Gliding through the water in her mermaid outfit, Lin Yan feels as if she’s flying. She takes a deep breath, dives to a depth of 3 meters, and swims to the rhythm of the music, blowing bubbles to the children watching in amazement from the other side of the cylindrical tank.

Although a “fairy tale experience” for both 20-something Lin and her young audience, it’s also a spectacularly dangerous one, especially in an industry where training and safety protocols have apparently sunk without a trace in recent years.

The hazards facing professional mermaids and mermen — now a common feature at public aquariums and amusement parks across China — hit headlines on April 25 when footage began circulating of a female performer convulsing at the bottom of a tank at Taiyuan Ocean World, a tourist attraction in the northern Shanxi province.

The woman, who was eventually rescued after struggling underwater for about five minutes, later told the state broadcaster China National Radio that she had been coming up for air when a current suddenly knocked off her face mask and forced water into her mouth. When her flippers came off, she was unable to propel herself to the surface.

“There’s a false sense of security — everyone thinks that kind of thing won’t happen to them,” says Lin, who works in Shenzhen, a metropolis in the southern Guangdong province. “In a tank only about 3 meters deep, theoretically you should be able to get someone out within 20 seconds.”

Yet, she and other performers are more than aware of the myriad dangers lurking below the surface of this brand of show business, from the constricting outfits, narrow tanks, and equipment shortages to the various aquatic creatures with which they share a stage.

Under the sea

One of the biggest fears for a mermaid performer is known as “tail trap,” which is when their outfit becomes snagged on an underwater decoration, such as a stone pillar, rock formation, or imitation coral.

A female performer in Qingdao, in the eastern Shandong province, who goes by the stage name Ximen, says one of her colleagues had to strip off her tail and swim to the surface almost half naked after becoming stuck underwater for more than two minutes in a cylindrical outdoor tank. Such scares often lead to people quitting the job for good, she says.

Just getting on the silicone tail is hard enough. “It’s an exhausting chore,” according to Lin, who describes having to put on anti-slip stockings before wriggling into what feels like a pair of 10-kilogram leggings. Dressing before shows can take up to half an hour, while a typical performance lasts only a few minutes.

Yet, even in that short time, these cumbersome outfits combined with tanks densely packed with decorative features can be a recipe for disaster.

“The moment someone feels their tail is stuck, panic sets in. Their heart starts racing and they begin to struggle to free themselves — it’s an extremely dangerous situation,” Lin says, adding that holding your breath for a prolonged period risks losing consciousness.

To make matters worse, to save on costs, many aquariums refuse to assign professional safety personnel to guard performers, and lack proper emergency response protocols. “In scuba diving, we follow the buddy system — no one goes in the water alone,” Lin says. “Why is such a critical safety rule suddenly ignored when the dive is a performance?”

In addition to the underwater features, the performers also sometimes have their “co-stars” to worry about. Many aquatic species including silver pomfret, sea turtles, and leopard moray eels have been known to cause serious injuries.

“A sea turtle’s mouth is like a parrot’s beak, only much bigger,” says a performer based in Taiyuan who asked not to be identified. “When they bite you it feels like having a body part slammed in a door. It can even draw blood. And a bite from a leopard moray eel feels like being slashed with a knife.”

Some aquariums even have mermaids swim among sharks, a practice that has already led to accidents. In 2023, a performer in Wuxi, in the eastern Jiangsu province, was attacked by a shark during a rehearsal, leaving her with life-changing injuries to her right hand.

Lin has seen similarly harrowing close calls. In a rehearsal video recently shared on social media by an underwater ballet performer in the southwestern Yunnan province, Lin noticed that at one point a shark swam into the woman’s blind spot. “If a shark is out of your sightline and you accidentally make contact, it will instinctively attack — that’s just animal nature,” she says.

Alarmed, Lin left a comment on the video, urging her fellow performer to take care and to request to work in a tank without man-eating predators. She replied, “Easy for you to say — you’re not the one struggling to make ends meet. I don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing jobs.”

Lin can understand the reaction. The performance side of things has always been a sideline for her — she mainly coaches children in mermaid swimming and runs an online store selling tails — which allows her the freedom to speak out without worrying about upsetting management or affecting her bookings. However, she feels making a noise is the only way to bring about change in the industry.

“If enough of us say ‘no’ to unsafe conditions, things can improve,” she adds. “But right now, everyone is stuck in a prisoner’s dilemma — choosing the worst option, suffering together, trapped in a broken system.”

Poor unfortunate souls

Ximen, who’s also in her 20s, has been working as a mermaid performer for three years. Before starting out, she’d already received her basic mermaid certification, mermaid instructor license, and freediving certificate, as well as completed various courses in rescue techniques.

She recalls the industry at that time being in relatively good shape, with aquariums usually requiring performers to hold all the necessary credentials. But as competition intensified, Ximen says the pressure to cut costs and fill jobs resulted in a lower bar for entry, “and now even novice mermaids are taking on commercial gigs.”

Today, whenever she is required to perform with another mermaid, Ximen experiences a surge in anxiety. “Some of them don’t even know what to do if they get a cramp underwater,” she says, adding that even experienced performers can display “questionable practices” and will even sometimes subcontract their bookings to newcomers.

“It’s just an outsourced gig to the aquarium,” Ximen adds, referring to the fact that the vast majority of mermaid performers in China are freelancers with no fixed employment contracts, who are paid daily, receive no health or social insurance, and work with minimal safety measures. “As long as there’s someone there to do the show, it doesn’t matter who it is,” she says.

However, one thing management tends to be strict on is physical appearance. Aside from a few “plus-size” performers who have gone viral, “a slim waist and big breasts” are the typical standards for women in this business. Some require a height of between 1.68 to 1.72 meters, and there is generally an unwritten rule against those who have given birth, due to the lasting effects it can have on the body.

Being older is also seen as a liability, as it risks breaking the beautiful illusion created for the audience, according to insiders. “In a competitive market with limited roles, for every younger mermaid who gets hired, there’s an older one who’s out of a job,” says another performer in Qingdao, who didn’t want to be identified.

For men, the criteria are far looser. Unlike mermaids, professional mermen are in short supply, so they are only required to have a visible six-pack.

Ah Xin, who has been performing as a merman in Taiyuan since 2017, didn’t have any certifications when he started; he was just a good swimmer who felt comfortable in the water. However, he experiences constant anxiety about his physique, and visits the gym after every show. “If I miss a workout, I feel off all day,” he says.

Makeup is prohibited for both men and women over concerns that chemicals from the cosmetics could harm marine life. And for aesthetic purposes, some venues ban the use of diving masks, requiring performers to keep their eyes open, manage their facial expressions, and make sure their hair floats just right, all while holding their breath for minutes at a time.

Long term, the rigors of the job can take a heavy toll on the body.

For the average person, a comfortable temperature for a swimming pool would be about 33 degrees Celsius. By contrast, the indoor water temperature at aquariums is typically between 26 and 28, although this can plummet when the central heating is shut off or malfunctions, and is even lower in outdoor tanks. “The priority is keeping the fish comfortable, not the humans,” Lin says.

Chuchu has been performing as a mermaid for the past four years, moving between several venues in northern China, sometimes playing up to four shows a day. She says a one-degree drop in temperature underwater feels equivalent to a drop of four to five degrees on land, which can have significant health consequences. One of her colleagues spent so long in the cold water that she stopped menstruating for several months.

Over the years, 20-something Chuchu has noticed her body gradually adapt to the demands of the job — especially her ear pressure tolerance. “Most people feel intense pain when diving to around 2 meters. To go deeper, you have to constantly equalize the pressure,” she says. “But after enough dives, you eventually stop needing to do this.”

However, prolonged and repeated dives regularly cause performers to develop ear infections.

Ximen says many also experience hair loss and skin complaints. “We go into the water at least six times a day, which means washing our hair that many times a day. So hair and scalp issues are common,” she says, explaining that the aquarium water also often has a strong, fishy odor. “It smells like a seafood market. After a full day of swimming, your hair is full of animal waste.”

“After doing this job for a while, your body starts to feel weak and sluggish, and your energy is drained,” she adds. “In summer, I break out in rashes; in winter, I get blisters on my feet, and I retain water and get puffy all over.”

The salary used to make up for the hardships, but not anymore. Ximen says that when she started out, mermaid performers could earn up to 15,000 yuan ($2,090) a month, but last year she began seeing recruitment ads offering only 5,000 to 8,000 yuan. Performances today are also often canceled with little to no warning, meaning no pay at all.

“Too many mermaids are being churned out by shady training programs,” Ximen says, although she estimates few last in the job longer than six months.

Flotsam and jetsam

After the incident at Taiyuan Ocean World, a recruitment ad posted earlier by the aquarium began circulating online, showing that it was offering mermaid performers just 5,000 yuan a month. “Such a low wage could only attract newcomers,” Lin says. “Without proper training or professional experience, they wouldn’t know how to handle emergencies. It’s a serious hazard.”

In the aftermath of the near-drowning, the amusement park announced that it had upgraded its safety protocols. Another performer there, who spoke on condition of anonymity, says the incident provided an opportunity to push for better industry standards, and advised aquariums to stock up on rescue equipment such as bamboo poles, certified life rings, and ropes.

“In dangerous situations, using such equipment should be the first response, with a physical rescue attempt coming second,” the performer says. “A drowning person will instinctively cling to anything they can, and they might end up dragging the rescuer down with them, putting another life at risk.”

He disagrees with the current fast-track approach: taking a two-day course and jumping straight into performances. “Those crash courses don’t effectively cultivate qualified performers. Anyone who isn’t afraid of the water can complete one of those,” he says. “Both diving and underwater performance take time and experience to build real skill.”

Last year, the central government led a nationwide safety inspection of water sports, including mermaid performances. It required that all diving organizations have the necessary business license and permits, that divers have the relevant certifications, and that workplaces display safety signage and have licensed safety personnel. However, no regulations yet cater specifically to mermaid diving.

When asked, most performers say they were originally drawn to the business by a sense of childlike wonder. After all, “The Little Mermaid” is one of the world’s most enduring fairy tales.

Ah Xin still enjoys the serenity of being enveloped by water, where “all noise disappears,” and takes pride in his work. “On the street, no one recognizes me,” he says, “but when someone mentions ‘Merman Ah Xin,’ people will say, ‘Oh, you’re that guy.’ I never get a bad review.”

Chuchu was also initially full of excitement at the thought of bringing her audiences joy, and would spend a lot of money on elaborate costumes. “But the magic has worn off,” eroded by the harsh working conditions and relentless demands, she says.

An influx of talent from overseas has also affected the market, according to Ximen, who says one of her friends stopped receiving bookings from an aquarium after it hired a troupe of Russian underwater dancers, allegedly offering them higher salaries and better treatment.

Ultimately, shrinking paychecks and dwindling performance opportunities appear to be an irreversible trend. These days, Lin only steps in to perform when a friend needs a substitute. “The industry treats people like disposable goods,” she says.

However, she still enjoys being the center of attention, and delights in the children’s smiles as she swims among the coral and fish, swishing her tail in the water. Fairy tales exist to help people believe in beauty, Lin says, allowing us to forget — just for a moment — the troubles of the outside world.

She and her fellow mermaid performers can only hope that their fantasy of a mature, healthy, and sustainable industry will soon become reality.

(Due to privacy concerns, Lin Yan and Chuchu are pseudonyms.)

Reported by Yin Shenglin and Liu Ziyan.

A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Carrie Davies; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Mermaid performers at a show in Huai’an, Jiangsu province, 2023. Zhao Qirui/VCG)