The kids in the swimming pool were giddy.
They took turns jumping into the water, thrashing around like sharks, and splashing each other.
I sat in a lounger on the deck, cringing.
All the activity didn’t bother me. Kids will be kids after all.
But the gleeful shrieks they were emitting? That was something different.
The shrill noise hit my eardrums like a heat-seeking missile. It caused my heart to take off like a jet engine. And it put my nerves on red alert.
I had hoped to spend my afternoon relaxing poolside, but the shrieking left me in fight-or-flight mode. It was threatening to ruin my day.
I knew there was no easy antidote for my situation. The kids weren’t trying to trigger my body’s distress signals. They simply hadn’t learned how to control their voices yet.
I would need to wait out the soundstorm.
Eventually, the kids got out of the swimming pool.
Their parents wrapped them in towels, and the whole family headed on their way.
The area was quiet, once again.
Well, mostly quiet.
One end of the pool was flanked by a waterfall feature. The sound of fresh water cascading down offered a subtle soundtrack. And it had quite the effect on me.
My heart rate slowed down. My nerves went nearly catatonic. And I was tempted to doze off.
This is the vibe I’d come here for, I thought. The waterfall noises. Not the high-pitched shrieks.
But the more I thought about it, the more absurd that statement seemed.
Back when I was learning to drive, one phrase from my instructor stuck with me.
Driving is a non-contact sport.
The idea was to promote safe habits behind the wheel. Avoiding hitting objects — from stray animals to street signs to other vehicles — was paramount.
I was in high school at the time. And while I had opted out of studying physics, I still knew enough to find this advice darkly ironic.
The everyday world, you see, is full of contact. High-speed contact, to be specific.
All around us, particles are colliding with each other. Solids, liquids, and gases are pinballing off each other with great force. And as we drive, air is continually colliding with our vehicle.
The key is to not to avoid all collisions. That would be impossible.
Rather, our mandate is to avoid the big ones — with potentially deadly projectiles, with pedestrians, and with other hunks of sheet metal on the roads. The ones whose impact is accompanied by noise.
Yes, sound is an indicator of what we’re looking to avoid while driving. It’s a marker of the contact we don’t want to incur.
And so, we react forcefully when we hear a thud or a smash. We associate those sounds with a problem and seek to remedy the situation immediately.
Meanwhile, some other sounds hardly evoke a shrug. We’re apoplectic to the roar of the engine, the rush of the air conditioning or the pinging of raindrops off the windshield.
Mastering this dichotomy is key to becoming an effective driver. But the advantage wanes when we get out of the vehicle.
And that’s a problem.
I stared over at the pool waterfall.
The cascade of water sure sounded peaceful. Yet, the sight in front of me was anything but.
Gravity was causing this rushing water to collide with the water in the pool. The impact displaced the pool water, causing a series of bubbles and mild splashes in all directions. And those violent collisions were what caused that soothing rushing sound.
The mechanics of this auditory operation were quite complex. Far more involved than those that caused a shriek to leave a child’s mouth.
That too included a violent collision, between air and vocal chords. But the invisibility of that process made it seem innocuous to even the most trained of eyes.
The disconnect between my eyes and my ears was apparent. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
If sound is a universal marker of impact, how have we come to categorize it so differently? To recoil from some auditory cues and embrace others?
Some of this was likely learned. But much was innate, and likely without logic.
The rush of water might sound relaxing, but there is plenty of danger at the bottom of remote waterfalls.
High-pitched shrieking might trigger alarm, but it could just be a sign of glee.
Indeed, what we find scathing and soothing is mostly arbitrary.
It’s time to stop taking it for granted.
As I lay in bed, I could hear the commotion.
Outside my window, it was pitch black. But I still could hear loud booms and bangs from nearby.
Fireworks, I thought. It was almost Independence Day, and this seemed like a logical explanation.
I paid the noise no more mind, and soon dozed off to sleep.
But should I have been so sure? Gunfire does sound a lot like fireworks, after all. And the protocol for responding to it is far different.
If there was a shootout going on outside, would I be able to identify the auditory danger? Would my fight-or-flight responses activate in time? Would I get myself out of harm’s way?
I’m not sure. And that uncertainty is distressing.
Of course, I’m far from the only person to have this concern. But while many seek to root out the cause of such a dire situation, I’m focused on better identifying the symptoms.
No longer will I allow my brain to code sounds without reproach. Innate senses are not immaculate. What scathes and what soothes might turn out to be a red herring.
Yes, I am capable of sorting through the audible markers of impact. I can identify which ones truly present a threat and which do not.
This will require some intense focus, and some challenged assumptions. It might require me to stop shrugging off the booms and bangs of fireworks, for instance. And to start ignoring the shrieking of children.
It won’t be easy. But I’m here for it.
Sound is more than a sense. It’s a tool.
I intend to use it properly.