From my fish tank to my collection of seashells, I like to keep elements of the ocean infused throughout my apartment, so my tiny New York City studio can feel a bit more like my childhood home in Massachusetts. Yet when beach season rolls along, my yearning for the Cape Cod coast becomes too strong, and my guppies can no longer cut it. That's when it’s time to find a fish that requires a bigger boat. As if I needed an excuse to return to one of my favorite thrillers of all time, the 50th anniversary of Peter Benchley’s Jaws—the novel that inspired a summer blockbuster so big it transformed beach-going for a whole generation—is as good a reason as any to dive back in to this horror classic.
Even among the landlocked, Jaws screams “summertime nostalgia.” The very mention of the 1975 film prompts folks to gush about how its release swept the nation into a frenzy of shark-infested suspense. But as any amateur marine biologist (such as myself) will tell you, there is always more lurking in the depths than initially meets the eye, and the many personal anecdotes that the franchise reels in from both its devoted and casual fans only begin to scratch the surface of how Jaws continues to inform our relationship to these apex predators. So, just how deep does the full story go?
Author Peter Benchley took the inspiration for his debut novel from the shocking tragedy of the 1916 shark attacks, which resulted in the deaths of four swimmers in coastal New Jersey. Because these incidents occurred in brackish waters, scientists now believe that the true culprit of the attacks was most likely a bull shark. However, as Benchley would later lament, the possible misconception by journalists that a great white shark was to blame, paired with the phenomenal success of his novel decades later and its subsequent film adaptation, helped cement the man-eating reputation of the species, despite the reality that far more sharks are killed by humans each year than the other way around.
According to biologist Jasmin Graham—who beautifully illuminates the harm our misunderstanding of these creatures inflicts on a variety of ecosystems in her memoir Sharks Don't Sink—roughly 100 million sharks are killed in interactions with humans each year, a truly sobering number compared to the 10 human fatalities that stem, on average, from the misplaced curiosity of these unfairly maligned animals.
Shark conservationists have long fought to sway public opinion from fear to fascination. Still, the wake of Jaws inflicted damages on these efforts that, in turn, induced nightmarish effects on Peter Benchley’s nature-loving conscience, despite the fact that he'd created a hit beyond most debut authors' wildest dreams. In retrospect, I don't think he stood a chance at anticipating the sheer scale of the film's success—especially with such a young and relatively unknown director at the helm. But Steven Spielberg instantly put himself on the map with the jaw-dropping release of his breakout blockbuster.
Bolstered by the impressive magnitude of its leading animatronic beast alongside John Williams’s legendary score, the film showcases the director’s signature touch for inserting giddy fun into cinematic moments of heart-pumping suspense. Amity Island is fictional, but the movie was filmed on Martha's Vineyard. And while the adaptation scales back on much of the interpersonal drama that unfolds between Amity residents in the novel, Spielberg’s spirited inclusion of Martha’s Vineyard locals in some of the film’s most iconic scenes highlights the fierce loyalties that keep beach towns afloat, preserving a major theme from Benchley’s original story.
When it comes to understanding the delicate relationships that humans maintain with their surrounding ecosystems, the deepest wisdom always stems from local perspectives. The filming of Jaws permanently altered the tourist economy of Martha’s Vineyard, inviting movie buffs and shark enthusiasts to join the usual waves of elite vacationers who visit this quiet and relatively remote spot in summer. Likewise, both nearby Nantucket and mainland New Bedford, known for its historic whaling port, live in the shadow of another monstrous epic: Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. Like Jaws, Moby-Dick doesn't cast a particularly sympathetic light on its titular sea beast, nor does it feature hunting practices any wildlife conversationist would approve of today. However, we New Englanders take great pride in our tethered legacy to these tales, leveraging the good-natured fun and inherent fear evoked by these suspenseful stories toward celebrating the mighty predators that patrol our waters.
Every year, in honor of Melville’s departure from New Bedford on a whaling ship in 1841, Moby-Dick fans gather for an annual marathon reading of the novel at the New Bedford Whaling Museum—a task that, judging by most versions of the audiobook, requires around 24 hours of focused attention to accomplish. Surely, those in attendance derive a sense of awe from being surrounded by the museum's impressive array of historic harpoons and whaling artifacts. However, considering all the whale-themed costumes and genuine excitement for the book's famously abundant and reverently detailed cetacean facts, it seems to me that these literary devotees are likely pretty big fans of whales themselves, despite their obsession with a novel that glorifies their killing.
The more I meditate on this annual commitment to reconnecting with the story's terror, rage, and spirit of adventure, the more I wonder whether indulging our natural fears of the ocean’s top predators really competes with our contemporary aims to protect them. Terror and suspense can be powerfully effective forces—just look at Halloween traditions and amusement parks. So, these iconic stories can also spark a lasting curiosity about the ocean, evolving into far more nuanced perspectives as we learn more and plunge below the surface of those emotions.
The way I see it, cautionary tales of scary stories at sea have long served a major role in maritime cultures, used by seasoned sailors to foster respect for the very real dangers of the open ocean. And generally speaking, there is nothing we New Englanders love more than boasting about the natural grit we garner in the face of our region’s harsh conditions. In fact, the most dangerous elements of our local ecosystems tend to double as our greatest sources of pride—teeth and all.
As much as I love a good thriller, what I love even more is a great redemption story, and 50 years after the release of Jaws, the population of great white sharks off the coast of Cape Cod is booming—a phenomenon that has thrilled conservationists, and would have probably thrilled Peter Benchley, who died in 2006, even more. As we celebrate the ongoing legacy of Jaws, it is time for us to thank the author for providing such a large audience with a jumping-off point for exploring our natural curiosity about these sublimely fascinating creatures. Because, if the past five decades have taught us anything, it is that the more we learn about these magnificent animals, the less likely it is for bloodshed to occur between humans and sharks in either direction.
It may be that “ignorance is the parent of fear,” as Ishmael remarks in the opening chapters of Moby-Dick. However, moving beyond our initial reactions of terror to unravel our understanding of what scares us allows us to develop a deeper sense of respect for the most dangerous elements of our world, which, in turn, make this planet our familiar home. It would make Peter Benchley, who dedicated the rest of his life to ocean conservation and advocacy, proud to know that, five decades on, leaning in to our natural fear of sharks inspires us to learn more about them everyday. So, if you’re ready to take the plunge, check out some of my favorite listens about sharks, from science and history to memoir and fiction.
