How could we test the hypothesis that fish fear fire? Fish live in a fire-free zone. Sure, there’s the true story of the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland. Remember? It caught fire more than once. For the sake of this inquiry, let’s assume we’re talking about the normal fish environment of fresh or saltwater, not flammable pollutants afloat on the Cuyahoga. Fish live in a fire-free place. “In case of fire, break glass” is an unnecessary instruction under water (barring some welder’s torch, some chemical tricks with Group I elements like sodium and potassium, or the eruption of lava from an undersea volcano).
To test whether or not fish fear fire we could take fish out of water and put them near a fire to see how they respond; however, their response might be a reaction to suffocating rather than to the proximity of fire. We could try submerging a welder’s torch to see whether or not it invokes some fear, but the noise and light might be the elements to which the fish respond. It’s tough to demonstrate that fish fear fire, that they have an instinct guiding them, that there’s a gene in there that says, “Don’t touch the stove.” By their biting hooks, fish seem to demonstrate an inability to learn a life-sustaining lesson. After thousands of years of being fished out of the water by humans and predators like bears, fish still bite the hook or swim where terrestrial animals can catch them. So, even thousands of years of exposure to fire would not guarantee that fish would develop a fear of fire. We’re still stuck without a way to demonstrate a “natural” fear even if fish acquire one. Maybe you can think of a way to test the hypothesis that fish fear fire.
Fire, occurring both naturally and artificially, is a common occurrence on land, Because animals have occupied terrestrial environments for hundreds of millions of years, they have had plenty of time for the fear of fire to work its way into instinct. And we can test whether or not animals like horses and elephants fear fire. But no need. Maybe not you, but others have witnessed the effect of a fire on horse psyche.
All right, we don’t have to tell horses to fear fire. Yet, we know that we have to tell little kids to avoid the hot stove. Strange, isn’t it? Big, complex brain needs a lesson, whereas little, simple brain seems to respond appropriately—unless that brain is housed in a fish. We do know from experience that humans can learn to fear some things that harm them. Although there appears to be no human instinct that keeps us from touching it the first time, touching a fire just once seems to prevent us from reaching for it a second time. Afterward, seeing an encroaching fire does elicit in us a fear of being burned.
Would it enhance our species if we were a bit more naturally afraid of the other things that hurt us? No more taking dumb chances with personal existence by trying to jump over a moving car, by attempting to leap from a roof into a swimming pool, by ingesting things that negatively affect the body, by fighting!
Maybe there’s something of the fish still left in our evolutionary development: A lack of instinct embedded in a species’ historical experience coupled with a lack of personal experience seems to add in human toddlers to a lack of an appropriate response to fire. Apparently, there’s also a bit of fish in our failure to respond to other dangers.
We live in an ocean of life where fire can occur. In self-destructive acts devised in big brains, we can actually choose to light that ocean on fire. So, I guess our species will continue to find ways to demonstrate that we don’t fear fire in all its forms and corollary dangers naturally: Ways like trying to jump over moving cars, trying to beat the train at the crossing, trying to burn our brains by injecting and ingesting potentially dangerous drugs, or trying to exert our will over others by war and violence that lead to some pretty bad burns.
Fish really don’t have a need to fear fire. Unless they’re hooked and cooked, they won’t experience it. We, by contrast, have a need not only to acquire a fear of fire, but also to acquire a fear of the other dangers posed by existence in the human ocean.
To test whether or not fish fear fire we could take fish out of water and put them near a fire to see how they respond; however, their response might be a reaction to suffocating rather than to the proximity of fire. We could try submerging a welder’s torch to see whether or not it invokes some fear, but the noise and light might be the elements to which the fish respond. It’s tough to demonstrate that fish fear fire, that they have an instinct guiding them, that there’s a gene in there that says, “Don’t touch the stove.” By their biting hooks, fish seem to demonstrate an inability to learn a life-sustaining lesson. After thousands of years of being fished out of the water by humans and predators like bears, fish still bite the hook or swim where terrestrial animals can catch them. So, even thousands of years of exposure to fire would not guarantee that fish would develop a fear of fire. We’re still stuck without a way to demonstrate a “natural” fear even if fish acquire one. Maybe you can think of a way to test the hypothesis that fish fear fire.
Fire, occurring both naturally and artificially, is a common occurrence on land, Because animals have occupied terrestrial environments for hundreds of millions of years, they have had plenty of time for the fear of fire to work its way into instinct. And we can test whether or not animals like horses and elephants fear fire. But no need. Maybe not you, but others have witnessed the effect of a fire on horse psyche.
All right, we don’t have to tell horses to fear fire. Yet, we know that we have to tell little kids to avoid the hot stove. Strange, isn’t it? Big, complex brain needs a lesson, whereas little, simple brain seems to respond appropriately—unless that brain is housed in a fish. We do know from experience that humans can learn to fear some things that harm them. Although there appears to be no human instinct that keeps us from touching it the first time, touching a fire just once seems to prevent us from reaching for it a second time. Afterward, seeing an encroaching fire does elicit in us a fear of being burned.
Would it enhance our species if we were a bit more naturally afraid of the other things that hurt us? No more taking dumb chances with personal existence by trying to jump over a moving car, by attempting to leap from a roof into a swimming pool, by ingesting things that negatively affect the body, by fighting!
Maybe there’s something of the fish still left in our evolutionary development: A lack of instinct embedded in a species’ historical experience coupled with a lack of personal experience seems to add in human toddlers to a lack of an appropriate response to fire. Apparently, there’s also a bit of fish in our failure to respond to other dangers.
We live in an ocean of life where fire can occur. In self-destructive acts devised in big brains, we can actually choose to light that ocean on fire. So, I guess our species will continue to find ways to demonstrate that we don’t fear fire in all its forms and corollary dangers naturally: Ways like trying to jump over moving cars, trying to beat the train at the crossing, trying to burn our brains by injecting and ingesting potentially dangerous drugs, or trying to exert our will over others by war and violence that lead to some pretty bad burns.
Fish really don’t have a need to fear fire. Unless they’re hooked and cooked, they won’t experience it. We, by contrast, have a need not only to acquire a fear of fire, but also to acquire a fear of the other dangers posed by existence in the human ocean.
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