I was seven years old when I first fell in love with underwater worlds. Not the vast, unknowable ocean—though that would come later—but a perfect miniature mangrove ecosystem tucked away in a corner of the Florida Aquarium. While my classmates pressed their faces against the shark tank glass, I stood transfixed by this small universe contained within walls I could wrap my arms around. That night, I emptied my piggy bank onto my bedroom floor…

My first “real” aquascape looked like someone had dumped a bucket of rocks and plants into a glass box and then shaken it vigorously. I was twenty-two, fresh out of college, and convinced that my biology degree somehow qualified me to create underwater masterpieces right out of the gate. I arranged everything perfectly symmetrically—a mountain of lava rock dead center, plants spaced at eerily precise intervals, and a perfectly straight line of identical stem plants…

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in this hobby. There was the time I added a school of silver dollars to my meticulously planted tank, only to wake up to what looked like an underwater salad bar after a zombie apocalypse. Or the peaceful community tank that turned into an aquatic version of Fight Club when I added what the store assured me was a “mellow” cichlid. But my most memorable blunder? Stocking a showcase…

Let me tell you about the Halloween tank disaster of 2019. Picture this: I’d spent three weeks crafting what I thought was a masterpiece—a “haunted shipwreck” theme with this gorgeous custom-built resin pirate ship (food-safe, of course), strategically placed purple and orange LED spotlights, and some carefully selected black ghost knife fish that would glide ominously through the artificial fog I’d created with a fine bubble curtain. Looked incredible. I mean, seriously Instagram-worthy. So I…