My Quicksand Apocalypse: A Childhood in Constant Peril

Why the world needed more quicksand PSAs (or so I thought)

The Greatest Threat of My Youth

My childhood was a tense, sweaty affair. Not because of playground bullies or looming book reports that threatened public humiliation, but because of quicksand. Effing quicksand! It wasn’t just a hazard, it was the only hazard.

Forget falling off a jungle gym, getting hit by a bus, or even the stress of a looming dentist appointment. Quicksand was the silent, sandy assassin, lurking around every corner, disguised as a harmless patch of damp earth. Just waiting for me.

A Government-Approved Punishment

My world was where quicksand was less a rare geological phenomenon and more a state-sponsored execution method

.🗣️ "Matthew, you've been late paying your library fines. Prepare for... THE PIT!" 🗣️ {Dramatic organ music swells. 🎶Minor chords🎶}

Parental Negligence at Its Worst

My parents, bless their oblivious souls, would casually suggest a nature hike.

🗣️ "A nature hike?" I’d cry, eyes wide with horror. "Are you trying to get me KILLED? Do you know how many unsuspecting hikers have been swallowed whole by the earth’s sandy-scary pie-hole?"

They didn’t, actually. But I did.

My Foolproof Quicksand Escape Plan

I developed elaborate quicksand survival strategies:

• Carried a ridiculously long, coiled rope just in case. (Still do)

• Practiced the “swim on your back” technique in the bathtub, to my rubber duck's confusion.

• Negotiated with my dog, Licorice, to be my quicksand rescue buddy. She just licked my face. Traitor.

An Exercise in Catastrophizing

But the true genius of my quicksand paranoia was its sheer, unshakable logic. After all, what could be more terrifying than being slowly, mercilessly, sucked into the earth’s insatiable pie-hole?

• Shark attacks? Too fast.

• Falling from a plane? Over too quickly.

• Quicksand? The perfect storm of fear and sand.

The Tragic Truth

Looking back, I realize my quicksand obsession was a masterclass in childhood shpilkes. I was a tiny, sandy-bearded Nostradamus, predicting the end of humanity one unfortunate step at a time.

It wasn’t until a particularly boring science documentary about sedimentary rock that the illusion shattered.

* Quicksand, it turns out, is less “murderous vortex” and more “slightly inconvenient mud puddle.”

But even now, a little part of me, the same part that still believes in the tooth fairy and the boogeyman, can't help but glance suspiciously at any damp patch of sand. Just in case.

{You never know when the earth might decide to have a snack.}

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Welcome to 50 Tastes of Gray, where this word-slinging chef serves up a menu of thoughts, aging hippie wisdom & delightful nonsense, with an occasional serious course to cleanse your palate. What can I fix you to eat, my friend?