When I was 4 years old, I was pushed into a reservoir of sharks. Really, it was an aquarium tank, and by sharks I mean bat-rays. I was actually 10. Rather than pushed, I fell while trying to pet an animal at the Monterey Aquarium. As an avid "Little Mermaid" fan, I felt it my duty to welcome any sea creature that might cross my path.
I leaned over the edge of a bat-ray tank and dipped my fingers into the water. The circular pool was surrounded by children waiting their turn to touch a Myliobatis californica (fancy name for the flappy bottom feeder). The rays swam by, each time a little further from my touch. In my peripheral, I could see a large one swimming towards me. I lunged out to ensure my grasp of the winged beast, slipped on the slimy edge and fell into the tank. The bat-rays scattered.
Luckily, hours spent at our community pool prepared me for such a moment. I was no stranger to curiously-smelling bodies of water. I scrambled out of the tank and ran for the nearest paper towel roll. My favorite outfit was ruined by the salt-water. The 10 grey kittens that danced on my pink sweater would never look the same. Later, my grandparents did not think to ask why my hair was wet and my LA Gears were soggy. They must of thought I was sweaty.
In the following years, I learned to control my excitement when I reached to pet an animal. Goats, baby chicks, and even guinea pigs were no match for my reserve. If anything, the suggestion of a "petting zoo" sent a icy chill down my spine. I often wonder how the bat-ray incident shaped my life. Had that traumatic experience not occurred, perhaps I would have become a famous marine biologist or Shamoo trainer. I could have been the president of the animal kingdom, but no, I live the life a writer/pizza-person. I live with the knowledge that animals have their world and humans have another. We have no reason to pet each other.
