‘When Jaws Ate My Childhood (And Fed My Obsession)’

By Don Roff

I was eight years old when I saw JAWS at the Liberty Theater in downtown Walla Walla, Washington. And to be honest, it broke me a little in the best possible way.

That summer, JAWS was everywhere. My sister Dixie read the paperback and described in gruesome detail how Alex Kintner got eaten. My Grandma Roff warned it was a “dirty book” no kid should read, let alone see. But my mom took me to the cinema anyway—bless her—and we joined the line that wrapped around the block while people drove past yelling out their car windows, “Don’t let the shark get you!”

Inside, it was pure madness. People were running up and down the aisles, shrieking, flinging popcorn. When the camera cuts to crabs crawling over Chrissie Watkins’ remains—blood-curdling screams! When Ben Gardner’s head popped out, people vomited! And when the shark jumped out behind Brody after, “Come down here and chum some of this shit”—the audience exploded! I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.

The theater audience wasn’t watching a movie.
It was surviving it.

That night, I had to sleep on my sister’s floor. Even then, I had nightmares. The shark was in lakes, ponds, and even the town pool. It was in the goddamned bathtub. If I closed my eyes while rinsing shampoo, I saw those dead eyes and that mouth, coming straight for me.

But obsession bloomed fast from trauma. On a family trip to Universal Studios, I saw the brand-new JAWS ride. My mom filmed it with her 8mm camera—start to finish—and when we got home, I slowed the footage down on the projector to study the Orca. Then I built one. A small one for my little green army guys. Then a bigger one (“You’re gonna need a bigger boat”) for my Star Wars and Micronauts figures. It could float. It could sink. I used the Ideal JAWS game shark as my villain.

I was hooked.

I carried the Peter Benchley JAWS paperback everywhere, even though it was way above my reading level. I’d try to read that haunting opening passage about the shark swimming silently through black water—and then slam the novel shut, terrified. I blasted the John Williams score on repeat—recreated scenes with my Mego toys. I imagined full-scale remakes with the neighbor girl cast as Chrissie, filming it in some generous neighbor’s pool.

I didn’t know it then, but I was making my first movies.
JAWS had permitted me to imagine.
To tell stories.
To create.
It hijacked my DNA.

I couldn’t swim in rivers anymore—not the Walla Walla, not the Columbia, not even the deep end of the pool. That murky blue-green water? Hell no. The shark lived there now. Swimming wasn’t as frequent for a few years. But weirdly, I liked the fear. I wanted it. I chased it. At the town pool, I talked about the movie so much that the lifeguards started calling me “Don Jaws Roff.”

I started making my own 8mm films around 1981, at age 14, right after another Spielberg hit—Raiders of the Lost Ark.. But it was JAWS that planted the seed. That told me stories could move people—scare them, thrill them, stick in the marrow of their bones. That cinema wasn’t just entertainment—it was electricity.

And now? I’m a professional filmmaker, novelist, and screenwriter. I’ve had two feature films made—Saint Clare and Oscar Shaw—both thrillers. That eight-year-old kid with hot-buttered popcorn in his lap and fear churning in his guts got to grow up and chase the very thing that first bit him.

No other movie ever replaced JAWS as my favorite. Sure, there are some other excellent, memorable, and even inspirational films.

But JAWS?
It’s personal.
It’s perfect.
It’s rewatchable magic.

Spielberg took Benchley’s pulpy beach read, full of unlikeable characters and turgid subplots, and turned it into something timeless—characters you love. Fear you never forget.

Fifty years later, I still hear that two-note theme and feel a thrill in my chest. I’m back in the dark theater. I’m holding my breath. I’m ready to dive in.

But not too deep.

ABOUT DON ROFF
Don Roff is a novelist, screenwriter, and filmmaker based in the Pacific Northwest. His novels include Clare at Sixteen, which was adapted into the feature film Saint Clare (Hulu), and his original screenplay, Oscar Shaw is set for release via Samuel Goldwyn Films, with several more films in production. More at www.donvroff.com, on Instagram @donroff, and on Facebook.