The same way a dog shakes fleas from its back. Now, maybe that sounds dramatic to some people, maybe even paranoid, but I've started to notice something over the years. The people who understand that reality, the people who move through life with awareness and respect for danger, often often seem to last a little longer than the people who move through life completely asleep to it. Not because they're stronger, not because they're fearless, but because awareness itself can become a survival instinct. And maybe that's exactly what happens to some of us around water. Maybe one day you suddenly stop seeing a lake as a just a lake or the ocean as just a day at the beach. Maybe one day you start seeing nature for what it really is: beautiful, ancient, peaceful at times, but never completely safe. And maybe that's why the story from 1916 still lingers in people's minds more than a hundred years later, because it shattered the illusion that danger stays where it belongs. The summer of 1916 was brutally hot along the Jersey shore. People were doing exactly what we still do today. They were trying to escape the heat. Families crowded the beaches, kids played in the surf, vacationers laughed under umbrellas, believing the water meant relief, relaxation, safety. And then the attacks started. One shark attack was horrifying enough. But then another happened. And another. Suddenly, newspapers across the country were printing terrifying headlines about something most Americans had barely thought of before that. Sharks weren't creatures from adventure novels anymore, they were real. But the part of the story that truly unsettled people, the part that still feels almost unreal even now, was what happened next. Because eventually the fear moved inland. Into Mattawan Creek. A shark had reportedly made its way from the ocean and into the freshwater creek in New Jersey, and suddenly people standing miles away from the beach no longer felt safe. Kids swimming in waste deep water, people gathering along the banks trying to understand what they were seeing. Confusion, panic, disbelief. Because in the human mind there are supposed to be boundaries. The ocean is where the sharks are, the lake is where you relax, the river is where you fish, the creek is where children play. But nature doesn't care about the boundaries we create. And maybe that's why stories like that stay with us, because they remind us how quickly our sense of safety can disappear. One minute the water feels peaceful, and the next minute people are running for shore. And decades later, Steven Spielberg would tap directly into that ancient fear with Jaws. Not just the fear of sharks, but the fear of suddenly realizing that something powerful may already be beneath you before you even know it's there. And what makes the story of Jaws even more fascinating is that the movie itself almost never worked in the first place. Before it became one of the biggest films ever made, Jaws was basically a giant headache floating around in the Atlantic. The story originally came from author Peter Benchley, who wrote the novel that introduced millions of people to the terrifying idea that something could be hunting beneath the surface of the water while ordinary people swam completely unaware. Then, a young director named Steven Spielberg took on the film adaptation. At the time, Spielberg was still relatively young and nobody fully understood that they were about to create what would become the first true summer blockbuster. But filming jaws became an absolute nightmare. Instead of filming safely inside giant studio tanks like most productions would have done, Spielberg insisted on filming out on the actual ocean. Real waves, real weather, real problems. And at the center of it all was a massive mechanical shark nicknamed Bruce. And Bruce barely worked. Salt water constantly destroyed the mechanics. The shark malfunctioned over and over again. Expensive scenes fell apart. Filming schedules dragged on endlessly. The budget exploded. Actors floated in the ocean for hours waiting for equipment to work while the crew battled weather, waves, and technical disasters. At one point, people genuinely believed the movie might fail completely. But here's the ironic part. The fact that Bruce kept breaking may have accidentally made jaws even scarier. Because Spielberg was forced to show less of the shock, and what audiences couldn't see became terrifying. That famous John Williams score, those two simple notes building slowly underneath the scene, did something psychological to people. It trained audiences to fear anticipation itself. Suddenly, empty water became frightening. A quiet shoreline became suspicious. A floating raft suddenly felt vulnerable. The shark didn't even need to be visible anymore. Your imagination did the rest. And maybe that's why Jaws still works fifty years later. Because deep down the movie understood something primal about human beings. We fear what we cannot see beneath us. And here's the ironic part about all of this. For all the fear Jaws created around sharks, sharks are actually far from the biggest danger in the water. The real danger is often the thing you never even notice. A rip current doesn't announce itself with dramatic music. There's no fin cutting through the surface, no giant splash, no warning speech from a grizzled old fisherman standing on the dock. Most of the time it just looks like water. That's it. Meanwhile, the beach is packed, kids are laughing and playing, music somewhere in the distance, families throwing footballs and frisbees, people floating on inflatable rafts, completely unaware that underneath all that sunshine and vacation energy, the ocean itself may already be moving with incredible force. And then suddenly somebody realizes they can't touch the bottom anymore. At first, maybe they panic just a little, then they try swimming harder towards shore, but the current keeps pulling quietly, steadily, and that's the terrifying thing about nature sometimes. It doesn't need to be loud to be deadly. The ocean doesn't always attacks, sometimes it simply just overwhelms. And the truth is, many of the greatest dangers in life work exactly the same way. They don't always arrive dramatically. Sometimes they pull at you slowly before you realize what's happening. That's why awareness matters. Because people who understand the ocean will tell you something that sounds almost backwards. If a rip current pulls you out, fighting directly against it can exhaust you faster. Panic can become just as dangerous as the water itself. Think about that for a second. Your own fear can start working against you. And maybe that's another reason why water unsettles so many of us deep down. Because once you enter it, you're no longer completely in control. You're negotiating with forces far older and stronger than yourself. Which honestly makes it fascinating that human beings continue returning to the water again and again every summer, like none of this applies to us. And for all my caution about the water, I have to say this too. I've always had enormous respect for the people who willingly go into it when everybody else is trying to get out of it. Lifeguards, the Coast Guard, rescue swimmers, those are different kinds of human beings. Most people barely notice lifeguards until the moment something goes wrong. Until suddenly that person sitting high above the beach, scanning the horizon, becomes the most important there. While everybody else is panicking, they're trained to stay calm, to recognize danger before most people even realize it exists. And the Coast Guard? I've always admired them. Even during my own time serving in the Army and the Army National Guard, there was always a part of me that thought the Navy, or especially the Coast Guard, would have been incredible. Maybe because I've always respected people willing to face environments that most of us instinctively fear. Think about what those men and women do for a living storms, night rescues, people stranded out at sea, helicopters hovering over black water while rescue swimmers jump directly into the chaos to save complete strangers. That's real courage. And maybe that that's another reason the water fascinates me, even though it unsettles me. Because for every story about danger, there's also a story about bravery, about human beings willingly placing themselves between nature and another human life. My niece's husband actually used to work as an engineer on offshore oil rigs before eventually leaving that line of work. And honestly, just hearing stories about life and work on the rigs fascinated me because that's an entirely different world, too. Humans living and working, surrounded by open deep water, storms, machinery, darkness, isolation, the kind of environment most people only see in movies or on documentaries. Truthfully, his story probably deserves its own episode someday. But I think of all of it ties together somehow. Because maybe the ocean represents two things at the exact same time: danger and human courage. And sometimes the people who understand the danger best are the very people willing to go directly into it when somebody needs help. And maybe the strangest part about all of this is that our fascination with water usually starts long before we ever learn to fear it. I remember when I was a kid, I could spend hours sitting in the bathtub playing with little plastic dinosaurs and stuff. To me, that bathtub wasn't just a bathtub, it became an ocean, a jungle river, some prehistoric world where these dinosaurs were crossing dangerous waters while I sat there creating entire adventures in my head. Things were different when I was a kid. But apparently not much has changed with some kids today. You know, the other day a good friend of mine at work was laughing while telling me about her five-year-old grandson staying over on the weekends. She said once he gets in the bathtub with his toys, she can barely get him out. He stays in there so long that she has to keep coming back to add more hot water. Exactly the same thing my mom used to do for me all those years back. And honestly, I think most parents listening to this probably understand exactly what we're talking about. Kids love water. Swimming pools, bathtubs, sprinklers, water parks, the beach, lakes, slip and slides in the backyard. It's almost instinctive. And maybe that's what makes this whole conversation so fascinating to me. Because somewhere between childhood and adulthood, many of us slowly develop a completely different relationship with water. As children, we mostly see wonder. As adults, we start recognizing the risk. But even then, the fascination never fully leaves us. We still vacation near the ocean, we still build homes besides lakes, we still sit quietly staring out at the waves for hours at a time. We still find peace in rainstorms and comfort in hot showers. And maybe there's a reason for that. Maybe human beings keep returning to the water because on some level it feels familiar to us. Ancient even. Like some part of us remembers that long before there were cities, highways, offices, and apartment buildings, life itself began in the water. So even while part of my brain is standing on the shoreline hearing the drawers theme music playing in my head, another part of me still understands the pull. And maybe that's really what this entire episode has been about. Change. Because there was absolutely a time in my life when the water called to me, I answered without hesitation. Ocean, lakes, rivers, pools, ponds, streams, creeks. If everybody else was going in, chances are I was right there with them. Back then the water represented freedom, adventure, escape. You didn't think about danger nearly as much because somewhere in your younger mind, you believe bad things mostly happen to other people. But age has a way of changing the conversation. Not overnight, not dramatically, quietly. One experience here, one news story there, one close call, one funeral, one realization that human beings are far more fragile than we like to pretend. And slowly, awareness begins replacing fearlessness. Now, does that mean we should stop living? No. I don't believe that at all. But I do think many of us eventually reach a point where peace starts becoming more valuable than adrenaline. And maybe that's why these days I find more comfort walking along the shoreline than swimming far out into the surf. Shoes off, pants legs rolled up, smelling the salt air, listening to the gulls overhead, feeling the water brush against my feet while respecting what lies further out beyond the breakers. Because I still love the ocean. I still feel drawn to it. And if you're somebody who believes in astrology and the strange connection people sometimes feel towards the stars and planets, then maybe you'll understand this. My zodiac sign is a water sign. Maybe that's the part of why I've always felt connected to the sea in some strange way. Because even now, I love the shoreline. The sound of waves, the smell of salt in the air, the feeling of standing there at sunset, staring out into something endless and ancient. At one time the sea would call to me, and I would answer her call. But today, when she calls, there's no answer. And maybe that's the real question underneath all of this. Is it only me? Am I the only person who has slowly developed this complicated relationship with water over time? The only one who now looks at deep dark water a little differently than I used to. Because honestly, at this stage of my life, the shallow end of the swimming pool back home sounds pretty good. One of those lazy kitty pools at a water park, also fine by me. And truthfully, some days I think I'm happy, it's just standing in my shower at home. Not because it's exciting, not because it's adventurous, but because it's peaceful. I can see the floor beneath my feet. I control the temperature. There are no currents, no drop-offs, no hidden dangers lurking beneath the surface. Just calm. And maybe that sounds boring to some people, but maybe growing older isn't always about losing the urge for adventure. Maybe sometimes it's about finally understanding the value of peace. And yet, despite everything we've talked about here, the danger, the fear, the currents, the sharks, the tragedies, the awareness, human beings still return to the water every chance they get. And maybe we always will. Maybe because somewhere deep inside of us, water still feels familiar, ancient, like some forgotten part of ourselves recognizes it. Civilizations formed around water. Entire histories were written besides rivers and oceans. We stare into the waves the same way we stare into campfires or thunderstorms, almost hypnotized by them. Maybe because life itself began there. Maybe that's why the sea continues calling to us no matter how much we learn about its dangers. Because the ocean represents something larger than fear. Wonder, mystery, humility, perspective. It reminds us how small we really are. And maybe that's why people continue walking towards the shoreline year after year, despite knowing exactly what nature is capable of. Not because human beings are foolish, but because somewhere between fear and fascination, between danger and beauty, between awareness and wonder the water is still close to us. Thank you.