Photo by Dan Stark on Unsplash

After years of pandemic-related hunkering down, a swim in the ocean at a beautiful Hawaiian beach might feel like a dream to most people. To me, it was terrifying. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of the ocean, but it was a gorgeous day in Kailua — the sun was sparkly as ever and the air was warm and salty — and not partaking in ocean fun felt almost disrespectful to the state of Hawaii and the very concept of being human. I took a few deep breaths and placed our belongings on a ledge a few dozen feet from the shore. “This is gonna be fun, right?” I asked my fiancé Hudson. Of course, he told me. I grabbed his hand tightly and said, “Let’s do it.”

It all started when I was five years old. I was swimming in the bay on Fire Island while my mom and godfather sat on the beach reading, intermittently looking up to make sure the kiddos were OK. I was having a blast splashing about by myself, when my head fell under, and I took a big gulp of water. Having lost control of my body, I began to panic. It’s my first memory of feeling like I was literally going to die. Wildly flapping my arms about, I managed to pull myself up, and then threw up a mix of salt water and the lunch I had eaten several hours earlier.

I frantically and quickly made my way back to shore, and sat next to my mom, shivering while I sipped on a bottle of Poland Spring. For whatever reason, I was incapable of telling her what had just happened. Even though I was totally spooked, and could’ve used some maternal comfort, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of the whole thing. When you’re a kid, you don’t get to keep too many things private — for whatever reason, this was the thing I decided I would keep to myself. From that moment on, salt water was my enemy.

Many people are scared of the ocean because sharks and other monsters happen to live there. Not me. (I, in fact, adore a sharky! Although, after a vacation to Costa Rica about a decade ago, I can’t say I’m a huge fan of jellyfish.) Mostly, the ocean scares me because it is as mighty as it is volatile. A wave can knock the wind out of you, the tide can thrash you around, and drag you further and further in. Not having control over things like that freaks me out.

My mom grew up in Sydney, and we visited several times when I was a kid. When we got to Bondi Beach, my sister and mom would dive into the ocean, while I would sit on the sand reading, refusing to go in. My mom and sister always loved exercising — my mom having done martial arts since her early twenties, my sister an avid runner — and I was the odd one out, unmuscular and uncoordinated. So when I passed on going in the ocean, my family let me be. It was typical Eve, eschewing physical activity for something cerebral instead. My family never interrogated me about why I didn’t want to go swimming in Australia, one of the most beautiful places to swim in the world. My fear felt like some embarrassing, illegitimate secret that I could only deny through avoidance.

For a while, I gave up on the ocean. As you get older, you increasingly spend your time doing things you have a natural aptitude for. Conquering the waves of the mercurial sea simply wasn’t for me. But in my mid-twenties, I began to develop an appreciation for the outdoors. It began with the realization that if I ever wanted to overcome my clinical depression, my life could not be entirely sedentary. I slowly learned how to love biking, then hiking, then playing basketball. When I moved to Reno two years ago, I started to get more comfortable with water, swimming in and kayaking on the brilliant blue depths of Lake Tahoe.

So when I went to Hawaii with Hudson earlier this year, I was determined to seize the final frontier: the ocean. The stars were perfectly aligned — I was with someone who saw my fear and didn’t judge it. He wanted to help me triumph over it because he was born in Hawaii, a perennial ocean boy, and wanted to share something he loves with someone he loves. As we walked into the ocean together, holding hands, I felt good about the whole endeavor, safe. The water was warm, the tide calm, and I was ready to try to swim.

Suddenly the lifeguard, startled, began screaming at us and the other swimmers to run. I glanced up at the horizon and the biggest wave I’ve ever seen had cropped up out of nowhere, and was barreling toward us.

We couldn’t run fast enough. The wave crashed down over us, thrashing me around, knocking the wind out of me. My body was scraped up and bruised. Our towels and car key were unable to escape the ocean’s wrath, soaking wet and littered about the shore.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” the lifeguard said.

I quickly gathered our things and took them as far away from the ocean as possible. As I was wringing out our towels, I was surprised by the emotion I was overcome with: annoyance. Nothing bad had actually happened. I wasn’t afraid. I was as safe as I ever was. Rather, I was irritated that our stuff was drenched and that my legs were bruised.

I’d be lying if I told you that after that, I became a mermaid or some shit. A few days later, we went snorkeling on some rough waters and even though I got myself to go in and saw some incredible aquatic life, I spent the whole time trying to stop my body from going into total panic mode, Hudson with me every step of the way, making me feel safe and ensuring that I saw all the best fishies.

Having the courage to do something you’re afraid of is never easy, but I was able to get myself to go into the ocean because I was with someone I love, who loves me back and also loves the ocean. It wasn’t just that Hudson was encouraging and supportive. With him, I felt a sort of responsibility to get out of my comfort zone — he was relying on me to have a good time with him, and I wasn’t going to let a big wave or a mouthful of salt water get in the way of that.