Chapter 1: The Quest for Silence

After experiencing my first session in a sensory deprivation tank, I found myself contemplating the auditory landscapes of our ancient ancestors. What were their environments like, devoid of the constant noise that envelops us today?

Sensory deprivation tanks are designed to help individuals reach a state of profound relaxation. Photo: Jon Roig via Flickr/CC BY 2.0

By Stephen E. Nash

In today's fast-paced world, it is increasingly challenging to find genuine silence. The constant hum of modern life surrounds us, be it the dishwasher running, the furnace cycling, or the high-pitched buzz of fluorescent lights. Even with earplugs, the intrusion of notifications from my wife's cellphone is impossible to escape, while my own notifications have long been silenced.

The continuous noise of contemporary existence is relentless — unless one takes the initiative to disconnect entirely. Recently, I endeavored to do just that by visiting a sensory deprivation tank: a pod designed to be both lightproof and soundproof, allowing users to float in warm water. (Having experimented with various methods such as exercise, meditation, and yoga to escape modernity, this experience felt particularly unique.)

After my initial session in the tank (with plans for more), I began to ponder how our prehistoric forebears interacted with sound. What were the most prominent noises they encountered? How would they react to the auditory chaos of our current world? They would likely be taken aback, but let's circle back to my first experience with sensory deprivation.

The facility I visited was nestled in a small strip mall, where soft music, the kind I wouldn’t typically play at home, floated through hidden speakers. Shelves were lined with overpriced lotions and potions, and a mix of customers filled the space — from seasoned veterans to awkward newcomers like myself, who were unsure of what to expect. However, the attendant’s guidance soon helped me relax.

We entered a spacious room reminiscent of a hotel bathroom designed for accessibility. To the left was a small bench and a shower in the corner, while a white, shell-like pod sat in the center, open like a clamshell. The pod was filled with water saturated with Epsom salts, aiding in buoyancy, and heated to a comfortable 95 degrees — the same as human skin — allowing one to lose track of how submerged they actually were.

My task was simple: undress, shower, and recline in the pod. After five minutes, the blue LED lights at the waterline dimmed, leaving me enveloped in complete darkness. After 40 minutes, the lights gradually returned, signaling the end of my session.

(For anyone who fears confined spaces, there’s no need to worry; you can exit anytime by simply sitting up and lifting the lid.)

Life in ancient times was markedly quieter than today.

While I wish I could say I achieved total relaxation during my hour in the tank, the truth is quite the opposite. My mind raced, likely fueled by caffeine and existential questions: What should I be feeling? Am I doing this correctly? How much time is left? Why can’t I unwind? Eventually, I did find a semblance of calm, but it took longer than expected. Perhaps I craved the familiar white noise of modernity more than I realized.

The attendant noted that many first-time users experience similar reactions, finding the unfamiliar environment challenging to fully embrace. He assured me that I would attain true relaxation on my subsequent visits. Though I cynically remarked "nice sales pitch" under my breath, I conceded that he might indeed be right. A few days later, I spoke with a friend who floats monthly; he mentioned it took him three sessions to fully relax, and now he's hooked. Looks like I’ll be investing in a membership! (Yes, memberships are available for multiple float sessions each month.)

At the opposite end of the sensory spectrum, I spent an hour at a Dave & Buster’s restaurant. For those unfamiliar, Dave & Buster’s is a national chain that merges the best and worst of sports bars and gaming arcades. It’s loud, chaotic, and pricey. My wife and I took our three boys during a half-price gaming event, resulting in a packed house of families. Parenting can lead us to strange places.

While everyone else appeared to enjoy themselves, I felt trapped in my own personal hell.

The only available table was situated directly in front of an arcade game called Grand Piano Keys, where players tap oversized piano keys that light up in sequence. With no one actively playing, the game generated a relentless rendition of “Chopsticks,” a tiresome attempt to attract customers. If you’re unfamiliar, look it up — it’s a 19th-century tune that can easily become an earworm. My apologies in advance.

Dave & Buster’s offers a vibrant mix of dining and gaming, filled with noise and activity. Photo: marada via Flickr/CC BY-ND 2.0

My overwhelming sensory experience that evening was unsurprising. I prefer reading over concerts, hiking over sporting events, and I draw energy from solitude rather than crowds. It’s no wonder I’d choose the sensory deprivation tank a million times over a return to Dave & Buster’s.

Most of the archaeological sites I’ve worked at, particularly in the U.S. Southwest, are located in quiet desert or forested areas. Museum storage spaces are similarly tranquil, providing the perfect environment for introspection — likely another reason for my passion for this field.

So, what sounds filled our ancestors’ days? A typical human conversation measures around 60 decibels, while a loud thunderclap reaches approximately 120 decibels, albeit for only a brief moment. (The decibel scale is logarithmic, meaning a thunderclap is at least ten times louder than conversation.) While drums and musical instruments could be loud, they were typically played selectively. Lacking modern amplification, they were likely not a regular nuisance. The male white bellbird, the loudest bird on Earth, has a mating call that can hit 125 decibels, but thankfully, it is intermittent — though watch out during bellbird mating season in the Amazon!

The male white bellbird produces an exceptionally loud mating call. Photo: Hector Bottai via Wikimedia Commons/CC BY-SA 4.0

Undoubtedly, our ancestors heard conversations among family and kin, as well as music, singing, and dancing during significant events. Such practices have been integral to human behavior for millennia. They would have also been exposed to conflicts, arguments, and oratory during tumultuous times. The sounds of infants crying and children playing would have been familiar, reflecting a constant of human existence even in modern, compartmentalized societies.

In addition to human interactions, they would have been attuned to the sounds of nature: the wind rustling, animals stirring, and the near-constant hum of insects. For those near rivers or oceans, the soothing sound of water would have been ever-present. Truly loud noises were likely rare, reserved for thunderstorms or natural disasters, which would have been interpreted as significant threats. The relentless noise of urban life today would likely have been shocking to them. In essence, life in bygone eras was significantly quieter than our contemporary existence.

Ultimately, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It could always be worse, and that sensory deprivation tank is just a short distance away. Silence is calling.

Stephen E. Nash is an archaeologist and historian of science at the Denver Museum of Nature & Science. His research spans a variety of subjects, including dendrochronology (tree-ring dating), museum history, archaeology in west-central New Mexico, and the gem-carving sculptures of Vasily Konovalenko. Nash has authored several books, including Stories in Stone: The Enchanted Gem-Carving Sculptures of Vasily Konovalenko and An Anthropologist’s Arrival: A Memoir. He resides in Denver with his wife and three sons. Follow him on Twitter @nash_dr.

Chapter 2: Insights from the Float Tank Experience

In my pursuit of tranquility, I turned to the sensory deprivation tank, a place designed to eliminate distractions and provide a unique experience of sound and silence.

The first video, titled The 14 Extreme Trainings of Shaolin Warrior Monks | My Life at the Temple, delves into the rigorous and fascinating training regimens of Shaolin monks, highlighting their dedication to discipline and the mastery of sound and silence in their practices.

The second video, Change Your Brain: Neuroscientist Dr. Andrew Huberman | Rich Roll Podcast, features insights from Dr. Huberman about the brain's adaptability and how understanding our sensory experiences can improve our well-being and mental clarity.