Swimming with Jellyfish: A Childhood Memory of Risk, Wonder, and the Sea

A Mini Memoir by Tate Basildon

The wind whipped against my face, wet and wild with salt spray, as I gripped the steering wheel of the speedboat. My eight-year-old hands, small but determined, clutched it with white-knuckled focus while the hull slapped against the rolling Atlantic. Every rise and drop of the bow made my stomach lurch in the best way possible. I wasn’t just along for the ride—I was in control. And in a family where the older boys always led the charge, that meant everything.

“Want to go faster?” my stepfather bellowed over the engine’s roar. His voice was full of laughter, his smile as daring as mine.

I nodded so hard it nearly knocked the salt from my eyelashes. Without a second thought, he nudged the throttle forward. The boat surged, slicing through the waves with giddy violence. The twin engines growled behind us like unleashed beasts. My brothers whooped and braced themselves. My mother, not so amused, clung to her seat.

“Slow down, hon!” she shouted, her voice nearly drowned by the wind. But I wasn’t listening. None of us were. Not to her, not to caution, not to anything but the moment.

Eventually, the engine eased and my stepfather pointed toward a quiet cove just ahead. “Take us in,” he said, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

The water stilled as we approached. The boat slid into the bay like a secret, the waves disappearing into a glassy calm. I steered us straight ahead, chest puffed with pride. The moment I released the wheel, he lifted me gently off his lap and took over. Just like that, I was a passenger again.

My brothers began stripping off their shirts and climbing toward the sides of the boat. They were halfway to cannonball dives when my stepbrother’s voice cut through the buzz.

“Wait!”

We all froze.

He was staring over the edge, and we followed his gaze. The surface shimmered with movement—pale, ghostly shapes drifting just beneath. Thousands of them.

“Jellyfish,” he said, his voice flat, almost reverent.

The water was alive with them. Transparent bells pulsed softly, catching the light like wet glass. Tentacles trailed behind them like lace. It should have been frightening. Instead, I saw something beautiful. They looked like dancers suspended in slow motion.

I don’t remember deciding to jump. I just remember standing, pulling my shirt over my head, and diving in.

“TATE, NO!” they screamed.

The world changed as I plunged beneath the surface. Sound dulled, replaced by the hush of water closing over me. I opened my eyes. Jellyfish surrounded me, brushing against my arms and chest as I swam through them. They didn’t sting. They didn’t flee. They simply moved, as if I were one of them.

I stayed under longer than I should have, twisting, reaching, laughing silently. I didn’t want to go up. I didn’t want to leave. But eventually, I surfaced.

The noise was immediate. My name being screamed. Hands reaching. My mother’s face—white, eyes wild with panic.

“Get out of there!” someone shouted. “You’ll get stung!”

And just like that, memory hit.

I was three, sitting in the surf with a red plastic truck when something slithered across my leg. A line of fire erupted along my skin, and I screamed. My mother ran. A fisherman shouted “Man o’ war!” as he sprinted toward me with a machete, hacking at the water. My stepfather scooped me up and ran from the waves. I remember the welts. I remember the pain. The fear stayed longer than the burn.

But from that day on, something changed.

I was never stung again.

No matter how many times I swam, no matter how many jellyfish surrounded me, nothing ever happened. My brothers were baffled. Adults warned me not to press my luck. But each time I dove in, the water welcomed me. While others feared the sting, I felt something different—something quiet, intimate. It was as if the sea had claimed me. As if I had been marked not for harm, but for belonging.

Some called it a miracle. Some said I’d built up immunity. I didn’t care. I only knew that in the water, among those drifting creatures, I felt at home.

But that was a long time ago.

I don’t know if I’m still immune. Science would say no. Age would say be careful. Common sense would say absolutely not.

The last time I swam in the Caribbean seas, I was in my twenties. Young enough to test fate. Brave—or foolish—enough to believe I was still invincible.

Now? I don’t think I’d risk swimming among thousands of jellyfish to find out.

If I ever return to those waters, it’ll be with a snorkel and mask, far from jellyfish season. A quieter encounter. A respectful distance.

Some part of me will always belong to them. But I no longer need to dive in to prove it.

Have you ever had a strange or magical encounter with nature? Share your story in the comments—I’d love to hear it.