Thalassaphobia

Things weren't going exactly to plan, but then they never do. I ought to know. I hear people's stories. I'm a clinical psychologist, actually a Professor of Clinical Psychology at the University of Washington. Practically speaking I have to do my clinical research during the four months of the summer. I had a good idea but I was running late. To make a long story short, I issued the call for volunteer subjects before getting the grant approved. The committee rejected my proposal, so now I had test subjects but no funding.

I might have guessed they would turn me down. My idea had a few things going against it. Number one the condition I wanted to work on, Thalassaphobia, not exactly in the top fifty mental health conditions that society wants to cure, not prominent in the DSM, the handbook of defined conditions. Depression yes, schizophrenia certainly, dementia absolutely, the fear of large bodies of water, not so much. But it affects a lot of people, and it can lead to activity restriction and depression. Certainly I had written that, hoping to get funded. Then there were the ways I proposed to spend those funds. I needed to rent a big boat to put the subjects on it. Chartering a private yacht is not the funding expense that most granting agencies want to advertise to the public, not the sort of scandalous story they want to think of in the Seattle Intelligencer, let's put it that way.

I know, it has rejection written all over it. So why did I persist? Well, for one thing, I myself am a thalassaphobe. Plus have you ever thought about how many miles of coast there are in Seattle? It's almost all coastline one way or another. I cannot go close to any of it. This has ruined any hope I might have had for a dating life. I don't think I'm too hard on the eyes, and I get lots of invitations to drink coffee someplace by the ocean. I explain I cannot go near the ocean. Buzzkill! Breakup before the first coffee. Why don't I move? Because I like my job. The Psych department is a good place for me to be. I might be able to go to a similar university with less coastline if I had a better research dossier, which of course brings me back to this project.

Well I was about ready to admit defeat, when one of my colleagues said she mentioned my idea to her brother and he wanted to be interviewed. Never disappoint a colleague, so I am meeting him in five minutes. Here he is now.

Me: Please come in. Oh my goodness you're _ [Subject 6: All names anonymized]. I had no idea your sister teaches in the department. She explained my project? How does it interest you?

Subject 6, a devilishly handsome software multi multi millionaire, probably a billionaire, proceeded to tell me that he is irrationally petrified by even the thought of a large body of water, and that this fear is taking a toll on his pleasure. The more he talked, the more interested I became in his case. Just like me he found his phobia put a damper on romance. He wondered whether he suffered from erectile dysfunction. He didn't know because he hadn't had enough occasions to find out.

He sounded like the best subject I could have wished for. You see I am that rare breed these days, a New CBT neo-Freudian. I think sex is mixed up with all phobias and I think we can work on that with slightly modified Mind over Mood Exercises. Reluctantly I explained that I had no funding.

He asked what I needed. I said the project would be a mixture of New CBT and exposure therapy. I needed the use of a mid-sized private yacht for a week. No problem, he said, we could use his. I asked why he had a cruise ship when he was afraid of the ocean. He said every successful entrepreneur in his position had to own one. I thought about that, and supposed he was right. So my project was now a go. The Dramatis Personae:

Subject 1: A competitive weight lifter, female, 21 years old

Subject 2: A barista, male, 28 years old

Subject 3: A shy barista who works at a topless coffee booth, female, 22 years old

Subject 4: A programmer, introverted, male, 32 years old

Subject 5: Me, a Psych prof. Female, 33 years old. Is it ethical to include myself as a trial subject? Welcome to the New CBT, where we don't have to work within so many of those pesky restrictions.

Subject 6: Tech mogul, as described, all of the above self-identified Thalassaphobes.

Ship's crew: The Cook, two sailors.

Day 1. At sundown all subjects were anesthetized, then wheeled along the dock and onto the ship. Unconscious, we sailed a few feet from the dock. Window coverings had been placed at the cabin, and late that night, we had our first session below.

S1: How far are we from shore?

Me: Does it matter?

S1: Of course!

Me: Then here is our first CBT exercise, mind over mood. Everyone mark down your fear level right now. Next imagine that we are ten miles from shore [their fear was visible and palpable]. Mark the level now. Okay what if I tell you that we are actually moored right next to the dock? They all exhaled. What is the fear level now? I waited a moment. Is it lower? They all nodded. That is your first demonstration of mind over mood. You don't know how far away from the shore you are, but when you believe you are ten miles away you are very afraid, moored beside the dock not so much. Mind over mood, you see!

Murmurs and comments as they considered this...

How many of you can swim? No hands went up. I can't either and that is part of my phobia. What do you think is the probability of our capsizing or sinking? Say it out loud, please.

S1: 50 percent

S2: 33 percent

S3: 50 percent

S4: 30 percent

Me: Okay, mark your fear level now. They did. Subject 6?

S6: 1 in a hundred thousand. I bought the best. It won't tip over and it is unsinkable. Maybe if were hit by several torpedos, otherwise no.

Me: Good. Please revise your estimates. S1?

S1: 1 percent. They all greed to 1 percent.

Me: Good, mark your fear level. Do you see? Mentally you reduced the probability of a disaster, and your fear level falls. The lesson? You are in charge of the weight or gravity of a fear, and you are in charge of estimating the probability that it will happen. In other words, you are in charge. Mind over mood, always!

Lots of murmuring and discussing. Okay it's enough for the first evening. Retire to your cabins, get a good rest. Breakfast is at 7. It's a big day tomorrow. The window coverings come off! They trickled out of the meeting room to their luxurious cabins. I felt very satisfied with the first day. Between the work and the after effects of the anesthetic I fell asleep immediately.

Breakfast was on the main deck, with a full view of the ocean. All of us were nervous, then breakfast was served: champagne and strawberries, just like any luxury cruise. We were distracted from our fear. Lesson two, I said, the neurons get bored of our phobia. When there is something more interesting, our attention goes to that. At those words I saw the women glance at Subject 6. It was not surprising. He was devastatingly handsome, and his wealth didn't hurt. He might be enough to distract them out of their phobias, I thought. Maybe I can use that. Ethical? Methodologically kosher? Yes in the New CBT.

We sailed away from the dock for a couple of hours. I made everyone repeatedly practice Lessons 1 and 2. We sailed through a dinner of steak and escargot with petits fours for dessert and a fine white wine.

Day 3 started out well, but our introvert had checked the weather forecast and found a storm brewing. Muted panic among the passengers, including myself. Bravely, I made a joke. Why did God invent meteorologists? I asked. No one could think of an answer. To make economists look better, I shouted triumphantly. Subject 6 chuckled. Lesson 3, I said, Don't predict bad conditions or disasters. That is catastrophizing. Is it? asked the introvert. Is it really? Yes, really, I said.

At 7 p.m. there was thunder and lightning. We went to the meeting room below decks, and talked it through. How much weight should we assign to the storm? It was up to us as individuals. What was the probability of disaster? Again up to us, and Subject 6 reassured us that we were absolutely safe. At 9 p.m. we retired to our cabins. I was restless for a while with the thunder, but eventually I fell into a sound sleep.

I was awakened by a knock at my cabin. I looked at my phone. 5 a.m. Maybe it was an emergency. I opened my door. It was Subject 6. I asked him what was wrong.

S6: Nothing Doc--it's working!

Me: What do you mean?

S6: The treatment. Your research. Your model, the whole thing! I had sex with the weight lifter, then I had sex with the topless barista. No problem with erection--I left them both begging for more. Patience girls, I said, we can do this again tomorrow night!

My head was whirling. Ethics? Methodology? Yikes! What conditions had I created? On the other hand, I could see clearly that I was right, absolutely, entirely right, and I felt a surge of satisfaction as a mental-health professional and cutting-edge neo-Freudian researcher.

S6: Oh I feel something! Seeing you with so few clothes, I--he lowered his pyjamas to check his member. Several thoughts rushed through my sleepy head like greased weasels. My hypothesis was really, really right, though for the experimental integrity something might possibly be not absolutely by the book about this. It might be delicate to write up, and maybe my choice of sleepwear was not ideal for a serious researcher.

Just then the door flew open, and the weight lifter and the barista burst into my cabin. The barista shrieked at me: You nymphomaniac Jezebel!

Before I could find the wit to say anything relevant, the weight lifter grabbed Subject 6. He was handsome but not heavy. The two of them frog marched him out of the cabin. I should have followed immediately but it took me a moment to get up the courage. I heard S6 shriek, and, as I reached the deck, I watched the two women propel him overboard. I ran to the side. We were a good thirty feet above the water. The billionaire splashed into the water and in a minute he surfaced. "I'm not afraid!" he yelled. "It worked! I'm not afraid of the ocean any more!"

There was a pause. Was this psycho-reality-therapeutic success of a kind? I wondered how I would be able to write up the results. The weight lifter asked how deep the water was. I said about a mile. The topless barista asked me, "Can he swim?"

I said "No, not at all..."