Putting the science in fiction - Dan Koboldt, Chuck Wendig 2018
How the ocean will kill you
Earth and other planets. Yes, Pluto counts!
by Danna Staaf
The ocean covers 71 percent of our planet and probably leaks into at least that much of our collective psyche. You can’t dip your toe in a tidepool without getting bitten by symbolism. The depths of the sea represent humanity’s unconscious; maritime weather stands for fickle fate; fish denote Jesus; and the white whale—well, we all know about him.
The ocean has shaped high fantasy like Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea series and hard science fiction like David Brin’s Uplift books, adventures like Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and thrillers like Peter Benchley’s Jaws (Doubleday, 1974).
The immense popularity of these last two titles, however, has contributed to one of the most common misconceptions about the ocean among readers and writers alike.
The ocean can kill you, but probably not in the way you think
When they hear that the ocean is dangerous, most people think of great white sharks, giant squid, maybe even sea serpents. But the most dangerous thing in the ocean is actually . . . water. Because you can’t breathe it.
In the United States, about thirty-five hundred people die every year by drowning. About half of these deaths occur in swimming pools and bathtubs, while the other half occur in what the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention calls “natural water” settings: the ocean, lakes, and rivers. So compare 1,750 annual deaths by natural water to less than one by shark (some years there are no fatal shark attacks) and zero by squid (there’s never been a confirmed fatal squid attack).
In addition to suffocation, water can play another unpleasant-and-sometimes-fatal trick: hypothermia. You may have noticed that sitting for an hour in a 70-degree pool chills your body like sitting in 70-degree air never would. That’s because water is an excellent conductor of heat, whisking the warmth away from your skin far faster than air. Many a shipwreck survivor, saved from drowning by a life vest, has died of hypothermia before help could arrive.
Real people who work or play in the ocean, like divers and sailors and surfers, focus most of their safety precautions on these water-related risks. Fictional characters can do the same. Life jackets don’t just languish under benches in case of emergencies—boaters, canoers, and kayakers are often required or at least strongly recommended to wear them at all times. Depending on your story, this may be an unnecessary detail or a great opportunity to inject characterization. (“Excuse me, I have to run home and change into my tangerine pants to match this vest.”)
And if you do want to hurt or kill a character in the ocean, it’s tragically easy to find inspiration in real headlines. Operating a boat under the influence. Night swimming alone. Ignoring the dive computer’s warnings. Such risky but all-too-common behaviors can easily cause hypothermia, drowning, or both.
Most animals in the ocean are not sharks or whales
But I know, I know. Sometimes you just have to threaten your characters with a deadly animal. In that case, may I suggest a cone snail or a blue-ringed octopus?
Marine biologists have a name for the large, but not terribly abundant, creatures that receive a disproportionate amount of attention from the popular media: charismatic megafauna. Big animals like dolphins and great whites sure don’t lack for star power—but their entire existence depends on an uncounted number of smaller species, from algae and coral to sardines and snails.
In fact, the ocean is Earth’s premier showcase for the diversity of animal life. It’s got dancing flatworms, sea cucumbers that breathe through their anuses, sailing jellyfish, octopuses that dress up like shrimp, shrimp that can break your thumb . . . I could go on and on.
Most of these creatures are invertebrates, animals without a backbone. And some are truly bizarre. In college, my invertebrate zoology professor said that if he had to pick a group of animals that came from outer space, it would be the echinoderms—the group that includes starfish, sea urchins, and sea cucumbers.
Instead of having a left and right side like we’re used to, they have five-pointed symmetry. Instead of a proper circulatory system, they pump raw seawater through their bodies, using the pressure of the water to move their feet. They can regenerate their arms and even their guts. Aliens among us, indeed.
In fact, many writers have drawn inspiration from the marine realm for creating alien and fantasy life forms. Invertebrates offer an almost endless diversity of shapes, forms, and behaviors to stir the imagination (see chapter 26, “Writing Outside the Human Box,” and chapter 31, “Tentacles: From Octopus to Alien”).
If you’re writing horror, try looking up marine invertebrate parasites. There’s a barnacle that grows entirely inside the body of a female crab and compels her to tend the barnacle’s eggs as though they were her own. There are blood-sucking isopods (relatives of the garden-variety pill bug) that feed exclusively on fish tongues. In the most disturbing case, one particular species of isopod actually replaces the fish’s tongue with its own body.
The ocean we’re used to is unnaturally empty
But if you’re not inventing a new species or traumatizing your readers, if you’re just writing a few boat scenes or a romantic walk on the beach, do you really need to know about all this biodiversity? Plenty of people who live in coastal towns never see much more than seagulls and seals. However, it’s worth remembering that today’s ocean is the product of centuries of overfishing.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long humans have been extracting life from the sea at a greater rate than it could be replaced. Steller’s sea cow, a cousin of the manatee, was hunted to extinction by 1768. The development of industrial fishing techniques and an increased global desire for protein went on ramping up the harvest, leaving drastically depleted oceans that seem “normal” today.
Are you writing historical fiction or creating a fantasy/alternate world? Try filling the oceans with turtles and fish twice the size of a person. Pack in the whales like sardines. Consider reading accounts of historical abundance, like this passage from Richard Henry Dana Jr.’s memoir Two Years Before the Mast, set in the year 1834:
“We were surrounded far and near by shoals of sluggish whales and grampuses [orcas], which the fog prevented our seeing, rising slowly to the surface, or perhaps lying out at length, heaving out those lazy, deep, and long-drawn breathings which give such an impression of supineness and strength. . . . I stood leaning over the bulwarks, listening to the slow breathings of the mighty creatures—now one breaking the water just alongside, whose black body I almost fancied I could see through the fog; and again another, which I could just hear in the distance—until the low and regular swell seemed like the heaving of the ocean’s mighty bosom to the sound of its own heavy and long-drawn respirations.”
On the other hand, is your writing set in the future? Consider that whales may become wholly extinct, as in the charmingly cheesy 1986 movie Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. And charismatic megafauna aren’t the only ones who will be affected. It’s also reasonable to speculate on the demise of coral reefs and mangrove forests, each habitat a haven for innumerable small fish and invertebrates.
We often think of the ocean as powerful and dangerous. It is. But at the same time, many marine animals and ecosystems are fragile and endangered. To incorporate both aspects in our writing is to give to the sea what we try to give to all of our characters—depth.