A Love Letter to ‘Jaws,’ 50 Years Later

A lifelong obsession: From childhood adventures on the JAWS Ride at Universal to reuniting with Bruce the Shark at the Academy Museum, Andrew’s journey with Jaws has been years in the making. (Photos courtesy of the McKeough Family Archives)

“Jaws wasn’t just my favorite movie. It was a gateway to loving film, to understanding narrative, to seeing how one story could inspire wonder, curiosity, and empathy.”

There are few films that define a genre, fewer that change the course of cinema history, and perhaps only one that has managed to shape my identity since I was eight years old. That film is Jaws. On its 50th anniversary, I’m writing not just as a lifelong fan, but as someone who has carried the spirit of Amity Island with him every day since second grade.

I first “met” Jaws the way most kids meet fairy tales — through bedtime stories. My late mom, knowing how captivated I was by the ocean and the movie industry, began to tell me the story of a small beach town stalked by a monstrous great white shark. She would always remind me, gently but firmly, that it wasn’t real. “It’s a mechanical shark,” she’d say, tucking me in. But even knowing that, I was mesmerized. She told the story so vividly, it was like listening to an old seafaring legend.

When I finally saw the movie for the first time at eight years old, the line between fiction and fascination blurred forever. That iconic John Williams score, the intensity of Chief Brody, the grit of Quint, the swagger of Hooper — and of course, the shark, Bruce — ignited something in me. It wasn’t fear. It was awe. Spielberg didn’t just direct a thriller; he built an entire world, one that I would live in for decades to come.

My childhood revolved around Jaws. Every visit to Universal Studios Orlando meant a pilgrimage to the now-closed “Amity Boat Tours” ride. I didn’t just ride it — I inhabited it. I became Chief Brody’s son Michael, imagining myself a citizen of Amity, caught in a loop of shark attacks and heroic rescues. The ride operators even began to recognize me. I was a fixture, always seated near the front, mouthing along with the skipper’s dialogue and grinning as Bruce lunged from the water.

That attraction — just like the film — wasn’t just entertainment. It was immersive storytelling at its finest. The practical effects, the smell of the water, the heat of the flames — it made the world of Jaws feel tangible. The day Universal closed the ride was a quiet heartbreak. A piece of my childhood was sealed away with it.

My fascination with Jaws extended far beyond the screen or the theme park. Peter Benchley’s original novel — influenced by the 1916 Jersey shore shark attacks — quickly found its way to my bookshelf. And while the book’s tone is darker and more adult, I devoured it. It opened the door to an early love of reading and storytelling. More than that, it awakened a passion for marine biology. I would spend hours in the library reading about sharks — hammerheads, makos, tiger sharks. I learned that they were not villains, but deeply misunderstood apex predators. I became an advocate, even at a young age, telling anyone who would listen that sharks weren’t monsters.

This dual passion — for storytelling and science — has shaped so much of who I am today. Jaws wasn’t just my favorite movie. It was a gateway to loving film, to understanding narrative, to seeing how one story could inspire wonder, curiosity, and empathy. Spielberg didn’t just direct a blockbuster; he taught me how stories can change people. In that way, Jaws helped me fall in love with cinema as a craft, and sparked the very first conversations I had with myself about pursuing storytelling in my own life.

Fifty years later, Jaws still holds up. Not just because of its impeccable pacing or its genre-defining suspense, but because it taps into something universal: the fear of the unknown, the beauty of human resilience, the idea that courage doesn’t mean being unafraid — it means doing what’s right even when you're terrified.

As we mark this milestone, I think back to that kid — me — wide-eyed on the couch, watching Roy Scheider declare, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” for the hundredth time. I think of my mom, sitting beside me, reminding me again that the shark was mechanical. I think of the hot Florida sun with my late parents next to me, the splash of water from the Amity Boat Tours, and the story that started it all.

Some movies you just watch. Others stay with you. Jaws lives in me. Always has. Always will.

Here’s to 50 years of terror, triumph, and a damn good story.