When the tsunami struck Japan, I was visiting Australia, where one encounters frequent reminders that the odds of being eaten by a shark are substantially lower than the odds of being killed in your car on the way to the beach. Analogously, those who study the psychology of risk like to compare per-mile probabilities of dying in an airplane crash with the mileage-corrected probability of dying in a car wreck. On that reasoning, some experts are now suggesting that we shouldn’t be so neurotic about the danger of nuclear accidents, given that no one actually died of radiation after the recent events in Japan (see for example, Kevin Kelly’s recent Edge essay Passing a Worst-Case Scenario Test).
The psychology of risk is a fascinating and complex issue, but I’ll offer a defense of defensiveness. For me, it’s a question of psychological economics: What is the enjoyment you’ll get from a given activity, and is it worth the risk? To a risk-averse person like me, the slight risk of death is enough to keep me away from some otherwise enjoyable recreational activities (scuba diving in any body of water with any frequency of sharks; skydiving in any body of air over four feet above the earth’s surface). If you’re worrying about death, that adds a large cost to an otherwise beneficial experience. I believed the statistics about the low likelihood of shark attacks, and yet I stayed out of the ocean. My problem was that I kept remembering a vivid story of a colleague who was actually attacked by a shark during her tenure as an assistant professor in the land down under. Instead of swimming in the shark-infested waters, I spent my time hiking around in what the Aussies call the “bush.” As it turns out, I was bitten by a couple of mosquitos and attacked by a leech, greater pains than I encountered during several days at the shore. But I was comfortable with my avoidant decision. On dry land, I was able to keep an eye on any kangaroo who might want to challenge me to a boxing match.
















