Many times I've wondered how much there is to know

I watched a tv show last night about a photography expedition to the bottom of the Amazon – a near-incomprehensibly massive river, larger than the Nile, Mississippi and Yangtzee combined, miles across and hundreds of feet deep in spots. The water is murky from decomposing vegetation and the constant introduction of mud and silt at the hands of the precipitous weather, and harbors some of the most deadly creatures known. Many of the dives were fruitless thanks to the soupiness of the waters, but others yielded fascinating life forms and discoveries, many previously believed to only live in salt water. Giant manta rays. Knifefish. Armored catfish. Large colonies of sponges.

I would never in my life imagine that there is a species of fish whose diet consists of wood. But there is. Only one species – and it lives in the Amazon. And a bizarrely prehistoric looking beast it is.

There is a small, slender parasitic fish that enters the gills of a host and feasts on its blood. They plague humans as well, entering their bodies through the urethra.

(Shudder).

I was struck with the thought of how easy it is to think you are familiar with your surroundings, and how quickly one can become arrogant and superior in attitude as we skim across the sheath of our world. Yet under running the surfaces are colonies of the unfamiliar. Some benign, while others are deceptively dangerous. To dip one’s toes in the water, one must first decide if the thrill and enrichment of new discovery is worth the risk of possible injury - and if so, how severe. How much is one really willing to risk in the face of that which we cannot imagine for simply lacking a point of reference?