The first time I met marine biologist Wallace J. Nichols, he gave me a blue marble. As I wrote in my 2011 șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű story about him, it was sort of awkward.

“Hold it at arm’s length,” he’d told me. “That’s what the Earth looks like from a million miles away—a water planet. Now think of someone who’s doing good work for the ocean. Hold it to your heart: think of how it would feel to you and to them if you randomly gave them this marble as a way of saying thank you.”

I can still picture that moment in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park outside the California Academy of Sciences, still feel my discomfort with his suggestion melting away as I imagined the face of a good friend who was working in habitat restoration when I handed him the marble. J—that’s what everyone who knew Nichols him called him—had a knack for getting people to embrace their touchy-feely side. He was an accomplished scientist but certainly not a typical scientific thinker. It’s one of the many reasons his death in June at the age of 56 is so sad: the world needs people like him right now.

J first made his mark in the mid-1990s, when he tracked a female loggerhead turtle that made its way from Baja, Mexico, to Japan. Nobody had recorded an animal swimming an entire ocean before, and he took the then-unconventional step of posting all his data online. He followed the turtle for 368 days before, unfortunately, she most likely perished in a squid-fishing net.

When I met J, he was an associate researcher at the California Academy of Sciences attempting to pioneer a new approach to ocean conservation by investigating the positive impacts that being near, on, or in the ocean has on our brains. His belief was that if we could understand why water environments make us feel so good, we’ll be far more inclined to protect them. He wasn’t a neuroscientist, so he had to build a movement in order to inspire researchers to take on the work. That’s where gifting blue marbles came in handy. The act went viral, and by the time J gave me one, he estimated that a million blue marbles were circulating among ocean lovers. Meanwhile, he’d inspired a diverse mix of scientists, surfers, and even real estate agents to think differently about our connection to water.

A few years after my story about J came out, he published his first book, , which șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű reviewer Abe Streep described as “part neuroscience treatise and part self-help manifesto.” The mix of scientific explanations and relatable anecdotes about people finding peace and clarity by the ocean had broad appeal: the book became a national bestseller.

In the years since, J gave hundreds of lectures, hosted Blue Mind conferences, and built partnerships, forging ahead with his vision. He was always extremely generous with his time, working with nonprofits without pay, and was known to give away copies of Blue Mind. His most fervent supporters boosted his efforts through the (I was a contributor to an earlier version for a couple years after my story was published).

J and his wife, Dana, raised two daughters in a house that they built in the redwoods north of Santa Cruz, California, following their completion of an epic trek of the Pacific Coast, from Oregon to Mexico. It was reached by a dirt road and was by all accounts a magical place. I never visited, but I heard stories of the craftsmanship and attention to detail, as well as lively dinner parties. In August 2020, J was home alone when a neighbor came to the door and let him know that the was rapidly approaching. J grabbed his dog and a few things, and evacuated. The house burned to the ground that night. The next day, he wrote a moving letter to his daughter Grayce, who had just left for college, telling her that the home had served its original purpose of raising their family. J and Grayce later wrote a book together inspired by the letter, .

J and I stayed in touch intermittently over the years. At some point, he began signing off all his emails with what became his trademark farewell, I wish you water. I liked that, as I think most people in his orbit did. Earlier this year, we started corresponding again, looking for a time to connect. It wasn’t easy. He and Dana were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary in the South Pacific, where they’d renew their vows in the water. I was mired in a busy stretch of work deadlines. But we kept trying. I was eager to hear what he was up to—he was always pursuing some new opportunity to grow the Blue Mind movement—and I sent him a note in the second week of June. Several days later, I got a reply from Dana letting me know that he had passed.

I never did give away my blue marble. It sits in a wooden case on the top of my bedroom dresser where I keep a small number of items that are meaningful to me. Every time I open the case, it serves as a precious reminder to protect the ocean. Unlike J, I need that reminder. But if I could, I would give it back to him now to thank him for his life’s worth of work inspiring the rest of us to take better care of ourselves by taking better care of the ocean. Since I can’t, I’ll take a walk to the beach. That will make me feel better, just like he always said it would.

The Dr. Wallace J. Nichols Memorial Fund was established to fund the continuation of his work and is approved by his family. You can contribute .Ìę

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Two years after retiring from competition, snowboarding icon Shaun White faces a fascinating juncture in his career as he pours his energy into a range of projects that will extend and redefine his legacy.

Academy Award-winning filmmaker, celebrated adventure photographer, and elite climber Jimmy Chin is enjoying an extraordinary run of success and also feeling more thankful than ever for the mentors who helped him navigate his early path into the mountains.

In the wake of the Oscar-nominated biopic that chronicled her incredible open-water swim from Cuba to Florida, Diana Nyad is on a new mission: to convince all of us that we should never, ever give up on our dreams.

These three inspiring figures are among the 25 speakers who will be sharing their stories at the , a celebration of outdoor culture that brings together major musical acts (Thundercat, Fleet Foxes, Andrew Bird), riveting adventure films, a professional bouldering competition, yoga and fitness classes, climbing walls, and a broad range of interactive demos and exhibits from leading sports and wellness brands. The festival is taking place in downtown Denver’s Civic Center Park, June 1-2, with the speaker series located inside the Denver Art Museum, just across the street.

Other speakers include Protect Our Winters founder Jeremy Jones, climate activist and fashion model Quannah ChasingHorse, bestselling adventure author Kevin Fedarko, and wildlife ecologist and TV host . The full lineup of panel conversations, keynote addresses, and interviews is below and you can learn about what’s happening across the festival at . Single-day General Admission and VIP tickets are still . Of special note: Kids under 12 are free.

Saturday, June 1

Shaun White’s Next Twist

1:00 p.m.-2:00PM

Since retiring from competition in 2022, the three-time Olympic gold medalist and snowboarding icon Shaun White has been busier than ever. In the last two years, he has launched the snowboarding and snowboard culture brand Whitespace, partnered with two billionaire sports team owners to purchase We Are Camp, the snowboarding campÌęhe attended while growing up, and teamed up with Park City, Utah’s High West Distillery for Protect the West, an initiative to raise $1 million for organizations like Protect Our Winters that are dedicated to preserving Western landscapes. In this conversation with Dhani Jones, a former NFL linebacker who has become an adventure TV host, entrepreneur, and venture capitalist, Shaun will share his unbounded excitement for the next phase of his life and career, and explain how the lessons he learned on the halfpipe continue to guide him.

Journeys of Purpose with Jeremy Jones, Quannah ChasingHorse, and Dr. Rae Wynn-Grant

2:15PM – 3:15PM

Jeremy Jones was the king of freeride snowboarding when he started noticing shifts in the mountains that revealed the dire threats of climate change. After struggling for a way to respond, he founded Protect Our Winters, which has become an influential force in the outdoor industry and on Capitol Hill for policies to safeguard our planet.

Quannah ChasingHorse is from Eagle Village, Alaska, and dreamed of being a model since she was six years old. She is also a fourth-generation land protector fighting for her homelands and her people’s way of life. After her activism got her noticed by a talent scout, she went on to work with top global fashion houses and has used modeling as a platform to uphold and uplift her Indigenous values and peoples.

When Rae Wynn-Grant was a little girl, she loved nature TV shows and envisioned working as a scientist in the Amazon and the African savannah. But when she got to college, she initially hated her ecology courses because she felt out of place as a Black woman who’d never been camping. Her path to becoming a renowned wildlife ecologist, chronicled in her new memoir, Wild Life, has been marked by unexpected challenges, expectations she had to leave behind, and an enduring courage to pursue her passion.

In this conversation, moderated by Gloria Schoch, senior director of global impact for the VF Corporation, Jeremy, Quannah, and Rae will share the lessons they learned along their journeys and offer insights on how we can find our way from caring about something to truly making a difference.

A 750-Mile Walk Across the Grand Canyon with Kevin Fedarko

3:30PM – 4:30PM

A few years after quitting his job to pursue the ill-advised ambition of becoming a whitewater guide on the Colorado River, journalist Kevin Fedarko was approached by his best friend, National Geographic photographer Pete McBride, with a vision as bold as it was harebrained. Together, they would embark on an end-to-end traverse, on foot, across the heart of the Grand Canyon, a 750-mile odyssey that McBride promised would be “a walk in the park.”

Against his better judgment, Fedarko agreed, unaware that the tiny cluster of experts who had actually completed the trek (for which there is no trail) billed it as “the toughest hike in the world.” In this presentation, Fedarko, the author of the beloved bestseller The Emerald Mile, delivers the story behind his latest book, A Walk in the Park. Join him for a rollicking and poignant account of an epic misadventure, a singular portrait of a sublime place, and a deeply moving plea for the preservation of America’s greatest natural treasure.

Seeing Beyond: Deaf Mountaineers Shayna Unger and Scott Lehmann’s Bid for the Seven Summits

4:45PM – 5:45PM

Some 460 people have stood on top of all of the so-called Seven Summits—the highest mountains of each of the seven continents. None of them were deaf. Scott Lehmann and Shayna Unger are aiming to be the first. They were both born into multigenerational deaf families and raised in the deaf community. Growing up, they faced limited access to outdoor education due to communication barriers. It wasn’t until after college that they taught themselves to climb by studying YouTube videos and communicating with other mountaineers using paper and pen. Over the last decade, they have climbed some of the world’s highest peaks, including, last spring, Mount Everest and neighboring Lhotse back to back in 26 hours. This May, they reached the top of Makalu, the world’s fifth-highest mountain. In this presentation they will share stories from their incredible journeys and discuss their mission to change global perceptions of deaf people, pave a more inclusive and accessible path to exploration, and inspire a new generation of deaf and hard-of-hearing adventurers. Over the last decade, deaf mountaineers Scott Lehmann and Shayna Unger have climbed some of the world’s highest peaks. Hear stories from their incredible journeys—and learn more about their mission to pave a more inclusive and accessible path to exploration.

The Audacious Candidacy of Caroline Gleich

6:00PM – 7:00PM

Caroline Gleich has always been an underdog. Along her path to becoming a world-renowned ski mountaineer, skeptics regularly questioned her skills and success even as she summited Mount Everest with a torn ACL and later became the first woman to complete all 90 ski descents in The Chuting Gallery, the cult-classic guidebook to Utah’s Wasatch Range. Her emergence as an outspoken activist for environmental and social justice, including testimony on climate change before Congress, has earned her both praise and scorn. Now she is attempting the boldest climb of her life: running for United States Senate to represent Utah. In this conversation with Luis Benitez, a former international mountain guide who serves as the Chief Impact Officer at Trust for Public Lands and is one of the most powerful political voices ofÌęthe outdoor industry’s political movement, Caroline will discuss how the determination that propelled her athletic career is fueling her passion for public service.

Sunday, June 2

Never Ever Give Up with Diana Nyad

1:00PM – 2:00PM

Diana Nyad is a storyteller, not a lecturer. She will take us on a journey of high adventure, team commitment, and the grit behind her historic swim from Cuba to Florida.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Forever with Caroline Paul and Juliet Starret

2:15PM – 3:15PM

Caroline Paul has embraced risk since childhood, when she attempted to break the world record in crawling at age 13. As an adult, she has completed whitewater first descents around the world, worked as a firefighter in San Francisco, and now pilots, paragliders,Ìęand gyrocopters. Along the way, she authored seven books, including The Gutsy Girl, a New York TimesÌębestseller that encourages a new generation to go outside and practice bravery, increasing the confidence and leadership skills needed for a happy, healthy adulthood. At the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Festival, Caroline will present the fascinating, surprising, and sometimes hilarious science that links an outdoor life with fulfillment and longevity, all uncovered while reporting her latest book, Tough Broad: From Boogie Boarding to Wing Walking, How Outdoor șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Improves Our Lives as We Age.

Juliet Starrett is a lifelong athlete, adventurer, entrepreneur, attorney, author, and podcaster whose mission is to inspire people to move more. She and her husband, Kelly, are pioneers in mobility training, having worked with pro-athletes, Olympians, and Navy Seals. Through their coaching program, The Ready State, they are empowering everyday athletes to be active throughout their lives, helping us feel great and function better as we age. Their 2023 New York TimesÌębestselling book, Built to Move, is an all-in-one guide for simple but powerful practices that will dramatically improve the way your body feels and prolong your expected lifespan. Juliet will share wisdom that can be transformative for everyone from professional athletes to gym haters and everyone in between.

In Search of a Quiet Mind with Cory Richards and Katie Arnold

3:30PM – 4:30PM

Renowned climber and National GeographicÌęphotographer Cory Richards spent his career pursuing high-risk expeditions around the world, becoming the first and only American to reach the summit of one of the world’s 8,000-meter peaks in winter. He captured that effort and the aftermath of his team’s harrowing experience in the award-winning documentary Cold. But for years, Cory kept his real journey out of his story: the violence of his childhood, along with his grief, addiction, and mental illness. Now, as he prepares for the release of his forthcoming memoir, The Color of Everything,ÌęRichards examines the power of the stories we tell by sharing a deeper, more nuanced, and hopeful understanding of how his early trauma drove him to seek such heights.

When elite trail runner and bestselling author Katie Arnold shattered her leg in a remote river canyon, it was the beginning of a test—of her body, her spirit, and her marriage. Her years-long recovery process led her to a search for stillness through a Zen practice. In her recently released second book, Brief Flashings in the Phenomenal World, she recounts her learnings from a tumultuous time that spurred a deep examination of the possibilities of a well-lived life.

In this conversation moderated by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű contributing editor Florence Williams, whose latest book, Heartbreak: A Personal and Scientific Journey, won the 2023 PEN/E.O. Wilson Award for Literary Science Writing, Cory and Katie will discuss the winding pathways that eventually led them to places of peace and understanding.

​​The New Storytellers with Sofia Jaramillo, Jody Potts-Joseph, and Wawa Gatheru

4:45PM – 5:45PM

In this conversation, guided by Princess Daazhraii Johnson, an Emmy-nominated screenwriter and former Creative Producer for the Peabody award-winning PBS Kids series Molly of Denali, a group of innovative and passionate storytellers will discuss how they are creating space for voices and perspectives that have long been overlooked by mainstream outdoor culture.

Sofia Jaramillo is a Colombian-American documentary photographer whose work focuses on the intersection of the environment and people. She is a National Geographic Explorer, co-founder of Mountains of Color Film Festival, and is currently directing a fine art photography project called A New Winter. Her mission is to tell the stories she wished she’d seen as a kid.

Jody Potts-Joseph is Han Gwich’in and lives in Eagle Village, Alaska, where she is an active hunter, fisher, trapper, and dog musher. She is a cast member of National Geographic Channel’s Life Below Zero: First Alaskans and provides consultation to fashion brands working with Native Peoples.

Wawa Gatheru is GenZ climate activist passionate about bringing empathetic and accessible climate communication to the mainstream. She is the founder of Black Girl Environmentalist, the largest Black youth-led climate organization in the country and the only national organization dedicated to addressing the pipeline and pathway issue for Black girls, women, and gender expansive individuals in the climate sector.

Mentoring in the Mountains with Jimmy Chin, Conrad Anker, and Malik Martin

6:00PM – 7:00PM

Climbers and mountaineers have a reputation as brash characters—mavericks and renegades with big egos who do things their own way. But at the heart of the climbing community are deep friendships that only come from shared experiences in wild and dangerous places. Wisdom and skills are shared in the form of mentorships that can last a lifetime. Legendary alpinist Conrad Anker has been part of this band for decades, benefiting from the lessons of the greats that showed him the way and passing them on to new members. This includes Jimmy Chin, who he began inviting on expeditions in the Himalayas more than 20 years ago, and Malik Martin, who was a relatively new climber from Memphis, Tennessee, when Conrad brought him on an ice climbing trip in 2020. In this conversation between three generations of athletes and storytellers, moderated by veteran journalist Tracy Ross, we will hear how the bonds they’ve made in the mountains have defined their lives and given them their purpose.

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When Jason Momoa was 15 or so, a group of adult climbers invited him on an ice-climbing trip. Momoa was working at an outdoor shop in Des Moines, Iowa, and after he agreed, the crew packed into vans and headed off. He was thrilled. Growing up in the small town of Norwalk, on the outskirts of Des Moines, he imagined journeys into the mountains. He studied climbing knots and hid books on alpinism inside his math textbook so he could read them in class. On the ice during that outing, Momoa learned some real skills, but he also experienced the downside of risk. Given the chance to lead a section, he fell, and one of his ice tools slit the side of his leg. “I was bleeding all over the place,” he says. He got patched up, then caught giardia. “They built a snow cave for me and stuck me in there. All I could see was the exit. It was horrible.”

But not that horrible. It was, he tells me via Zoom call, the trip that really stoked his passion for the sport. It’s a Sunday afternoon in November, and Momoa, 43, is drinking a Guinness tallboy and recounting his path into climbing. He owns a home in the hills of Los Angeles, but today he’s on the North Shore of Oahu. (“I’ve been consistently a vagabond forever,” he explains.) He’s seated on a covered lanai overlooking the ocean and wearing a yellow T-shirt, his massive arms folded in front of him.

Long before he became a Hollywood superhero, Momoa says, he was a climbing bum. It all started when his mother, Coni, took him to the Needles, in South Dakota, when he was about 13. There a guide introduced him to bouldering. “I just became obsessed—my body felt beautiful,” he says. “I suck at walking and running, but when he put me on a wall, I could move.”

In his home garage, he built a campus board—a tool climbers use to develop upper-body strength—and tied anchors into the rafters so he could work on clipping in. He practiced lead climbing in a tree in the yard. Coni got her belaying certification and drove him to a climbing gym four hours north, in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He took trips to Wild Iowa, the best sport-climbing wall in the state, about three hours east.

As a high school junior, Momoa made a pilgrimage to , the state park in Texas that was the epicenter of the booming mid-1990s bouldering scene. There he met fellow teenager Chris Sharma, already considered the best rock climber in the world. Momoa recalls watching Sharma on a route called —“He was a freak of nature”—but his stronger memory is of Sharma staying inside a Quonset hut above a country store that had become a refuge for climbers, while he camped outside. “All those guys were watching South Park religiously, and I was dirtbagging it in a bivy sack,” he says. “Then it snowed. I got so wet.”

Not long after, Momoa showed up in Arizona for the Phoenix Bouldering Contest, at the time the biggest climbing competition anywhere. “I wanted to take down Sharma,” he says. It was an outlandish dream: nobody was beating Sharma. But Momoa had the advantage of being tall (he’s six foot four) and was confident in his explosive energy. “I loved dynoing,” a move that involves lunging for the next hold. “It was something I knew I could hit.” He never got his chance, though. He hadn’t registered for the event, and the organizers wouldn’t let him jump in. Instead, he hung out with Sharma and other rising stars of the sport.

Momoa was born in Honolulu and lived there briefly before his parents split up and he went to Iowa with his mom. As a teenager, he visited Oahu to spend time with his dad, who is of Native Hawaiian ancestry. At 19, he was living back in Hawaii when he auditioned for Baywatch: Hawaii and landed the part of lifeguard Jason Loane. It was an enormous break, but it wasn’t the life he wanted, so after a two-year run, he took off.

“I got into this weird business of acting, yet I didn’t want to do it,” he says. “I didn’t want to have a fucking phone. I didn’t have an agent. I spent all my money and just bought an Airstream and traveled the world climbing.”

Momoa eventually landed in Tibet, and shortly after decamped for Bishop, California, a climbing mecca in the Sierra Nevada where Sharma had moved into a house with Brett Lowell, a talented young videographer. Sharma was in a contemplative mood, struggling to make sense of his extraordinary athletic success as a kid. Now entering his twenties, he embraced meditation and Buddhism to “discover who I was outside of climbing.” When Momoa arrived, Sharma was reading, the Buddhist scholar Robert Thurman’s account of leading a group of trekkers on a spiritual quest through the Himalayas. The two young men had a lot to talk about.

“Jason and I didn’t quite fit the mainstream mold,” says Sharma. “Climbing back then was for really freethinking people. So we dove deep into life, and the meaning of all these things, and discovering ourselves.”

“He was fighting something and I was fighting something,” says Momoa. “It was just a nice moment to sit and talk about what we were going through.”

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On a hot day in Los Angeles, I hand a nonalcoholic beer to Jack Johnson. It’s midday and we’re in a pleasant climate-controlled studio, where I’m interviewing him for an upcoming episode of the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast. The near beer is not meant to be a refreshment, but a musical instrument. Seriously. In the liner notes to Johnson’s new album, , which drops on Friday, June 24, he’s credited for playing beer bottles. This I had to see.

Johnson gamely shows me how to tune a beer (each sip drops the pitch), which I knew he would do, because he’s the nicest guy in the world. When I wrote a profile of him for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű in 2010, he drove the car I’d rented so I could take notes. When we met again in 2017 to talk about his last album, All the Light Above It Too, he helped the podcast sound engineer with setup. This is what we expect of a guy who has been caricatured as a laid-back surfer from Hawaii and an artist whose feel-good music has become the soundtrack for days at the beach, summer road trips, and aprĂ©s-outdoor anything. At a moment when there’s a lot of darkness in the world, a new album from Jack Johnson feels like a welcome salve to our anxiety—an invitation to gather with friends for a campfire sing-along, perhaps with someone playing the base line on a half-finished beer.

And yet, Johnson, now 47, has never been as simple as we’ve made him out to be. Those who know him well insist that he’s a fierce competitor at everything, from surfing—he was on track to be a pro before at age 17—to Ping-Pong to, yes, music. (He’s even proven to be a pioneer in the Web3 space, joining șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű for its first NFT launch, the Bedrock Badge, to raise money for his Ìęand offer badge holders a chance to win concert tickets and signed copies of his new album.)

So as Johnson prepares for his first tour in five years—a 35-date swing around the country—I’m curious to know: How is he feeling about spreading the good vibes this timeÌęaround? And does any of the North Shore toughness he developed growing up around some of the world’s most intimidating waves ever sneak into his music? You can hear his extended answers on the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast starting June 22. What follows is an edited excerpt from our conversation.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: You’ve said that you want your music to bring people comfort and to make them feel happy. Was it harder to write songs that do this during such a difficult time in history?
Jack Johnson: A friend of mine told me, “You’re always pretty optimistic, but it feels like you’re having a harder time finding the optimism on this album. It’s still there, but it’s like you’re struggling to find it sometimes.” And I think that’s fair to say. There’s a line in the first song in the album, “Open Mind,” that says, “I find myself somewhere between hope and doubt.” I think that’s maybe a good way to put where a lot of the songs on the album fall.

There’s this assumption that everyone from Hawaii is all sunshine and smiles. But you’re from the North Shore, which can be a really competitive place, especially for a surfer. I’ve heard stories about you going at it with Kelly Slater and other guys, in the water and out.
Ask any of my friends, and they all think that the whole mellow-guy persona is really funny. If we play Ping-Pong, I’m just as competitive—or more so—than all my friends. Kelly was involved in our little crew when we were young, and we used to play a lot of Ping-Pong and a lot of croquet. Croquet sounds very uppity, but it was like a four-wheel-drive version. We would put the thing in the bushes and then your friend would have to go find it. We were very competitive.

I remember driving out to the North Shore when I was a kid, and when you came around Waimea Bay, there’s this cement barrier to make sure you don’t drive off the cliff. At one point, I remember somebody spray-painted across it “Caution Egos Ahead.” I thought it was the funniest thing. There’s all these big-wave surfers, just so macho out there, including myself.

How does that competitiveness play out in your music?
In the very beginning, when Ben Harper invited me on the road to open for him, I was so amazingly excited. I realized, I’m getting an opportunity that I don’t deserve right now. I was barely filling little clubs in Santa Barbara, California, where I was living at the time. We got the opportunity because Ben dug our surf movies and I dug his music, and we became friends. I wanted to make sure that we put everything into being the best opening band for him ever. The competition wasn’t with the other bands, but ourselves: Let’s make sure we give this room the best show we can give them tonight. Let’s try to outdo what we think we can do.

You made a rather daring choice to work with a new producer on this album, Blake Mills, who’s known for his incredible talents as a musician. And you started recording with him in Los Angeles instead of the Mango Tree Studio at your home in Hawaii. Why?
I’m at a place where making a record is great, and you always want to give it your all, but I also want to take it a step further. If I’m gonna spend a month with somebody, I want it to be somebody who I really enjoy being with and/or I feel like I’m learning something from. And so I can honestly say that one of the main reasons I wanted to work with Blake is because I wanted to just sit in the room and hang out with this guy and learn how to play guitar better. That was a big part of it.

Eventually, you got Blake to come to Hawaii. How did that change things?
As much as we were working really hard, we made time to go take a swim and get to experience things. And it was funny—after a week, there was one day when I looked at him and was like, “Man, you’re tan all of a sudden! I’m used to the pasty city version of you, but you look like a whole different guy.” AndÌęhe was like, “I get it, let’s slow all the tempos down, forget all those loud drums and stuff.” He was joking, but there was definitely a downshift.

Where did you think your impulse to write music that makes us feel good comes from? It can’t just be all that tropical sunshine.
When I learned guitar growing up, it was always to play music on the front porch or in the living room. Our family would always be there, and we’d sit around and play Beatles songs or Bob Marley. My grandma lived next door to us, and she’d be there listening, and my niece and nephew, who were in elementary school. I was learning from one of my dad’s friends how to play chords, and everyone would have to wait for me to move my fingers. They were so sweet about it. And later, when I was writing my first songs, I could picture my family sitting around listening. I think it was just an understanding of that’s where these songs would be played.

Early in your career, you were uncomfortable playing bigger venues. You embraced it later. But now, after the past couple years that’ve had us all so isolated, do you think touring might actually be healthy for you?
It definitely feels really good to get people together and share lyrics and sing all along together. There’s a lot of positivity and a lot of healing. But you have to be careful to not let it overinflate you. You can say the dumbest thing on a stage and people will cheer. My friend Zach Gill, our keyboardist, we’ll call each other a couple days after being off tour and be like, “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on—I keep saying things around the house and nobody’s clapping.” So I try to stay kind of even.

I have this memory of getting to Santa Barbara during a two-week break during a tour and I went down to the beach with a friend and the waves were really good, like overhead and just pumping. We got our wetsuits on and were hooting and running down the beach. And I had this thought: I haven’t been this happy or excited the whole last month on tour. And I was like, that’s a good thing, try to hold on to that.

It’s great to be able to be moved by the shows and to be able to bring everything you have and be present, but it’s also good not to let them become the thing you’re depending on for happiness in life.

The post Jack Johnson Is Not as Mellow as You Think appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

There’s Nick Offerman the actor, best known for playing the mustached, hard-ass libertarian Ron Swanson on the NBC sitcom Parks and Recreation. There’s Nick Offerman the woodworker, who that crafts custom furniture and the occasional canoe. And there’s Nick Offerman , whose latest book recounts a number of real-life adventures while making a convincing case that we need to consume less stuff (shoes, fast food, social media), read more environmental literature (Wendell Berry, Aldo Leopold), and spend as much time as possible exploring wilderness (or at least roaming our neighborhoods). This is about what you’d expect, given the book’s title, .

Offerman, 51, who was raised on a farm in Illinois, strives to remain grounded. And yet he’s deeply afflicted by wanderlust. In one of the book’s early chapters, he convinces two close friends, frontman Jeff Tweedy and acclaimed author , to take a trip to Montana’s Glacier National Park, in the summer of 2019, where they enjoy a day of whitewater rafting. That same year, he travels to northern England to labor alongside shepherd and nature writer . Then, in the fall of 2020, he heads out on a 2,000-mile pandemic road trip from Los Angeles to the Midwest with his wife, the actress Megan Mullally, towing their new Airstream. During a break in filming for the Amazon reboot series A League of Their Own, Offerman offered up some choice lessons for making a deeper connection with the world outside your door.

It’s always a good time for a long walk.
“I’m such a sucker for a trail through the woods, whether on foot or on a bicycle. It’s an incredible escape from the hamster wheel of life. I’m reminded that I don’t need all the distractions—that if I go sit in my yard or walk on a trail, I’m great. It’s a way that I can, in an almost church-like setting, cleanse myself. Purge my humors. Release my anxiety. Empty the trash from the desktop of my brain.”

Respect the squirrels.
“I was probably 11 or 12, out in the woods with my cousin and his pellet gun, and I shot a squirrel right between the eyes off a tree limb, and he fell. We went running to check it out and were faced with the reality of: I just killed this squirrel, with no intention of honoring that. I just wasted a squirrel. It caused me to reexamine that verb. Up until then, to waste a life was a cool verb from, like, a Charles Bronson movie. And suddenly I was like, Oh no, it’s a waste. I was devastated. It was a huge moment. If you’re gonna take a life, honor it, use it, revere it.”

Farmers know best.
“I was working in theater in Chicago, and this larger-than-life Kentucky actor named Leo Burmester gave me a book of Wendell Berry short stories. And when I read them I was gobsmacked by the respect, the reverence he has for honest, decent, hardworking, agrarian morality. My simple, boring family farmed corn and soybeans and had pigs until I was in high school. Up to that point I resented them, because they baked bread every Sunday and I wasn’t able to get that shiny bread from the store like all the other kids had. So it was a leap from boyhood to manhood where I said, Oh, my parents are agrarian. This foundation of decency and this work ethic and this sense of respect for everybody and everything that they instilled in me is actually insanely holy and valuable.”

Love the gear, touch the gear—just don’t buy all of it.
“I came to the outdoors in the seventies and eighties, before gear became king. Only much later in life did I go, ‘Holy cow, have you guys heard of this thing called a CamelBak?’ Whether at REI or the tool store or the lumberyard, I am a kid in a candy store. It’s an incredible time to be alive if you love to eat, drink, or use manufactured goods. But the problem is, we get so swept up in our fascination with the number of backpacks available that we easily lose sight of where that stuff is coming from—who is making it and ultimately how we are treating our natural resources. So I’ll happily buy something, but at the same time, I’m not going to buy three things. Especially in America, we have to stop overdoing it.”

Toil less, be more.
“I’m always trying to do less work, to agree to fewer projects, so that I have time to be with people, specifically my wife, my family, and my very good friends. As long as I can keep things as simple as possible, that’s my best path for health and productivity.”

The funnest part of a road trip is when shit goes wrong.
“Hauling an eight-by-thirty-foot aluminum submarine—our Airstream—hearkens back to my youth, when I was taught to drive farm equipment and also worked in construction. There’s a wonderful elemental feeling of satisfaction when you successfully do something like haul a big rig a couple thousand miles. I almost pray for a flat tire once in a while so I can be like, ‘I got it. I know how to do this.’ Because modern life is so goddamn cushy. That elemental, primitive value of what we can do as animals with opposable thumbs, I don’t want that to atrophy.”

Twitter is for sheep.
“There’s so much about social media that’s ugly and negative, but it got me together with one of the greatest friends of my life. I found James Rebanks through what I can only call Wendell Berry Twitter. I mean, it couldn’t be more ironic. There are these accounts where somebody puts up Wendell Berry quotes, and that’s where I found him, , and his wife, Helen. They’re chronicling their lives farming Herdwick sheep and Belted Galloway cows and raising four kids. They are trying to rewild this ancestral farm. It is just incredible. It’s easy to turn my nose up and be like, No, I’m a purist. I only use chisels, never electricity. But that’s dumb after a certain point, because electricity is pretty handy in a lot of circumstances. Whether it’s what tools you use in your shop or your social media feeds, it’s a matter of curating something.”

Manual labor makes us happy.
“My self-worth is derived from doing something productive, from being of use to someone. That has kept me from becoming a jerk with a yacht or a person of leisure. Helping my friend James repair a stone wall on his sheep farm in the rain and cold, that’s my Disneyland. I will stand in line for the pleasure of getting something done.”

Of course you should jump in the river.
“Toward the end of the rafting trip in Glacier with George and Jeff, the cool lady who was guiding our boat said, ‘Here’s a mellow pool where the river is calm and deep, if you want to jump into this incredibly pristine glacial-melt runoff.’ We had been through a dozen sets of rapids. It felt like we had played a few quarters of football. I mean, we were definitely smiling, but ready for a nap. Jeff was like, ‘No, I think I’m comfy.’ And I was like, Yeah, comfy is always good. And then George turned to me and his eye literally twinkled. I mean, Peter Jackson could not have created a moment more elfin. George grinned and said, ‘Let’s do it.’ And it was so transformative. I said, ‘Of course, let’s do it.’ We jumped in, and it was just indescribably delightful. I will probably face questions like that in the years to come, and I’ll have no choice but to picture George and think, Do you want to live or do you want to take a nap?”

The post Nick Offerman Knows How to Stay Grounded appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Moments after a red-tailed hawk lands on an oak tree outside the Steve Jobs Theater, Tim Cook walks up with a smile. It’s a warm fall morning, and the raptor is just one of many birds in the sprawling landscape of restored native habitat that surrounds the massive ring-shaped second headquarters Apple opened in Cupertino in 2017. Having an office here, Cook tells me, “is like working in a national park.” He ticks off a couple of well-known stats: more than 80 percent of the 175-acre campus is greenspace; there are more than 7,000 trees. The design, says Cook, “brings the outside in and the inside out.”

Before the pandemic caused most of ­Apple Park’s 12,000 employees to work remotely, many of them held meetings in the building’s fruit-tree-filled central courtyard. “You would see people riding bikes from one meet­ing to another,” says Cook, who, along with roughly 15 percent of his workforce, still regularly goes into the office. “You would see people running. It’s a two-and-a-half-mile track around the place, so put in a couple of laps and you’ve got a good workout for the day.” Restrooms and coffee bars are spaced apart, he adds, encouraging employees to walk more.

Apple Park may have been Steve Jobs’s utopian vision, but it was built for Tim Cook’s lifestyle. This is not a man with a closet full of black turtlenecks. The 60-year-old Apple CEO is both a nature nerd and a fitness obsessive. Standing before me in a snug-fitting navy polo shirt, skinny gray jeans, and white Nikes, he appears to be among that breed of tech titans who start their mornings with kettlebells and protein smoothies. He wants to talk about his love of actual national parks (he visits several a year), his need for exercise (“it’s the thing that keeps stress at bay”), and Apple’s company-wide health and wellness challenges (this month: mindfulness).

“We all know intuitively, and now with research, that physical activity is a key part of longevity and quality of life,” Cook says. His own training time is sacrosanct, the one portion of his day when he’s unreachable. “I’m off-grid for that period,” he says. “And I am religious about doing that regardless of what’s going on at the time.”

No surprise that he pays close attention to the fitness data captured by his Apple Watch. “I want to know what I’m doing, not what I think I’m doing,” he says. “Because I can always convince myself that I’m doing more than I really am. So for me, it’s a motivator.”

A few weeks before we spoke, Apple introduced the Watch Series 6 with the slogan “The future of health is on your wrist.” Now, as we walk along a pathway winding between shrubs and dry grasses, Cook makes the case that the Watch has ushered in a new era of fitness tracking, and not just for dedicated athletes. He cites letters he’s received from users of the device claiming that it literally saved their lives by detecting early signs of heart problems. Then there’s the fact that tens of millions of people now wear a device that monitors key health metrics and allows them to anonymously share data with researchers, which many do. (Some 400,000 Watch users participated in one Stanford study.) This enables scientists, says Cook, to “democratize research by having much larger constituencies that are able to participate.

“I really believe,” he adds, “that if you zoom out to the future and then look back and ask, ‘What has Apple’s greatest contribution been?’ it will be in the health and wellness area.”

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The robot was born out of a treasure hunt.

It all started in 2010, when Eric Stackpole was a promising young engineer designing satellite technology as an intern at NASA’s Ames Research Center in Mountain View, California. He was simultaneously working toward a master’s degree at nearby Santa Clara University and was prone to procrastinating. Lately, he’d become taken with the idea of building his own underwater robot.

Some of the engineers at Santa Clara were already developing autonomous submersibles, and Stackpole had noticed that they “seemed to be having all the fun.” Instead of spending years planning for a mission, they’d design, build, and deploy a sub within months. “I was like, man, I want one of those,” he says. “You don’t have to have a rocket, just some curiosity and a shoreline.”

He needed a purpose to guide his design, so he asked friends for suggestions. A childhood buddy responded with a link to describing a Gold Rush–era heist that ended with a pile of gold stashed in an underwater cave in Northern California’s Coastal Range. “Down the rabbit hole I went,” says Stackpole. “I started reading more and more about it and basically became obsessed.”

Soon after, he met David Lang, an idealist in his mid-twenties who was working for a startup that did crowdfunding for new companies. Lang had sought out Stackpole after hearing about a guy who was, he says, “building a submarine in his garage.” When he discovered that Stackpole was constructing a small remotely operated vehicle, or ROV, Lang says, “I thought that was even cooler.” The two men bonded over their passions for exploration and technology, imagining the many ways the sub might be used. “They don’t have a term for love at first sight in business,” says Lang, “but that’s what it was.”

Stackpole and Lang , but it still gets them animated. On a sunny spring day in San Francisco, they’re seated on a couch in the glass-enclosed meeting space of , a newly minted startup created by merging their brand, OpenROV, and Spoondrift, a three-year-old company that makes solar-powered buoys that can transmit data from anywhere in the ocean. With $7 million in new venture funding, Sofar is one of a growing number of companies developing technologies that make it vastly cheaper and easier to track ocean conditions and observe marine life, spurring an incipient revolution in ocean science and exploration.

Lang, 34, has intense brown eyes that light up when he talks about big ideas. The hunt for gold, he explains, was a MacGuffin—the filmmaking term for a goal that gets the narrative going but ultimately doesn’t matter. “You hear of lost treasure and that’s the beginning of your epic adventure,” he says. “By the end, you forget it existed.”

Soon after the guys met, Lang was laid off and decided to go all-in on the robot. He and Stackpole sited their project in Stackpole’s garage in Cupertino, and in the spirit of open-source development, they launched a website, , to solicit feedback. They heard from amateur hobbyists, graduate students, and professional engineers all over the world.

Initially, the goal wasn’t to create a company so much as a revolutionary tool. “From the first conversation, it was: ‘What if there were 10,000 of these around the world on the front lines of exploration?’ ” says Lang. “We kind of worked backward from that dream.”

Though unmanned submarines have powered monumental finds—deep-sea hydrothermal vents in the 1970s, —they can cost millions to build and tens of thousands per day to operate, since they require the support of large ships. Simpler models with lesser capabilities have been around for a couple of decades, but even those run $50,000 and up. Stackpole and Lang had something different in mind: an everyman’s ROV. The size of a toaster and operated by laptop, it would be an aquatic version of the aerial drones that wannabe action-sports filmmakers get for Christmas. Like almost all ROVs, it would be tethered to a surface controller, but operators could send it a few hundred feet below the waves. It would sell for around $1,000.Ìę

In early 2012, they worked their way into a meeting with the Marine Science and Technology Foundation, a nonprofit funded by Eric Schmidt, then the executive chairman of Google, and his wife, Wendy. The Schmidts were offering grants for projects that advanced oceanographic research. Stackpole and Lang showed up with a barely functioning prototype and a speech about the world-changing potential of a budget ROV. (They neglected to mention the gold.)

“They said, ‘OK, what do you need?’ ” says Lang. “At that point, we were strapped for cash and thinking only about the very next steps. So we asked for a few thousand dollars to buy parts to build 15 more prototypes.”

The foundation was flummoxed. The ask was so low—most of their grants were in the hundreds of thousands—that a typical proposal review process didn’t make sense. In the end, Lang and Stackpole walked away with just over $7,000, promising to submit their receipts.

Marine scientists have often complained that we care more about understanding the emptiness of space than the living seas that make up 70 percent of our planet.

“Why are we ignoring the oceans?” Bob Ballard, the celebrated deep-sea explorer, groused at the start of his on the future of underwater research. He claimed that NASA’s annual budget to investigate the heavens would fund the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s sea exploration for the next 1,600 years. Others have pointed out that we have better maps of the surfaces of Mars and Venus than the seafloor. , 80 percent of the ocean realm remains unexplored.

Making matters worse, government support for exploratory science isn’t what it used to be. Coming out of World War II, that the quest for knowledge was essential to progress. Following the creation of the National Science Foundation in 1950, government funding dominated R&D across numerous disciplines. These days, not so much. found that in 2015, federal dollars accounted for less than half of the funding for so-called basic research—projects that don’t have immediate commercial applications. By contrast, that level was above 70 percent in the 1970s and 61 percent as recently as 2003.Ìę

These days, new hope for ocean exploration often comes via the largesse of billionaire philanthropists, who’ve poured money into a range of projects. Marine research has long had its patrons—David Packard established the now iconic Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute in 1987—and in recent years there has been a stampede of benefactors looking to the sea.

Making the biggest splash, at least in the press, is hedge-fund magnate Ray Dalio, who in a last year declared a desire “to revive the Jacques Cousteau moment” with a high-profile media initiative called , which involves converting a 280-foot former oil-industry survey vessel into a fully equipped research ship for a National Geographic Television series produced by James Cameron. Dalio has been loaning out his 184-foot yacht, , to the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution since 2012, but , Ocean­Xplorer, is as much a filmmaker’s dream machine as it is a scientific marvel, with a submarine hangar that seems straight out of the Avatar production book, video-­editing stations capable of working with 8K raw footage, and cameras pretty much everywhere. The big idea is to chronicle expeditions guided by researchers and explorers in a reality-format show that captures both natural wonders and human struggles. Last October, a $185 million joint effort to “capitalize on OceanX’s powerful imagery” as a way to advocate for marine protection and conservation.Ìę

The Schmidts also have a snazzy research ship, , which has been almost continuously at sea since 2013 and offers free passage to scientists using new technologies and research methods. On board, they have access to a first-rate sonar system for seafloor mapping, a fleet of submersibles, and an advanced computing system that enables virtual-reality data visualization (think plankton in 3-D), plus teak outdoor furniture and a luxurious sauna.Ìę

More important, the Schmidts have pioneered a Silicon Valley approach to ocean exploration by funding the development of disruptive technologies. Around the time that the Marine Science and Technology Foundation met with Stackpole and Lang, it had funded an adventurous British engineer named Richard Jenkins. Jenkins had set a new wind-­powered land-speed record with a contraption he’d built a few years earlier, and he applied what he’d learned . The 23-foot autonomous vessel can navigate the open ocean for a year at a time, collecting data and streaming it back to shore via satellite, with power provided by solar panels. It potentially enables a multitude of research and monitoring activities—measuring ocean acidification, tracking tagged fish, detecting oil spills—at a fraction of the cost of a manned expedition. No big ship or crew required: just set some drones on their way and have a seat in front of your computer.

For researchers, affordable tech opens up new worlds. “Your decision process is fundamentally different when you can use cheaper tools,” says Jim Bellingham, director of the at Woods Hole. For decades ocean scientists have structured their work around the limited time they could afford to book aboard vessels, subs, and other million-dollar equipment. With data suddenly much easier to obtain, says Bellingham, a growing number of researchers have found that their dream projects can happen much faster.

David Lang is looking a bit green. It’s just before noon, and for the past couple of hours we’ve been in a small boat, bobbing in the waves of Monterey Bay. Also on board are the hired captain, a Sofar marketing staffer, and a cameraman filming , the geeky web series hosted by MythBusters veteran Adam Savage. Floating next to us in an inflatable boat are Stackpole, Sofar CEO Tim Janssen, and a second cameraman controlling a DJI Phantom drone. A low ceiling of fog has delayed what we’re all waiting for: a plane that will make a series of low passes overhead, each time shoving one of Sofar’s smart buoys out a cargo door.

The buoys, called , look like bright yellow plastic basketballs, each topped with a sun hat of solar panels. Outfitted with sensors to measure wind and waves, they can transmit data via satellite from almost anywhere on the water. Sofar sells them for $4,900 apiece, or about 10 to 50 times less than the price of the large surface buoys commonly used by NOAA. The Spotters don’t collect data at the same precision or frequency as those traditional tools, but because they’re so cheap and small, they can be deployed in locations where standard buoys aren’t viable because of expense or logistics. In February 2018, dropped five Spotters off a ship into the Southern Ocean, which circles Antarctica and is the birthplace of massive storms that can affect coastlines thousands of miles away. The Spotters were the first free-floating buoys to continuously measure wind and waves in the frigid waters, and their endurance suggested the possibility of vastly improved weather tracking in the region. In the course of a year, they drifted more than 4,000 miles and transmitted readings from the notoriously violent Drake Passage.Ìę

In addition to improving forecasts, autonomous monitoring tools have the potential to inform scientific studies of climate change; a Saildrone recently lapped Antarctica to collect first-of-its-kind data on carbon levels. In the shipping industry, detailed real-time information about ocean conditions can help tankers alter their routes, saving enormous amounts of fuel.Ìę

Then there are the recreational uses. Surfers and anglers get their marine forecasts from applications that rely on government buoys, which are typically stationed near shipping lanes and airports. If your favorite break or fishing hole is miles away, the predictions aren’t trustworthy. Which is why, last year, big-wave surfer a Spotter near Mavericks, the monster break south of San Francisco. Suddenly, he was able to get local data delivered to his phone, letting him know the size and frequency of swells. In many places—remote atolls, rocky coastlines—­getting buoys into the field is a major challenge, and today the Sofar team is hoping to demonstrate that Spotters can tolerate one of the simplest deployment techniques: dropping them from a plane. The team’s goal is to test different sizes of parachutes to see what it takes to slow the buoy’s descent enough to avoid damaging it. There’s also an alternate system that has Stackpole excited: a cardboard box. If Spotters are going to be sent to customers all over the world, he figures, why not mail them in boxes that double as landing systems?Ìę

Before loading five Spotters into a chartered plane at a nearby airport, Stackpole explained how, if you opened the specially designed top flaps of a box before pushing it out the cargo door, the aerodynamics would cause the flaps to extend outward like wings, making the box spin and creating enough drag to slow its fall. Once in the water, the box would break apart, with minimal impact on the marine environment. “There’s all sorts of ways it could go wrong,” he admitted with a smile. “The box could end up tumbling and the Spotter could fall out. We’ll just have to figure it out!”

But first the fog has to lift. On the water, the team fills the time with a test flight of the Phantom drone and some fretting about a nearby sailboat. (“They’re going to think this is a drug drop,” Lang says.) Janssen motors the inflatable craft alongside our boat, and Stackpole offers every­one snacks: a loaf of pepper bread, hummus, and Frosted Mini-Wheats. Lang winces.

The seasickness he’s feeling is just one of the challenges the guys have had to overcome. After getting their funding from the Schmidt foundation in 2012, Stackpole and Lang developed a working ROV and in that cave in the Coastal Range. They didn’t find any gold—the robot’s camera picked up only debris—but the effort earned them a different kind of treasure. The community created through OpenROV.com helped them raise $111,000 in a Kickstarter campaign that promised backers a DIY underwater-robot kit. A year later, OpenROV secured $1.3 million in a funding round led by True Ventures, a San Francisco firm that was an early investor in Fitbit. That propelled the design of their first ready-for-market drone, which they announced,Ìęin another Kickstarter campaign, in 2015.Ìę

, it was roughly the size of a cereal box and looked like it could have been designed by Apple, with a sleek, white, hard-plastic body, jet-black rubber side panels, and a single camera eye front and center. It was capable of withstanding freezing temperatures and dives of up to 330 feet—three times as deep as a typical scuba diver—and could light up a shipwreck (or giant clam) with an array of six LED lights. Twin props enabled a maximum speed of six and a half feet per second. The Trident was a hit, garnering more than $815,000 in pledges.Ìę

Back on the water in Monterey, the fog dissipates suddenly and the plane makes its first bombing run, sending a buoy attached to a small black and red parachute hurtling toward the Pacific. It smacks the water hard, and the crew races over to pick it up. A second drop with a bigger chute seems about perfect, the Spotter touching down with a gentle plop. On the last run the plane sends a box out the window, and just as Stackpole predicted, the top flaps open and it starts to spin, slowing just a bit before thumping into the waves. If it had been dropped from higher up, Lang suggests, it would have worked even better.

Sofar would later decide against using the boxes, but for the moment the team is elated. On the bumpy ride back to shore, Stackpole gives Janssen a high five and says, “We got this!”

On a scorching summer day in Los Angeles, I meet Wendy Schmidt for lunch at a Mediterranean restaurant on Melrose Place. She’s the force behind (SMTP), which in large part was inspired by the experiences of Saildrone and OpenROV. Formed in 2016, the nonprofit’s mission is to support the development of technologies that address ocean-­conservation challenges and are also likely to become profitable. The idea being that you can have the biggest impact by supporting projects that eventually take care of themselves.

“We had this realization that there were lots of people out there with ideas that could change the way we think about solving problems,” she says. Between bites of roasted cauliflower and sea bass, Schmidt tells me about a key moment in the evolution of their thinking. In 2014, she was at the headquarters of the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute to oversee testing for that would award $2 million to scientific teams that developed sensors to measure ocean chemistry. While there, she met a scientist who showed her a device he’d created to remove oil from the water after the 2010 Deepwater Horizon disaster. (The Schmidts had funded an earlier XPrize competition for exactly such a tool, but this scientist hadn’t registered.) He’d brought it down to the Gulf after the spill, he told her, but never got it in the water. Ever since he returned, it had been in storage.

“He’s a scientist, not a businessperson,” she says. “He doesn’t understand the marketing. He doesn’t know who might make use of what he has.” Such a device might be sold to oil companies that are on the hook to mop up spills. This, she explains, is where philanthropy can make the biggest difference: giving innovative ideas a boost so they have a chance.

SMTP’s model is to fund projects for several years, at amounts ranging from $50,000 to $500,000 annually, getting them through the so-called valley of death period between a company’s initial funding and the steady flow of commercial revenue. Recent grantees include a startup that developed a sensor that enables coastal communities to predict dangerous high tides missed by existing government monitors; a handheld DNA scanner that can identify species of fish and other wildlife, thus reducing seafood fraud; and an ROV developed by the inventor of the Roomba that electrocutes and then vacuums up invasive lionfish.Ìę

Others are following the Schmidts’ lead. Last January, at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, Salesforce founder a $1.5 million donation to the Sustainable Oceans Alliance, which has formed an accelerator to nurture startups developing technologies that improve ocean health. The founders of those startups get $25,000, attend an eight-week leadership program in San Francisco, and are invited on a small-ship cruise in Southeast Alaska. (In return, SOA takes an equity stake in their companies.) A new philanthropic endeavor, , run by a former project lead at X Development, Google’s so-called moon-shot factory, says it will be funding “radical solutions” to ocean problems.

Like Lang and Stackpole, many of the innovators in the ocean-tech sector don’t have a marine background, which can cause them to get ahead of themselves. , founded in San Francisco in 2014 and funded in part by SMTP, started out producing a solar-­powered tracking device for the small fishing boats that are used all over the developing world. About the size of a large smartphone, the trackers use cellular towers to automatically log and share location data. The system allows authorities to better manage fisheries and combat illegal activities, while fishing boats can certify that their catch was taken outside protected zones. During a presentation at a networking event in San Francisco, founder Dave Solomon described how, when the company sent its first run of prototypes to Indonesia, the fishermen wanted to see what was inside the units, so they popped them open, destroying their waterproofing. “We were just a bunch of tech nerds in the Bay Area,” he said. “We had no idea.”

Move fast and break things has, of course, been a defining ethos in Silicon Valley, but it’s an approach that can make traditional researchers uncomfortable. A marine biologist who works with a major conservation organization told me that the billionaires backing the new technologies are too easily captivated by “the next cool thing they hear about at a dinner party.”

Still, for veteran marine scientists, it’s an era of extraordinary opportunity. Woods Hole’s Jim Bellingham recalls launching his own startup, Bluefin Robotics, to manufacture underwater autonomous vehicles in the late 1990s, a time, he says, “when no VCs or angel investors wanted to be in the marine space.” He put his own savings into the company and hit up family and friends. “It was really tough.”

A month after my lunch with Schmidt, I visit Bellingham at his office on Cape Cod. An adviser to both the Schmidts and OceanX, he sees extraordinary possibilities in the merger of tech entrepreneurs and the scientists who really understand the ocean. At Woods Hole, he oversees a project designed to do just that: , a rapid-prototyping facility opened in 2017. Bellingham leads me into the multiroom space, which has a geeky Star Trek vibe and is loaded with laser cutters, high-resolution 3-D printers, and a virtual-reality system.

The vision is to enable researchers and the many marine-technology companies clustered around Woods Hole to collaborate on new designs for everything from tiny sensors to autonomous robots. “Things that used to take months, now you can do in a day,” Bellingham saysÌę

Walking around, we pass by a whiteboard scribbled with engineering diagrams and equations. In the top left corner, someone has written a new and improved motto for innovation: TEST FAST + LEARN CHEAPLY.

A week after the Spotter test, Lang flew to Washington, D.C., to appear before the House Sub­committee on Environment, which was holding a hearing called . Once again he told the story of building a robot to search for gold and how that led to a company launch. The real breakthrough, he said, was the development process: open-source design and crowdfunding weren’t tactics that scientists had considered.

Since Lang and Stackpole began shipping Tridents to Kickstarter backers last fall—two years later than promised, due to manufacturing delays—they have sold thousands of units, now priced at $1,695. supported the purchase of 1,000 of them, for donation to researchers, conservation groups, teachers, and citizen scientists. Among the beneficiaries was a biologist at the University of California at Santa Barbara in Yosemite National Park, where the endangered amphibians spend their winters in alpine lakes capped by thick layers of ice and snow. (Scuba-diving under the ice to make observations would be an enormous endeavor, but deploying a Trident is relatively easy.) Paying customers that bought two drones for special search and rescue operations, like when a car goes underwater.

Ultimately, Lang says, “the size of the business opportunity for us remains to be seen,” though that isn’t preventing Sofar from thinking big. The company’s most ambitious concept released so far is a global network of Spotters to monitor the waters around coral reefs, which are dying off at a rapid rate as oceans heat up. Scientists studying the effects of climate change on corals generally rely on estimates of sea surface temperatures provided by satellites, which miss important fluctuations over short distances and brief periods of time, and by sensors that must be attached to reefs by divers and later collected for data retrieval. By adding temperature gauges to hundreds of Spotters and mooring them around major reef systems, researchers could monitor localized conditions in real time and gain knowledge about how tides, winds, and other factors might affect coral survival rates. To observe corals, teams could use Tridents, which aren’t subject to the same safety limitations as scuba divers.

This summer, Sofar was actively pitching the project to funders, citing the opportunity to have an enormous impact on coral-reef science for just a few million dollars. Central to the proposal was the idea that much of the work could be carried out by citizen scientists, who wouldn’t need any specialized training, since Spotters and Tridents are easy to use. In addition to reducing costs and speeding up deployment, Lang believes, the most important benefit would be growing the community that’s actively invested in the health of reefs. “When people participate in the process, they care,” he says. “The scientific method becomes the message.”

It would be just like what he and Stackpole dreamed of back in their early days of tinkering in the garage: thousands of their robots on the front lines of exploration.

Executive editor Michael Roberts isÌęthe showrunner of the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast.

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There he is! A helicopter approaches, descending from one of the ancient volcanic craters that rises out of the sagebrush near California’s Mono Lake on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevadas. Dangling below it on a rope is Bear Grylls, the intrepid king of survival entertainment. But wait—he’s not alone. He’s tied to someone. As the chopper gently sets them on the ground, I see that it’s a middle-aged woman. There’s some brief dialogue. And cut!Ìę

In an instant, Grylls is upon me with a bro hug and his signature boyish enthusiasm, a trait that belies the fact that he’s now 43, with graying temples and a lot more lines around the eyes than five years ago, when I spent a couple of days with him in Los Angeles. Do I know what I just saw? I don’t.

Bear Grylls Will Never Give Up

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“That lady who I was hanging under the helicopter with is 100 percent blind!” he whisper-shouts (since they’re still filming her nearby). “I had her running down that volcano. It’s amazing! Tears in her eyes, just shaking with joy because she could be free. I had her on a short rope. I said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about. It’s 1,000 feet down, just dust and ash. Run. Embrace it. Let your legs flow. You’re not going to hit anything. Be free.’ ”

He pauses to point out a nearly full moon rising over the crater. He is ecstatic.Ìę

The woman, he continues, is going to be featured in a new ten-episode series he’s doing for Facebook Watch, the company’s video-streaming service, called , premiering March 21. Each episode will run 12 to 15 minutes and feature Grylls taking what he calls “incredible people” on mini adventures. To find candidates, his team put out a call for video applications in October. They got over half a million submissions.Ìę

“Yesterday I was with a U.S. veteran who had both his legs blown off in Afghanistan. Died three times on the operating table,” Grylls says as we walk along a fire road toward the production staging grounds. “I picked him up in the middle of nowhere, put him into the chopper, and said, ‘What do you want to do with the wheelchair?’ He goes, ‘Let’s leave it.’ We climbed cliffs and crossed lakes. He’s got little stumps and he’s crawling. He was such an inspiration.”

The Facebook project is one of a number of new entrepreneurial endeavors that Grylls is rolling out as he plots yet another evolution of his brand to stay in the spotlight. Back in 2006, his breakout hit for the Discovery Channel, , had him charging alone through savage landscapes, famously consuming everything from maggots to elephant dung to his own pee. After a very public breakup with Discovery in 2012, he came back two years later with , a prime-time series for NBC that has him guiding A-list celebrities—Obama, Shaq, Federer—on softcore adventures. (Eight new episodes are scheduled for 2018.) Now, at a moment of accelerated cord-cutting and the prominence of live experiences, he’s pivoting to video streaming and events.

In addition to Face the Wild, Grylls just began production on an interactive show for Netflix that will allow viewers to choose how he takes on challenges—raft the river or swim it?—with the click of a pop-up icon. In January he broke ground on a $25 million adventure theme park in the UK that will offer indoor skydiving, a high-ropes course, and rock climbing. “It’ll be James Bond meets Indiana Jones meets Rambo!” he says. Then there’s the , his unique twist on obstacle racing. The inaugural event will take place the last weekend of April at Southern California’s Blue Cloud Movie Ranch, where up to 6,000 participants will pay entry fees starting at $95 to compete on a four-mile course that passes through a series of sets built for American Sniper and Iron Man.

As Grylls tells it, all this is part of a natural progression toward sharing a taste of extreme survival experiences with regular people. Maybe so, but he’s also clearly in the mood to invest in risky business propositions. Facebook Watch has yet to mature into a viable revenue generator for anyone other than Facebook. Obstacle racing, meanwhile, is in a much predicted decline after an extraordinary boom; overall participant numbers in the U.S. dropped by 30 percent (a million racers) in 2015.Ìę

Grylls, who has always sought out new business opportunities—video games, gear and apparel, a survival school—insists he’s comfortable rolling the dice. “Listen, we never know whether these things will work,” he says. “And I never go in thinking that we’re only going to do it if it’s a huge success. I’ve had way more failures.” What matters, he says, is creating new ways to give more people “an experience of the wild that can empower them in their lives.”

With that in mind, he starts gushing about the survival challenge. “We’re creating all these scenarios, from burned-out villages to war-torn areas to mountains, avalanche stuff!” he tells me. “Jungle lands, snakes.”

Snakes?

“There’s going to be everything! Rats, you name it. You’re going to have to eat the unimaginable.”

Actually, the details are still being finalized. But Grylls promises the event won’t be just another Tough Mudder knockoff. To create what he calls “a whole new genre,” he partnered with sports-marketing and events giant IMG. Together they came up with the idea of judging contestants’ performances as they move through various tests, with the results adding up to an overall survival score. Whereas obstacle races are all about physical endurance, he says his event will demand that “you think quickly on your feet.” Resourcefulness matters just as much as fitness.Ìę

So many wild projects can, of course, take their toll on a guy. As we stop next to the Jeep that’s going to ferry Grylls back to his hotel, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window. “I look a wreck,” he says. “I’m covered in crap.”Ìę

Then he smiles. “But who wants to reach the end of their life in a perfectly preserved body?” he says. “The scars and the crinkles and the cracks are what make us interesting.” With that, we climb into the vehicle and roll west toward the setting sun.Ìę

“Don’t you just love adventure?” he asks to nobody in particular.Ìę

Listen to our extended conversation with Bear Grylls about his new Facebook series and survival challengeÌęon the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast.

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On Friday, September 8, Jack Johnson will releaseÌęAll the Light Above It Too, his first studio album in four years. Predictably, it will soon be at the top of the Billboard charts and iTunes bestseller lists. Predictably, the new songs feature lots of good-vibes acoustic strumming from the man who has composed the modern soundtrack to hanging out at the beach. And yet, in some important ways, this isn’t the same old Jack Johnson. Though known for his environmental advocacy work and efforts to green the music industry, he has always been uncomfortable talking about either, telling interviewers he didn’t want to sound preachy. But this time around, we’re hearing from an artist who seems ready to take a much bolder stand.

Jack Johnson Loses His Cool

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast episode

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In February, Johnson’s Brushfire label released a documentary film called , which followed a group of scientists, surfers, and freedivers on a sailing expedition between Bermuda and the Bahamas. They collected water samples loaded with tiny plastic bits. Jack was on the ship and played a central character in the film, speaking directly to the camera about the choices we need to make to reduce waste.Ìę

Then, in July, Johnson released a single called that’s a very obvious anti-Trump song. The video shows him building walls with his kids’ blocks, then tearing them down. The song is the fourth track on All the Light Above It Too, but not the only one with a social message. And, as it turns out, this was an album Johnson simply decided to make—he didn’t have a record deal pushing him to produce new music. He also did a lot of the instrumentation himself, something he hasn’t done before. Ìę

All of which sure makes you think that Johnson has some things he really wants to say. So this summer, when he came through the Bay Area to play a couple shows at the Greek Theater, near where I live, I decided to ask him: What’s going on? Ìę

You can hear his full response—plus a number of the new songs and even Johnson singing a new tune he’s never recorded for an album—in the latest episode of the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast. Here, an edited excerpt from our conversation.

OUTSIDE: Considering your role in The Smog of the Sea and the strong anti-Trump message in My Mind is For Sale, it feels like you’ve changed—that something has pushed you to speak up and take a stand on big issues. Am I right?Ìę
JACK JOHNSON: I like the synopsis. I think it’s good. It’s interesting doing interviews, because I don’t do them very much, then I have a new record out and I tend to do a bunch in a row and try to publicize the new album, and it’s like seeing a psychiatrist. Because all of sudden, people look at these groups of ideas that you put together, and they tell you things. But I appreciate that one. It’s true. It wasn’t a conscious choice or anything like that, I just tend to write about what’s on my mind.Ìę

So that means politics are on your mind, which is the same for most people these days. But what spurred you to write a song that directly took aim at President Trump?
I wanted to have at least a song on the record that started the way I felt about certain things. It just feels like such a divisive time with the idea of Ìębuilding walls that separate us. Not even the literal wall that Trump talks about, but the idea that anybody who wants to separate people by race and religion, just the choices we decide to make. ItÌęfelt like it would be ridiculous not to make some kind of a statement about it in my music. Ìę

You’d said before that you don’t want to come across as being preachy. What got you past that concern this time? Ìę
I think it has to do with where I’m at in my life. It’s almost too simple to blame it on age, but there comes a time where it’s our turn. Jacque Cousteau says we protect the things we love, and so I realized it’sÌęmy time to do that work. It’s always tricky for me. I’ve never wanted to the music to feel like a PSA, so I’ve always avoided that. I do have PSA-type song that I write, but I know they’re for cafeterias. And then, on the record, I always try to make sure that if it has any kind of environmental theme, it’s really just reconnecting people and nature. Ìę

On the new album, you seem to have both songs with subtle messaging, plus others that help help us forget about all the serious stuff.
Yeah, I think this album has both. The first four songs all have social or political commentary. And then, by the time you get to Big Sur—I wanted to call it that because that’s a place my family and I go camping a lot—it’s like that feeling you get driving off, escaping the first four songs andÌęhanging out with friends around a campfire. Ìę

You wrote one of the tracks on the new album, Sunsets for Somebody Else, while on a surf trip with Kelly Slater. How important are those kind of getaways to your music?
We surfed our brains out on that trip. We had really amazing waves. Just the time detaching—we didn’t have a crazy studio schedule or anything but you’re in there day to day. You feel like, I just need to keep working, keep working. And then, the first day I get outside, these songs come all of a sudden. I think more than anything it was a perfect time for a break.Ìę

Looking back over your career, how big a change do you think All the Light Above It Too is from your earlier albums?
My first record was full of songs I never knew would be on a real record. They were just songs I wrote and put on little four-track tapes that I assumed like 30 or 40 of my friends might here. There are some songs I don’t know I would have written it if I thought people would hear them. But then, I dunno, I still write cheesy songs. I know they’re cheesy. Maybe cheesy is too strong a word—they’re sappy. I let myself go there, I don’t mind. It’s interesting, some people, assume that’s all I write, whereas people who get into my whole albums know there has been social and political commentary on every one.

Listen to our conversation with Jack Johnson on the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast.

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One morning this spring, Thomas Meyerhoffer had a breakthrough on the race track—which made him furious. In recent years, the acclaimed 52-year-old industrial designer has thrown himself into motorsports, training at the and, beginning in 2016, competing in the Pirelli GT3 Cup, a series for elite amateurs. At the Thunderhill Raceway in Northern California, he dropped his lap time by three and a half seconds—an eternity. “I came out of the car and I was so angry,” he says. “I was just thinking, Why didn’t I do that before? It was so simple.”

Meyerhoffer is obsessed with simplicity. The remarkably diverse range of mold-demolishing sports products he has created—the first wraparound ski goggles, the Smith V3; a no-fuss rear-entry snowboard binding for Flow that offered the control of a strap-in; award-winning Neil Pryde windsurf sails—have been celebrated for their elegant austerity. He has an uncanny ability to find the cleanest line connecting form and function. Even his show-stopping designs, like the translucent (an iMac precursor that the company’s chief design officer, Jonathan Ive, tapped Meyerhoffer to develop) and his hourglass-shaped longboards, which he introduced nine years ago to great confusion in the surf industry, adhere to his Scandinavian aesthetic. (He was born and raised in Sweden.)

Early on, Meyerhoffer took positions at places designers dream of spending their careers: , , . But he prefers an environment that’s “more free,” so for almost 20 years he has run his own in-home studio in Montara, California, overlooking a surf break south of San Francisco. Today, he works with a broad client base that includes brands in technology, medicine, and even politics. (He was one of three designers selected to craft the look and message of Michael Bloomberg’s presidential bid, before the billionaire decided not to run.) His latest sports product is the one he’s holding on the cover of this magazine—a break-apart travel surfboard that can be outfitted with several tail configurations and fits into a faux golf bag, which can be checked for free on most airlines.

Not long after his dramatic improvement on the track, I met Meyerhoffer at his studio to talk about his creative process and what fuels innovation. Surfing and racing top the list. As he explained it, cutting his time was the result of the kind of decidedly simple design solution that he seeks for everything. “I didn’t need to be faster where I was fast,” he said, his blue eyes flashing. “I needed to be faster where I was slow.” Instead of gunning it on the straightaways, he focused on precise braking and turning going into corners. “I’d forgotten what really matters,” he concluded, smiling.

I’ve always asked myself, What do I do? It’s why I’ve put myself in so many different situations. When I was younger, my answers were mostly gut feelings: I don’t want to work here anymore; I’m going to do my own thing. In the past two or three years, the question has taken on a broader meaning. Now it’s: What can I do?

People ask why I left Apple. Once you start exploring, why stop? I was at Apple only because I’d left Porsche. And I was at Porsche because I’d left Sweden to go to a school somewhere else. You have to leave to take the next step.

The design process always starts with asking the right questions: What kind of experience do you want to create? What’s the cultural context? Put yourself in the shoes of the user. Understand where the product will live.

In race car driving, there’s no time to think about a mistake, because the next turn is in your face. You get reminded very quickly that you lost focus. It’s the same with design: you have to understand what really matters and not be discouraged by all the things that don’t.

It is so hard to get to simplicity. Then you get there and it’s like, Why didn’t we do that earlier? We had such a great idea—why did we spend two years with all this shit we tacked on?

I still use my pen and pencil.

Surfing is like dancing naked at a bar. You fall and everyone goes, “Ha ha!” That’s what I went through with my first surfboard project. I had to paddle my boards out and stand up on them in front of these opinionated gentlemen. It wasn’t a painless experience. They’d say, “What the fuck is that?” I had to learn not to care. To be innovative, you can’t give a shit.

The last straw we cling to is our expertise. But if you continue to do that, at a certain point you can no longer go anywhere new. If there isn’t a constant flow of energy and curiosity, you stagnate.

When utilizing new technologies and materials, the craft is in connecting things in unexpected ways—like translucent plastic on an Apple computer or using software to make surfboards.

I just went running for 45 minutes, and I really had to push to get through it. I do the same at work—the pleasure comes when you go all the way.

I ask everybody what they think. I ask my son a lot—he’s 16, which makes him perfect for so many things. But I also need to understand where he’s coming from. When someone shares their opinion, your job is to decipher what they are actually saying.

Great design doesn’t need to be explained. People will get it just by experiencing it.

In a lot of sports, the dream used to be all about going faster. Now sports culture is driven by fashion and social media. I think that is very positive. People aren’t searching for ultimate performance so much as the ultimate experience. There’s a functionality side but also an emotional side. My job is to bring those together.

That moment when you come out of the cave to show what you’ve made, that’s when you have to be fearless.

There are no shortcuts.

Read Thomas Meyerhoffer’s conversations with other creatives below.

Crafter: Tom Sachs

“Innovation is a dirty word in my life. There are artists and institutions that are addicted to it and who innovate for its own sake. I consider innovation a privilege, not a right. It’s a privilege for me to stumble upon a problem that needs a solution. I spend 99 percent of my time just doing push-ups, focusing on the basics. I’ll go for long periods with nothing new happening, but I still have a lot of work to do. I clean my workshop, sharpen my chisels, tidy up. I make sure my equipment is ready so that when inspiration strikes, I don’t have to go to the store to buy red paint. That’s my number-one strategy: Be prepared.

“I used to carry around an 8.5-by-11-inch blank book with 212 pages. I would start from the back with a calendar, and from the front with sketches and to-do lists, and they would meet in the middle. That turned into computerized to-do lists and e-mails, and a lot of my ideas died. Now I use these cheap sleeved binders and do everything on paper—hotel paper, toilet paper, whatever—and I stick it in there. The more concrete the method of recording something, the more it lasts.

“We’re living in this crazy time of associated value, where people want the watch Edmund Hillary wore on Everest or the one James Bond wore when slaying a villain. That kind of myth making is important. The Mars Yard sneakers I made with Nike are for the strongest minds in the aerospace community. If I’m going to aspire to be someone, it’s one of my friends at NASA. Those guys are my heroes.”

Connector: Paul Gaudio

Global Creative Director,

“In our organization, we look at sports as a lifestyle. The culture of sports transcends everything. The people we connect with most don’t draw lines between ‘He’s a musician. He’s an entertainer. He’s an athlete. He’s an artist.’ It’s all one big fluid world for them. That’s our starting point. So everything we do must be born from some cultural insight. That is critical to how we bring technical and material innovation into our products. If you start with technical innovation, things might become too rational or cold, or maybe it’s something that somebody buys to run a race but leaves in a bag when they’re done training.

“When I came into my role, we were very calendar driven. In our effort to streamline efficiency, we had really stripped away a lot of our ability to create. That was one of the first things I worked on. Creativity requires space and time. We made a big investment to build three prototyping facilities with the sole purpose of trying stuff, making stuff, and breaking stuff. Now we rarely sit and look at sketches. Want to get my reaction on a silhouette? Bring something you stitched together.

“Sitting at our computers, we have all these capabilities, the power to do anything we want. Sometimes those things are too complex, fussy, overengineered, or overbuilt. You don’t realize that until you start getting samples from a factory. Then it’s ‘What did we make?’ Focusing on the method, on handcrafting—that forces you to reduce and refine. It’s hard to do.”

Fixer: Alex Amouyel

Executive Director,

“Solve was founded on the belief that there is ingenuity everywhere. We organize workshops around specific challenges to improve the lives of millions of people living on the margins. Then we issue a call for solutions. Anybody can submit. You can be at a university, a business, or a refugee camp. The proposals are judged by a diverse panel—experts like Lauren Powell Jobs, former Xerox CEO Ursula Burns, Yo-Yo Ma—that selects a class of up to ten solvers per challenge that we connect with people who have resources to really help them scale.

“There are lots of challenge models out there, but most of them say, ‘We are looking for solutions that do X, and we’ll give one person a million dollars.’ That’s not what spurs innovation. A check alone won’t get you there. People require sustained input and resources. We spend time understanding our solvers’ needs. Are they looking for experts to test their technology? For mentors? Distribution partners? Grant funding or investment capital? We call our approach crowdsolving. Our role is the matchmaker.

“The traditional top-down method of social- and environmental-impact innovation required a lot of capital and many years. Big institutions doing fundamental research and science. But what do people living on the edge do in the meantime? Even if you believe that everybody will eventually have access to the Internet through satellites or balloons, what about today? Solve is taking a human-centered look at these questions from the bottom up.”

Performer: Stacy Sims

Exercise Physiologist, Author of

“I’ve been an athlete longer than I’ve been an academic. I went through coaches, I competed at the Ironman World Championships, I raced bikes professionally. AndÌęI struggled, and saw my teammates struggle, with coaches putting us on the same training programs as men. That’s been the driving force. I joke that my whole career has stemmed from questions I want answered for myself. Why are these things not working for women? Why are they just being handed down to us? I’ve realized this is very disruptive. It’s a big shift not to view everything through a male lens.

“I’m one of four researchers at the University of Waikato’s Adams Centre for High Performance in New Zealand, but I don’t feel like a true scientist. The other three conduct research, then publish the outcomes in sports-science journals. I’m like, I have this question and it has to be applicable. Does it result in a new product or technique? Right now I’m looking at whether it’s beneficial to have women athletes acclimatize in one phase of their cycle versus another, as well as how genetic and sex differences match up with different approaches to exercise and nutrition. This means redoing some of the pivotal hydration and nutrition work that’s all been done on men.

“In human-performance research, you have to ask people to dig deep and face a lot of pain—pushing themselves to the edge, sometimes in hot or high-altitude conditions. I’m always a pilot participant in my studies, so I know what it feels like and the others know that they’re not alone. It also helps me work out the bugs.”

—Interviews by

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