I think most everyone has an instinctive "fear" of something. Fear of heights, fear of aliens, fear of pinto beans...
I've known a few people over the years that were scuba divers, who raved about it. Now, I'm a fairly adventerous person. I'll give pretty much anything a go. But going underwater? HELL no.
And it wasn't a fear of drowning, claustrophobia, or running out of air that bothered me. I was convinced that the first time I hit the deep, I'd run smack dab into a dead body. Dead bodies, in of themselves, don't bother me so much. But one that's been sitting in the bottom of the lake rotting for God-knows-how-long does. I'd imagine turning a corner somewhere, and coming face to face with a corpse. And it would be staring right at me. It would be a "Caddyshack" moment at the surface, where a Snicker's looking object would suddenly appear. Followed by a rush of bubbles, and a SECOND dead body. More specifically, me.
My buddy Farnsworth, who I've known since high school, had recently got into scuba diving. It was a natural for him, considering he has a house on Lake Coeur d'Alene where he spends most of his summer time. He'd been telling me about how cool it was for awhile, and I'd just kinda nod my head in agreement. I was glad that HE was the one who'd be running into bodies underwater.
This last summer, he finally popped the question. He had just got a bunch of new gear, and had an extra set. And was looking for a dive buddy. More specifically, me. Shit. I decided to put my fears aside and see what all the hooplah was about. So here we are. And by the way, Farnsworth calls me Cornstarch. I'm still not sure why.
And I'm still scared of spiders.