While cutting lazy circles in the teal waters near ’s Scorpion Anchorage during my second-ever sea-kayaking experience, I made a rookie mistake. “What are some of the most memorable wildlife encounters you’ve had at the park?” I asked , a writer, photographer, and paddler who’s been guiding here for almost 20 years. He didn’t miss a beat. “Well, probably the two encounters I’ve had with great white sharks.”

It’s a testament to the stunning beauty of these islands and the Pacific waters surrounding them that I only ruminated on his response for a moment. The idea of killer sharks existing in a place like this was akin to a villain in a Disney film to me; even they took on an unthreatening feeling. On this perfect spring day, fingers of feather boaÌęand giant bladder kelp swayed beneath my kayak. A squadron of California brown pelicans perched nearby on craggy Scorpion Rock, while peregrine falcons swooped down to ruffle their feathers. Fleshy harbor seals sunbathed on craggyÌęoutcroppings as a bald eagle cruised a thermal above. Beyond it all, the yawning mouths of barnacle-crusted sea caves beckoned like geologic sirens. You better bet I answered the call.

Channel Islands National Park, located off the coast of Southern California, provides visitors countlessÌępinch-me moments, but despite a fellow touristÌęblurting out that she felt like she was living in a movie, I can assure you that everything here is quite real. Four of the park’s five islands (Anacapa, San Miguel, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Santa Rosa) once existed as a single volcanic landmass that was partially submerged during a post-ice-age period of glacial melt, creating the chain we see today. Over time, the Chumash and Tongva people came to inhabit the islands, and their descendants remain connected to them over 10,000 years later.

Because the islands are isolated from the mainland, nearly 150 of the more than 2,000 species of plants and animals existingÌęacross themÌęare found nowhere else in the world. The most famous of these is the island fox, an adorableÌęfloof that’s roughly the size of a well-fed house cat. I’ve never not seen one on Santa Cruz, where they roam Scorpion Anchorage and the nearby campground looking for discardedÌęsnacks—that is, if the massive (and surprisingly dexterous) ravens don’t get to them first.

When I asked GrahamÌęwhy he’d spent almost two decades of his life connected to this place of tiny foxes and outsizeÌęscenery, he responded that it was because he could experience the land and the ocean as theyÌęonce were—before the 1980 creation of the national park, and before Spanish missionaries arrived in the 16th century and nearly decimated both the landscape and the Chumash and Tongva ways of life. I could tell that the Channel Islands had burrowed deep within his heart,Ìęand I suspect thatÌęafter a visit, you might feel the same.

What You Need to Know Before Visiting

Get your logistical ducks in order. Unlike most national parks, this one is car-free—well, except for the main visitor center, which is located in the harbor area of the park’s gateway town, Ventura, California—so you’ll need to arrive via sea or sky. Most folks cruise over on the ferry (more on this shortly), and I recommend taking the earliest one you can schedule to maximize your island time. It’s not as crucial to strike out early if you’re camping, but you will need to coordinate carefully and book earlyÌęto ensure that campsites and boats are available on the same dates. Weekends fill upÌęquickly for both, especially in the warmer months. And I do recommend camping, especially if you’re visiting the two biggest islands, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, since there’s so much to see.

Pack everything you need—yes, everything. Infrastructure is minimal across the islands. Unlike many other marquee parks, there are no restaurants, hotels, stores, and traffic… which is actually a huge plus. With the exception of the Scorpion Canyon Campground on Santa Cruz andÌęthe Water Canyon Campground on Santa Rosa, there’s also no potable water.ÌęPlan to carry a gallon per dayÌęper person if you’re traveling outside those areas. In addition, visitors should pack plenty of layers, a personal first aid kit, and food for the day. If you forget the latter, or if you want to supplement your stash, the Island Packers ferryÌęsell snacks and libations (including the adult variety) on board.

It’s wild out there. The islands sit on the southern side of the Santa Barbara Channel, and the shortest ferry crossing takes roughly an hour. It can get mighty windy out here, which creates chop, so anyone prone to seasickness might consider popping Dramamine before boarding. If you’re scanning for seabirds or marine life, the bow (or front) of the boat is the place to be—but hang on tight, because it’s a wild (and often wet) ride. Once on shore, the weather varies from island to island, with the outer isles (San Miguel and Santa Rosa) most likely to be hammered by the wind. There’s not a lot of shade available, save for scattered stands that include oaks and rare Torrey pines, so good sun protection is a must. Finally, keep your distance from cliff edges (there are many), which are subject to erosion.

How to Get There

It’s about a 90-minute drive fromÌęLos Angeles InternationalÌęnorthwest to Ventura Harbor, where boats depart for the islands. Alternatively, Ìęoffers service between LAX andÌęthe Four Points by Sheraton hotel, located at the harbor front.

While runs private (and pricey) flights toÌęSanta RosaÌęand San Miguel, most people travel via ferry. Island Packers, the official park concessionaire, runs frequent trips to Santa Cruz and Anacapa year-round (one hour each way)Ìęand to the other three islands spring through fall (roughly three to fourÌęhours each way, depending on conditions). The crew does a fantastic job of whipping up excitement about the national parkÌęand its surrounding waters, and they often have a guest naturalist or ranger on board to answer any questions. In addition, they will often stop for wildlife sightings and may even pilot the boat into Santa Cruz’sÌęPainted Cave, one of the longest sea caves in the world, if you’re in thatÌęarea. During a recent trip, we spotted a pair of humpback whales, along with a colossal pod of dolphins who were in cahoots with the pelicans, staging an elaborate routine to roundÌęup fish for one another. Be sure to drop a few bucks in the tip jar (for the humans) on your return voyage.

Traveling between islands isn’t impossible, but it does require some logistical gymnastics. Island Packers offers occasional service between Santa Rosa and Santa Cruz, but otherwiseÌęyou’re rolling solo. Experienced boaters and kayakers who are equipped with proper safety and navigation gear can island-hop if the weather cooperates, but research landing and camping options ahead of time. There aren’t many,Ìęand with the exception of Scorpion Cove and its nearby campground, few are convenient. It’s also possible to pilot your own craft from the mainland to the islands, although you’ll be traveling across major shipping lanes—not an endeavor for the faint of heart.

WhenÌęIs the Best Time of Year to Visit Channel Islands?

Winter

Come December, it’s not just colder, hovering in the low sixtiesÌęduring the day and the high thirtiesÌęat night, but also stormier, with the likelihood of rain and high winds increasing through March. The upside to a late-winter visit is that the islands practically glow with chlorophyll, and wildflowers add even more color—my favorite is the giant coreopsis, whose daisylike yellow blooms and feathery foliage cluster at the end of twisted, woody branches, giving itÌęa somewhat Seussian appearance. Mid-December also marks the beginning of the annual gray whale migration; scan the channel as you cross to see if you can spot their misty spouts.

Spring

As daytime temperatures rise to the high sixtiesÌęandÌęrain decreases in frequency, the greenery fades. But luckily, flowers continue to dot the landscape, and whales keep on swimming in the vicinity. Come April, seabirds—including western gulls and California brown pelicans—begin nesting in earnest. This is especially obvious on the tiny island of Anacapa, where they usually kick back en masse until mid-August. Plan your visit to this miniÌęchain of three islets for any other time of year, unless you enjoy dodging poop missiles while accompanied by the dulcet tones of incessant squawking.

Summer

This is the most popular time to visit the islands, when air and water temperatures climb to their warmest, in the seventies,Ìęand childrenÌęare out of school.ÌęWeather conditions—and thusÌęocean conditions—are also typically at their calmest, creating excellent underwater visibility for swimmers, snorkelers, and divers. The odds also increase for marine-wildlife sightings, since blue and humpback whales are migrating past the Channel Islands duringÌętheseÌęmonths.

Fall

Water temperatures reach their peak in early fall, which makes this the best season to take a dip if you’re so inclined. Autumn is also prime time to witness seabirds and elephant seals settling into their nests and rookeries around the park; just remember to give these island residents their privacy. By October, the infamous Santa Ana winds begin to pick up, blowing hard through January.

Where to Stay near Channel Islands

Campgrounds

A single walk-in campground is available on each of the islands, with the exception of Santa Cruz, which has two. To reach them, plan to hike anywhere from a quarter-mile to a full mile (and up a steep flight of stairs on Anacapa) with your gear. Reservations are required and can be made up to six months in advance via ($15). It’s also possible to reserve space on several of Santa Rosa’s remote beaches from mid-August to December ($10). No matter where you intendÌęto snooze, book your ferry ticket first, since those get snapped up quickly.

Hotels

While there isn’t any brick-and-mortar lodging on the islands, you’ll find a pair of chain hotels at the Ventura harbor, located only a mile from the ferry, with more scattered along the coast. I can vouch for the Ìę(from $170), which features serene landscaped grounds and what I can only describe as a hot-tub terrarium (trust me, that’s a good thing). Closer to downtown and its popular pier, the almostÌębeachside Ìę(campsites from $59; trailers from $175) features over a dozen quirky vintage trailers for rent, along with even more space to park your own (BYOT, if you will). For a more refined aesthetic, splash out for a stay at one of the two century-old Craftsman-styleÌęcottages at theÌęÌę(from $127), a property built in 1910 that has long hosted Hollywood luminaries and others who appreciate historic architecture (and ocean views).

What to Do While You’re There

Hiking

Santa Cruz (LimuwÌęin the Chumash language) is the park’s most popular destination and its largest at 62,000 acres. Only 24 percentÌęof the island is accessible to visitors, however, since the Nature Conservancy manages the remaining acreage. There’s still too much to see in a day (or even two), so spend a night if you can. My favorite day hike is the 7.5-mile roundÌętrip from Scorpion Anchorage to Smuggler’s Cove, climbing to the fox-filled grasslands atop the island before dropping down to a pebble-strewn beach littered with tide pools. On the north side of the island, it’s only a five-mileÌęroundÌętrip to score an eagle’s-eye view of the rugged coastline and brilliant blue waters at Potato Harbor; if you’re short on time, the two-mile Cavern Point Loop keeps you closer to Scorpion Anchorage while still offering a bluff-top vantage. For something less traveled, stroll the 4.5-mile Scorpion Canyon Loop, which serves as prime habitat for the bright blue island scrub jay, a species endemic to Santa Cruz.

The second-largest island, Santa Rosa (Wima), is also flush with trails. It might be tempting to park yourself on the pristine white sands that curl around Bechers Bay near the landing dock, but make time toÌęsoak in the landscape. Day-trippers will be able to complete the 3.5-mile Cherry Canyon Loop, which follows a thin singletrack through its namesake gorge before depositing you atop a bluff with exceptional views of the coastline and rugged interior. If you’re staying longer, extend the route for a total of eight miles to tag 1,298-footÌęBlack Mountain and enjoy the 360-degree panoramas atÌęits summit. From the dock, it’s about 4.5 miles one-way to the mouth of Lobo Canyon, a winding slot of wind- and water-carved sandstone that travels roughly 1.5 miles before spilling out onto what feels like your own private beach.

San Miguel (Tuqan) is the park’s westernmost island, which means it’s susceptible to the gnarliest weather; windbreakers are all but mandatory. Due to possible unexploded ordinance (the Navy once committed the sacrilege of holding bombing practice here), unaccompanied visitors are restricted to a relatively small chunk of island’s northeastern quadrant near the ranger station. That’s why it’s worth it to call ahead andÌęensure that a ranger is available to guide the 16-mile out-and-back traverse to Point Bennett, where you can gawk at a gaggle of chatty seals and sea lions living their best lives at one of the most densely populated rookeries in the world.

Hiking opportunities are slim on tiny Anacapa (Anyapax) and Santa Barbara (Siwot). On the former, a 1.5-mile roundÌętrip drops you at Instagram-worthy Inspiration Point, while a 2.5-mile out-and-back to Elephant Seal Cove on the latter treats you to a sweeping view of its namesake pinnipeds in beachy repose.

Backpacking

Limited campsites and potable water make backpacking a little tricky. On Santa Rosa, reserve a backcountry beach-camping permit, then strike out from the dock to hike 12.4 miles along the unpaved former ranch road that traces Water Canyon before reaching prime spots near the mouth of La Jolla Vieja Canyon. Dispersed camping is available along the beach; be sure to pitch your tent above the high-water mark. On Santa Cruz, book a spot at the remote, oak-dappled Del Norte backcountry camp. This lofty perch, with only four designated sites, is a short 3.5 miles from Prisoner’s Harbor, but it feels more deliciously remote if you use it as a waypoint during a 24-mile loop from Scorpion Anchorage.

Kayaking

Listen, I’m a hiker throughÌęandÌęthrough, but the best experience I’ve ever had at the park was sea-kayaking near Scorpion Anchorage. Unless you’re an experienced paddler, book a tour through Ìę(from $118), which provides knowledgeable guides like Graham, along with all the equipment you’ll need for a few hours or a halfÌęday on the water. If you are already one with the ocean, rent a kayak from Ìę(from $12.50 per hour) at least one day before your trip, or bring your own (contact Island Packers to make sure they have room on board; kayak transport isÌę$20 to $28 on top of your ferry-ticket price, depending on its size). Scorpion Anchorage features the friendliest waters, followed by Anacapa, where you’ll find incredible tide pools at isolated Frenchy’s Cove. Due to their more unpredictable weather and waters, touring the outer islands is only recommended for the most experienced paddlers.

Snorkeling and Diving

Roughly half of Channel Islands National Park is underwater, with its boundary stretching a nautical mile out from shore;Ìęa zone six nautical miles beyond that is protected as a national marine sanctuary. This makes the park’s waters an extraordinary place to view marine life. Channel Islands șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Company also leads beginner-friendly snorkel tours at Scorpion Anchorage, where you’ll marvel at sunlit kelp forests brimming with sea life, including the neon orange garibaldi, California’s state marine fish. Experienced snorkelers and divers will also enjoy the biodiversity in the waters surrounding Anacapa and Santa Barbara Islands. Wetsuits are recommended year-round. Snorkeling gear rentals are available viaÌęChannel Islands șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Company (reserve equipmentÌębefore arriving on the island); divers can rent their gearÌęback on the mainland at , located in the harbor.

The Best Places to Eat and Drink Around Ventura

Nearly every time IÌętakeÌęan early ferry to the islands, I make a quick pit stop at the , justÌęa short walkÌęfrom the Island Packers office. ItÌęserves a thick-as-your-arm Hawaiian-inspired burrito stuffed with pineapple and Spam. And ask about its lunch boxes to go. After your return, linger awhile at the harbor to replenish your carb stash at (start with the yuca mojo de ajo), nosh on seafood classics at , or cool off with the frosty Technicolor concoctions dished up at .

Slightly farther afield, even carnivores will find plentyÌęto sink their teeth into at the punk-inspired , which serves up hearty, meatless riffs on all-American classics. Opt for theÌęMr. BBQ jackfruit sammy with a side of Nardcorn, a loose-kernel versionÌęon elote. The same unassuming strip mall features the , a brunch joint whose bold claim to “Tłó±đ Best Homemade Chorizo in Ventura” I cannot deny. There’s even more to choose from in the heart of downtown. A local pal of mine is a fan of the curries at , another friend makes a habit ofÌęstopping for a few island potions at , and I personally can’t wait to sample more of the fareÌęat tucked-away , the seafood-heavy California outpost of a Belizean gastropub. For a more casual experience, grab some local craft brews (more on this in a moment) and head to nearby San Buenaventura State Beach, where you can tuck into briny bivalves at theÌę.

If You Have Time for a Detour

Immortalized in song (press play on the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ U.S.A.” if you don’t believe me), Ventura is one of the world’s most iconic surfing locations. Grab your board and head to—wait for it—Surfer’s Point, a popular break near the downtown pier; tamer waters roll inÌęa few minutes up the coast at Mondo’s Beach. Less than 15 miles north of downtown Ventura, , home to the annual Rincon Classic, draws experienced surfers to a trio of good breaks. If you don’t have a board, rent one from the old-timers at , which has been catering toÌęwave hounds since the sixties. If you don’t have the skills, learn from the crew at ;Ìęthey teach groms of all ages.

For a short stroll or run, check out pastoral , which slices through the mountainous foothills perched at the city’s northern edge. For something a little more adventurous, the rugged fans out to the north, with the rising from the Pacific just a half-hour to the southeast. Cyclists will find plenty to enjoy in both of these areas, but there’s also great cruising right in town along several paved routes, including the 12-mile Ventura Pacific Coast Bikeway and the 16.5-mile Ventura River Parkway. Rent your wheels (or schedule a tour) at .

Finally, book an extra night in your hotel (and secureÌęa designated driver) so that you can partake in samples offered byÌęthe region’s many purveyors of adult liquid delights. While the central coast’s famed wine country isn’t all that far away, Ventura is better known for its craft-brew scene, which includes (which keeps several gluten-reduced beers in rotation), (whose Donlon Double IPA snagged a World Beer Cup award in 2018), and brand-new (whose Peelin’ Out incorporates locally grown tangerines). That said, I truly can’t wait until I can once again kick back and sip a dreamy, creamy Tux Nitro Milk Stout in the perfectly chill beer garden at ’s Colt Street headquarters, located just east of the harbor. Save room to visit the tasting room at , a distillery that uses overstock and lessÌęthanÌęperfect produce from area farms (and in the case of its agave spirit, plants that people no longer want in their yards) to conjure up a host of aromatic elixirs. Try itsÌęWilder Gin, which tastes like all of my favorite California plants decided to get boozy together.

How to Be Conscious

There are no trash receptacles anywhere on the islands, so pack out everything you brought along for the adventure, including fruit peels and pits. I carry a reusable zip-top bag along for this purpose, just as I do when traveling anywhere in the backcountry.

Wildlife is one of the major draws of a visit to the Channel Islands, and it’s important to give our furry, finned, and feathery friends ample space to live their lives in peace while we gawk in wonder. This is especially important when seabirds and pinnipeds are caring for their young, which is why beach camping is not allowed on Santa Rosa from January through mid-August. The park suggests giving a 100-yard berth to any nesting or pupping wildlife, since our presence can spook away the parent, leaving their eggs or young unattended and vulnerable. For this same reason, tamper your squeals of joy and avoid shining lights if you enter sea caves while kayaking, since animals enjoy cozying up inside.

You can also protect the park’s wildlife by storing food in critter-proof containers, such as hard-sided coolers or the lockers provided at campsites and picnic tables. The ravens, mice, and foxes here are bold and skilled, especially on heavily touristed Santa Cruz, where they’ve evolved to learn how to open (and close—so stealthy!) zippers. GrahamÌęshared that a cunning avian thief once swiped his car keys, which he later discovered dangling from a dock halfway around the island.

The post The Ultimate Channel Islands National Park Travel Guide appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The distress call came in at 3:14 A.M. on Monday, September 2, Labor Day weekend.Ìę

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” a man gasped into marine Channel 16—the VHF frequency designated for emergencies. His voice was labored and halting.

“Conception. Platts Harbor. North Side Santa Cruz.”Ìę

At Coast Guard Sector Los Angeles/Long Beach, one of the night watch standers returned the call, asking the vessel in distress its position and the number of people on board.Ìę

“Thirty-nineÌęPOB,” the man responded. “I can’t breathe.”

ThenÌęthe radio went silent.

Five timesÌęthe radio operator tried to hail the vessel. Finally, the watch stander issued a “pan-pan”—an alert to first responders and other mariners that, somewhere in theÌęnight, an urgent problem was unfolding.

The Mayday call came fromÌęJerry Boylan, captain of the Conception, a 75-foot liveaboard dive boat owned by Ìęand chartered by Worldwide Diving șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs. Twenty minutes later,ÌęBoylan made radio contact again. The boat was anchored just off Santa Cruz Island, some 20 miles from California’s southern coast and 90 milesÌęas the crow fliesÌęfrom the Coast Guard station in Los Angeles. Distance made theÌęradio connection patchy, so Boylan’sÌęcall was relayed by an intermediary. As a result, only the followingÌęrecord of the Coast Guard’s replies remains.

“What is the emergency?ÌęOver.”Ìę

“What is the emergency? Over.”

“Your vessel is on fire? Is that correct?”

“Roger. There are 36 people on board the vessel that’s on fire, and they can’t get off?”

“Roger. Can you get back on board the boat and unlock the doors so they can get off?”

“Roger. And there’s no escape hatch for any of the people on board?”Ìę

A few key details were inaccurate in these radio calls. There were actually 34 people still on board this triple-decker boat:Ìęa crew member, a dive leader, and 32 paying customers. They were all in the sleeping quarters, where narrow bunks were stacked three high. The doors into the boat, which opened to the galley and dining area, were not locked. There was an escape hatch, but it led into the main cabin, which was now engulfed in flame. Sleeping on the top deck, Boylan and four crew members were forced to jump off the ship. They used an emergency raft to get to a nearby fishing boat to make the second Mayday call.Ìę

But as it would soon become clear, the correction of these few factual errors wouldn’t have any impact on the eventual outcome.Ìę

In the minutes after that second MaydayÌęcall, the Coast Guard sector dispatched a helicopter from Point Mugu, about 40 miles to the east, and another one from San Diego, along with the cutter Narwhal, which had been conducting routine operations at the Port of Los Angeles. Five other city and county rescue vessels from the regionÌębegan motoring out to the island as well.

At Coast Guard Station Channel Islands Harbor, in Oxnard, boatswain’s mate Logan Steinberger was in charge of the station watch. By the time he’d pieced together what was happening, he and his crew had just enough time to grab a portable pump and leap into their response boat. The station’s second craft would wait for a few county medics to arrive before heading out. They were the closest response team in the area.Ìę

“We knew from listening to the radio chatter that it was really bad,” recalled Steinberger. “We kind of knew going in that it may be hopeless, but you don’t treat it as hopeless until you’re really sure it is.”

Two or so miles east of Santa Cruz Island, he could make out the unmistakable glow of fire. It was the only light on the horizon.

When the response boat arrived, the Conception was completely ablaze. Steinberger and his crew swept the area, looking for survivors. Seeing none, they set up their pump. It has a limited capacity, so they had to get close to the burning boat. Steinberger steered the vessel from inside the cabin. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, his engineer was shouting directions to keep him oriented away from smoke and the worst of the flames. The coxswain could feel the heat as he leaned out to hear the engineer’s instructions.

One of the next boats on the scene carried a Ventura County fire captain, who let Steinberger and his crew know that their efforts with the pump were futile—it just didn’t have the capability of a real fireboat. So the crew of the response boat went back to circling for survivors.Ìę

Paul Amaral was at home when he got word of the distress call that night via a TowBoatUS radio-dispatch center. Captain of a TowBoatUS craft, he sped to his Ventura office, grabbed a grappling hook, and raced to the scene. The sea and sky were as dark as Amaral had ever seen them. He, too, was listening to the radio on his way to the Conception, hoping someone had made a terrible mistake when reporting the situation. And then, there it was on the horizon: the worsening fire.

Other fireboats arrived, one after another. They sprayed the Conception continuously for hours. The flames began to abate in places. But big hot spots remained. One burned through the boat’s anchor line. Amaral watched as the boat drifted into the jagged rocks encircling Platts Harbor. He knew his small vesselÌęwas the only one that could get in close, so he pushed up against the hull of the Conception, right next to the sleeping quarters. He didn’t hear a sound. Amaral knew no one could be alive.

The fire had decimatedÌępatches of the °äŽÇČÔłŠ±đ±èłÙŸ±ŽÇČÔ’s hull. Amaral threw the grappling hook onto the bow and let out 50 feet of line. He pulled the burning boat off the rocks and tried to hold it in deeper water while two fireboats continued to pump water.Ìę

As the sun began to break, the bowline of the Conception wallowed lower and lower on the waterline. The Coast Guard began setting up gear to pump waterÌęout of the boat, hoping toÌękeep the Conception stable enough to tow ashore. But before itÌęcould get theÌęequipment ready, the stern disappeared below the water. Moments later, all but the bow had vanished. As it sank, the boat turtled. Debris quickly gathered on the surface above—charcoal, a pool of diesel fuel, charred remnants of the boat itself. No one really wanted to think about what else could be there.

First responders from over 14 state and federal agencies had aided in the rescue and recovery efforts. They retrieved 20 of the 34 victims by the end of the day. It took nearly two weeks before the rest of the casualties were recovered and identified.Ìę

As the international diving community mourned, crew members and victims’ families began looking for answers. Federal agencies, including the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) and the USCG, started to investigate. All indications suggest those answers may never come—that we may never know what caused one of the worstÌęmaritime tragedies in modern U.S. history, or how to prevent it from happening again.

The Conception was one of three boats belonging toÌęTruth Aquatics, a dive and charter company founded in 1974. Owned and operated by Glen Fritzler and his family, the Santa Barbara–based organization was widely considered one of the best in the business.Ìę

These were family boats, where the crew and passengers ate meals shoulder to shoulder, often still in their wetsuits. Clients chartered the Fritzlers’ boats for field trips and family reunions. Customers felt safe on the dives. They felt secure living and sleeping on board.Ìę

The ConceptionÌęwas built for Truth Aquatics in 1981. Records obtained by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűÌęshow that the boat passed its annual USCG inspections from 2016 through 2019, with just a handful of violations. These included, in 2017, an expired fire extinguisher, some minor electrical issues, and a failure to document both fire and abandon-ship drills,Ìęand, in 2018, expired items in a first aid kit.

Other than these citations, the vessel met USCG standards. It maintained mandatory fire-suppression systems, including fire extinguishers and above-deck hoses. Fritzler had installed smoke detectors on board. In addition to the narrow stairway leading from the fore end of the galley toÌębelow deck, the sleeping berths also had an emergency escape hatch—a square of plywood above one of the uppermost aft bunks that also led into the galley.Ìę

Truth Aquatics did have a few major safety incidents over the years. In 1992, its boat Vision ran aground in the Channel Islands while carrying divers. In nearly 40 years of service, three customers (out of an estimated 450,000) drowned while diving. For most of itsÌępatrons, however, their experience was overwhelmingly positive—one reason Fritzler was awarded the California Scuba Service Award, a lifetime-achievement commendation, in June 2019.

Every dayÌęhundreds of similarly compliant dive boats around the world depart for multi-day trips, only to return all passengers safely and happily to the dock. But it’s also true that catastrophic accidents aren’t entirely uncommon. In a simple Google search, I found reports of at least 11 fires on liveaboard dive boats since 2000. Most of those incidents did not receive widespread coverage, like the Sea Queen II, which caught fire in the Red Sea in 2004, killing an American teacher and two students. Or the Mandarin Siren, whichÌęincinerated in 2012 off the Indonesian coast while its customers were diving directly below (they were all rescued).Ìę

On October 26, 2019, less than two months after the Conception fire, the Red Sea Aggressor I, owned by , based in Augusta, Georgia,Ìędeparted Egypt’s Marsa Alam for a multi-day diving trip in the Red Sea. On November 1, just after midnight, passengers below deck awoke to the smell of smoke in their forward cabins. Smoke and heat prevented them from exiting the main staircase. They tried to use the emergency hatch but could move it only a few inches—as best as they could later surmise, a crew member had placed a thin mattress beside the hatch and fallen asleep against it. As they tried desperately to wake him, Michael Houben and his dive partner were waking up in their cabin, located in the aft of the vessel. Houben says he spent 20 or 30 seconds trying to find his glasses before abandoning the search and exiting the cabin, followed by his roommate. They made it to the emergency hatch, which had been opened once the crew member awoke. Houben estimates that, had he spent another few seconds trying to find those glasses, he probably wouldn’t have survived.Ìę

One passenger didn’t: Patricia Kessler, 54, a former naval officer and an experienced diver serving with the Justice Department at the American embassy in Tanzania.ÌęHer cabin was next to Houben’s, who speculates that she must have taken just a few seconds longer than he did before she exited.

I corresponded by email with Wayne Brown, CEO of Aggressor șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs, in November. He said that his company hasÌęnot yet received expert confirmation regarding the origin of the fire and is cooperating with local authorities in their investigation. He also said thatÌęwhile Egyptian codes do not require a standing watch, his company has implemented mandatory night watches on all of its vessels in the wake of the Aggressor fire. It’s also begun testing smoke detectors with artificial smoke to ensure their reliability, and guests are now invited, as part of their orientation, to test the devices and practice using the emergency exits.Ìę

“We hold our boats and crews to the highest standards of safety and service,” wrote Brown. “We’ll continue to do everything in our power to ensure guests enjoy their adventure with us, safely.”

But Houben, who has been perhaps the most outspoken of the Aggressor survivors in terms of the mistakes that he alleges were made on board, says that doesn’t go nearly far enough to ensure these types of disasters don’t occur again. Houben says he’s doubly disturbed because he heard there were similarities between what happened aboard the Aggressor and the Conception.

Worldwide Diving șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs chartered the Conception for a Labor Day weekend trip—one that company head Kristy Finstad regularly led that time of year, often aboard a Truth Aquatics vessel. Fritzler’s crew handled logistics, meals, and the boat.ÌęÌę

Finstad, 41, and her husband, Dan Chua, 42, took the reins of the company from her father, Bill, in 2004. For Finstad, it was a return home. She’d grown up in the water, surfing in Baja, Mexico, and diving with her dad by the time she was eight. After graduating from college, she worked in community-based coastal restoration in Southern California.Ìę

The diving industry was—and in a lot of ways remains—a male-dominated realm. Finstad fought hard against that, says Chua. “Tłó±đre were times abroadÌęon trips where women leaders didn’tÌęget the respect they deserved because of their gender,” he says. “She would battle through itÌęby being smartÌęand kindÌęand thinking out of the boxÌęand knowing her shit.” In timeÌęshe became a role model and certified dozens of new female divers.Ìę

In the years before the accident, Finstad and Chua took their business international, with trips to places like Borneo, South Africa, Indonesia, and French Polynesia. Those excursions weren’t cheap, but clients were guaranteed some of the best adventure diving out there.

The Channel Island excursions, by contrast, were structured to be affordable—unlimited tank refills and multiple daily dives, family-style meals in the galley, and spartan sleeping quarters down below. It wasn’t fancy, but it was fun.

Finstad’s 32 customers boarded the Conception the night of Friday, August 30. Some, like Sunil Singh Sandhu, 45, an electrical engineerÌęoriginally from Singapore and living in Silicon Valley, were brand-new to diving. Others, like Kendra Chan, 26, and her dad, Scott, 59, both from the Bay Area, were veterans to these Channel Island excursions.Ìę

The boat departed Santa Barbara at 4 A.M. that Saturday.ÌęChua was out of cell range in Costa Rica for much of the weekend. But he says that if the trip followed theÌętypical schedule, most of the passengers would have slept through a good bit of the slog out to the islands. When they woke up, there’d be a continental breakfast and a safety briefing, then a morning dive and second hot breakfast. Guests could take multiple afternoon dives and, if they hadn’t been drinking at happy hour, there was usually the opportunity for a night dive. Each dayÌęthey’d repeat that pattern.

The waters off the Channel Islands are coarse, filled with rocky reefs and dense kelp beds. Water temperatures are in the sixties. But divers get the chance to swim with sea lions and harbor seals,Ìęspearfish for halibut, and harvest lobster.

“It’s wonderful diving, but it’s not easy,” says Chua.Ìę

Sunday night, September 1, Captain Boylan anchored the boat off Santa Cruz Island. After the night dive, everyoneÌęstayed up late, celebrating the birthdays of three passengers:ÌęVaidehi Campbell, a water-conservation specialist just two days shy of her 42nd birthday; Michael Quitasol, who was celebrating his 63rd with his wife,ÌęFernisa Sisan, and three adult daughters—Evan Michel, Nicole, and Angela Rose; and Tia Salika-Adamic, whose parents had booked the family trip to commemorate her 17th birthday. Traveling with Salika-AdamicÌęwas Berenice Felipe, 16, one of her best friends.ÌęThe daughter of Mexican-American immigrants, Felipe had lost her father when she was seven years old. Her mother, Yadira, raised her and her sister alone. Salika-AdamicÌęand Felipe were regular volunteers at theÌęanimal shelter in Santa Cruz, California. And when Felipe expressed an interest in diving, theÌęfamily took her on trips to places as far-flung as Bonaire, in the Caribbean, where they worked on reef-restoration projects.Ìę

What happened after the cake and ice cream is murky. (Boylan and the four surviving crew members have refused interviews due to ongoing investigations). What can be pieced together based on reports given to the NTSB is that 34 people, including Finstad and 26-year-old deckhand Allie Kurtz, descended the narrow ladderway in the galley near the bow of the boat to the bunks down below.Ìę

The captain and remaining crew members, including Ryan Sims, a newly hired boat steward, eventually settled into their wheelhouse quarters (the otherÌęcrew membersÌęhaven’t been named). A former attorney for the Fritzler family said in September that one of the crew members checked the galley as late as 2:30 A.M. This detail, however, could not be confirmed with the family’s new attorney, who directed inquiries about the fire to court documents.

The preliminary NTSB reportÌęsaid that Captain Boylan and four crew members were sleeping in the wheelhouse, on the top deck of theÌęvessel, when the blaze broke out. Just after 3 A.M., an unidentified crew member woke to a loud noise. He says he opened the door, looked down, and saw a fire billowing out of the aft end of the dining area on the main level. He then woke the others. Boylan ran to make the first Mayday call. The others tried to descend to the main deckÌębut could not because the ladder was on fire. With no other choice, they jumped 20 feet or so down to the main deck. Sims broke his leg in three places and injured his back and neck. With Sims unable to move,Ìęthe other three crew members say they tried to open both the double doors at the dining area of the salon and the fore windows but couldn’t access either. As theÌęsmoke began to overtakeÌęthem, the entire crewÌęjumped overboard. Next, Boylan and two othersÌęsay they swam to the aft of the boat, reboarded via a ladder, and checked the engine room for fireÌębut saw none.

They then launched the Conception’s tenderÌęand collected the other two crew members, including Sims, who were in the water.ÌęThere was only one other boat in the vicinity: the Grape Escape, a 60-foot fishing boat owned by Bob and Shirley Hansen, a couple who had anchored nearby for the night. Using the raft to reach the other boat, they woke the Hansens and deposited Sims, who the Hansens say was groaning in obvious pain, and Boylan, who then made the second Mayday call.Ìę

By thenÌęover 20 minutes had passed since the crew member first noticed the dining room was engulfed in fire. Later, in a press conference, Santa Barbara sheriff Bill Brown would say there was no indication thatÌęanyone on the lower level made it up through the flames.Ìę

“It was lit from one end to the other. There wasn’t a part of that boat that wasn’t on fire,” says Bob Hansen. “Tłó±đ flames were 30 feet high.”

A fire of that magnitude and in the sleeping quarters on the lower deck below the hull would mean an instant, deadly crisis for anyone down below, says Dr. Douglas Arenberg, a pulmonologist and critical-care professor of medicine at the University of Michigan Health System.ÌęÌę

“With a fire on a modern craft, there’s a lot of plastic and materials that are going to release lethal chemicals,” says Arenberg. Burning plastics release cyanide, he explains. The polyvinyl chloride used on the flooring and seat covers would have created poisonous plumes of hydrogen chloride. Even just the particulates in that smoke could have obstructed airways before anyone could escape.

Accessing the emergency hatch on the Conception would have required 34 people to hop from their respective beds and orient down a dark, smoke-filled walkway to the aftmost set of bunks. Then, one by one, they would have had to climb a ladder to the top bunk, lieÌęon their back, push open the hatch above their head, and then contort themselves up into it—if they woke up in time.

The fire would have rapidly depleted the quarters of oxygen, replacing it with lethal levels of carbon monoxide and toxic smoke. Indeed, medical examinations of the victims, a sheriff’s-office spokesperson told me later, indicated they died of carbon-monoxide poisoning.

“It’s a nightmare scenario,” says Arenberg.Ìę

Three days after the fire, representatives from the NTSB held a press conference in Santa Barbara, not far from a memorial to the victims of the Conception fire.

The vessel had not yet been raised from the ocean floor, but NTSB member Jennifer Homendy reiterated a comment one of the crew members had made to the Hansens the night of the fire that had since been widely reported by newspapers.

“Tłó±đre was a lot of photography, videography, cameras, cell phonesÌęthat were charging on the vessel itself,” Homendy told reporters.Ìę

Later that week, the USCG issued a marine-safety bulletinÌęurging boaters to “reduce potential fire hazards and consider limiting the unsupervised charging of lithium-ion batteries.”Ìę

These statements and bulletins have done much to encourage the theory that the Conception fire was caused by an overheated lithium-ion battery in one of the passenger’s devices and plugged into one of the ad hoc charging stations in the dining area or one of the outlets in the sleeping quarters.Ìę

There is precedent for this in the aviation world. A recent Federal Aviation AdministrationÌęreport lists 252 recorded incidents involving lithium-ion battery fires on board commercial airlines since 2006. The batteries store an enormous amount of energy in a very confined space, explains Feng Lin, a professor of chemistry at Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University. And if multiple people were charging their devices simultaneously and in close proximity, Lin says you could have a “temperature escalation that would reduce safety features.”Ìę

“It’s a complicated chemical reaction made even more complicated by everything else contained in the seawater,” Lin says.

Chua says he gets that. But with no evidence to substantiate the battery theory other than speculation, he thinks making that supposition public was a callous and irresponsible move while the boat was still on the ocean floor and one victim had yet to be recovered.Ìę

“It was a random guess, with no evidence at the time, and was a slight to all the people who died and their families,” he says.Ìę“It seemed like victim blaming to me.”

Fires such as these are notoriously difficult to investigate, because evidence that could be used to determine a specific cause is incinerated. Even if it weren’t, days sloshing around on the seafloor would render much of it difficult to analyze. Without any such specific evidence at hand, one certified fire investigator told me, the boat fireÌęmay ultimately be classified as of “undetermined cause.”

Nevertheless, in a press conference a day after the fire, Homendy stated, “I am 100 percentÌęconfident that our investigators will determine the cause of this fire, why it occurred, how it occurred, and what is needed to prevent it from happening again.”

I spoke with her by phone two months later, and she stood by that statement.Ìę

“This is what we do. We investigate a lot of tragedies. And after accidents, sometimes there’s a lot of evidence and sometimes there’s little evidence,” she said. “Tłó±đre’s no doubt in my mind that, at the end of the day, we’ll have a probable cause and recommendations to vote on when we consider the final report.”

One reason for her confidence may be the fact that the NTSB considers not only the actual mechanism that ignited the fireÌębut also human behavior and environmental factors. For instance, when fire destroyed the Florida-based Island Lady in January 2018, the NTSB determined probable cause to be an ineffective preventative-maintenance program, along with insufficient guidance for the crew on how to operate the vessel in an overheated-engine situation. As for those lithium-ion batteries, she said the crew’s statements about the charging stations are factoring into their investigations, but so, too, are other matters like electrical wiring and galley equipment.

“We’re not ruling anything out,” Homendy told me.

The NTSB will not speculate on the cause of the fire, as the investigation is still ongoing, but one finding in the agency’s final report could be the lack of a standing night watch—a violation of UCSG rules—since the NTSB’s preliminary report found that all crew members were asleep when the blaze broke out. If the final report confirms that the ship did not have a standing night watch, the captain or vessel owner could serve up to tenÌęyears in prison, according to U.S. code.

Regardless of the cause, the NTSB could also make recommendations concerning the size and egress ofÌęemergency hatches, the types of onboard fire alarms, and the use of personal electronics. But Homendy reiterated that these recommendations could really include anything, and the goal of the recommendations is to ensure an event like this doesn’t happen again.

In the meantime, it’s up to both the criminal and civil courts to decide what happens next for the owners, crew, and surviving family members of the Conception.Ìę

Three days after the fire, the Fritzlers evoked a maritime statute from the 19th centuryÌęthat limits financial liability to the value of the vessel (which is currently zero) and mandates that all claims be filed within six months of the accident, making it difficult for some surviving family members to seek compensation. In January, four of the victims’ families, including Kurtz’s, Ìęchallenging the Friztlers’Ìęeffort to invoke the obscure law.ÌęAmong the safety violations the filing allegesÌęis that Truth Aquatics failed to provide a safe way to store and charge lithium-ion batteries, as required by the USCG.ÌęÌę

Meanwhile, Sims has suedÌęTruth Aquatics for pain and suffering, alleging that the Conception was not properly maintained and outfitted with safety equipment. Sims also alleges that he and other crew members were not adequately trained for emergencies such as the one that led to his injuries. A similar lawsuitÌęhas been filed by the widow of Justin Dignam, 58, who died in the fire. Her suit alleges that the vessel didn’t have adequate smoke detectors or firefighting equipment, it lacked enough emergency exits, and a required night watch was not on duty when the flames broke, according to theÌęlawsuit filed in federal court. (Truth Aquatics and its attorneys did not respond to multiple requests for comment regardingÌęthe allegations made in the twoÌęlawsuits andÌęclaims filed by victims’ families.)Ìę

On Capitol Hill, congresspeople are pointing fingers at the Coast Guard. The agency is responsible for creating and enforcing safety standards, inspecting vessels, and launching rescue and recovery operations. In November, after the Ìęthat the Coast Guard rejected recommendations to improve fire safety, the House Committee on Transportation and Infrastructure’s subcommittee on Coast Guard and maritime transportation called Rear Admiral Richard Timme, the assistant commandant for prevention policy, to testify. Members chided him for what they saw as a “track record of inaction” when it came to requiring changes suggested by the NTSB, particularly those following maritime tragedies.

In December, California senator Dianne Feinstein, along with representatives Julia Brownley and Salud Carbajal, introduced the , which endeavors to shore up safety measures by requiring multiple egresses (which exit into different parts of the vessel), strengtheningÌęrequirements for integrated fire-alarm systems, and restrictingÌęthe use of lithium-ion batteries on board.

“Tłó±đ Conception boat fire was a tragedy that could have been prevented had stronger safety measures been in place,”Ìęsaid Feinstein.Ìę“We must ensure that small passenger vessels have the right safety measures in place to prevent disasters at sea.”

Chua says he’s all for common-sense regulations. But heÌędoesn’t want to see elected officials insisting on knee-jerk changes just to make people feel better. Any new regulation, he says, has to make sense and promote safety.

In the meantime, he’s trying to put his life back together. Kristy Finstad wasn’t just the love of his life, she was also the heart and soul of their business. Worldwide Diving șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs has been on hiatus since the fire. Chua says he’ll run the trips already scheduled for 2020, but handling both logistics and grief has been hard. After these trips are done, he doesn’t know what’ll be next.

“It was always a team effort on trips between Kristy and myself, and it’s really hard to not have your partner next to you,” he says. “Sometimes I look to my sideÌęand just see an enormous empty space where she would have been, and my heart just aches.”

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Yes, camping is fun. It gets you off the gridÌęandÌęinto most wildernesses for free, once you’ve bought all the equipment. But every so often, it’s nice to have the experience without having to do all the hard work yourself. If you’re willing to splurge, we picked a few of our favorite glamping spots around the world for every type of traveler.Ìę

Alpenglow Luxury Camping

Glacier View, Alaska

Open June through early September,Ìę is a remote outpost about an hour north of Palmer, Alaska. Canvas tents on cedar platforms are located in a forested area on the property of MicaÌęGuides, a local tour operator that leads treks and ice climbing on the nearby Matanuska Glacier. Breakfast and coffee are served each morning, and a communal area has a fire pit, cedar hot tub, and solar-powered chargers for your phone. Outdoor showers are being added this summer.ÌęFrom $132

Asheville Glamping

Asheville, North Carolina

, which opened in 2012 about 20 minutes from downtown, has vintage trailers, domes, safari tents, and, new this spring, treehouses, all open from March through November. Book way in advance to score the large, two-storyÌędome, with a nine-foot slide from the lofted bedroom. Some sites have no running water—you’ll use a shared bathhouse and bring in your own drinking water—but all come with electricity, a refrigerator, and a grill out front. Go for a hike along the Blue Ridge Parkway or a stretch of the Appalachian Trail, mountain-bike in Pisgah National Forest, or do a pub crawl among the city’s more than 25 craft breweries. From $110

Cabañas CuatroCuatros

Ensenada, Baja

With 19 architect-designed tent cabins tucked into a vineyard,Ìę offers the perfect quick getaway south of the border. Just 80 miles fromÌęSan Diego, the accommodations are set on a 144-acre property that’s home to an equestrian center, restaurant, and wine-tasting room. Take a sail through Salsipuedes Bay, scuba dive from the beach, or mountain-bike local trails. Your tent comes with an outdoor shower and a deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. From $238

The Resort at Paws Up

Greenough, Montana

Ìęoffered glamping way before it was a thing—this summer is itsÌę15th season of booking luxury tents from May through October on itsÌęmassive 37,000-acre property outside of Missoula. While you’re there, fly-fish the Blackfoot River, ride mountain bikes, and paddleboard from the resort’s private island lodge on nearby Salmon Lake. You’ll get a butler who can book outings or start your campfire, a chef at a neighboring dining pavilion, Wi-Fi, and bathrooms with heated floors.ÌęFrom $597

AutoCamp Santa Barbara

Santa Barbara, California

You can camp on the beach outside of Santa Barbara, but if you want to stay closer to town,Ìę has you covered. Sleekly designed, permanently parked Airstreams are within walking distance to Handlebar Roasters, the best coffee in town, plus tasty tacos, craft beer, and homemade ice cream at the Santa Barbara Public Market. Grab the complementary cruiser bike at your Airstream to ride the three-mile Cabrillo Bike Path, which crosses three beaches along Santa Barbara’s scenic waterfront. AutoCamp also has two other California locations, near Yosemite and the Russian River.ÌęFrom $179

The Vintages

Dayton, Oregon

Set in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, theÌęÌęis made up of 34 trailers on a 14-acre property smack in the middle of wine country. Your trailer comes with bathrobes, coffee fixings, and an outdoor grill, and you’ll have access to the property’s pool, lawn games, wine tastings, and outdoor movies in summer. By day, explore the nearby space museum or take a hike in Willamette Mission State Park. From $120

Anegada Beach Club

Anegada, British Virgin Islands

TheÌę—on the remote island of Anegada—has standard hotel rooms, but come for the thatch-roofed palapas that dot the beach. You’ll get a canopy bed, a deck that looks out over the sea, and a private bathroom.ÌęKitesurfing, paddleboarding, and kayaking are all on offer atÌęthe shoresÌęout front.ÌęFrom $360

Sandy Pines Campground

Kennebunkport, Maine

You can glamp in any number of shelters atÌę—canvas tents, Airstreams, A-frames, covered wagons, and cottages on wheels. The place has a saltwater pool, a children’s craft tent, and a general store with s’mores supplies. Goose Rocks Beach, with its white sand and mellow surf for paddleboarding, is just a mile away, orÌęride a section of the 65-mile Eastern Trail, a bike path that passes through coastal Kennebunkport.ÌęFrom $199

Under Canvas Mount Rushmore

Keystone, South Dakota

Ìęopened in 2018 near Mount Rushmore National Memorial. You’ll have views of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln from the deck of your safari-style canvas tent, whichÌęcomes with an attached bathroom, hot shower, and solar-powered lights. Chefs whipÌęup meals in the neighboring camp cafĂ©. While you’re there, hike in the Black Hills and climb granite walls in Custer State Park.ÌęFrom $149

Hawley Farm Glamping

Hamilton, Missouri

An hour north ofÌęKansas City, you can camp in a yurt or canvas tent atÌę. If you’re coming with a group, they’ll also set up more standard tents for you, complete with beds, lanterns, and a campfire at the ready. Situated on a 210-acre working farm, with hiking trails and a fishing pond, your tents come with solar-heated showers, s’mores fixings, and coffee and breakfast delivered each morning. A wildlife conservation area and the quaint town of Hamilton are just a few miles away. From $165

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From , this short recap video of Ìęin Santa Barbara, California,Ìęshowcases some of ultrarunning's top talentÌęand the grit it takes to succeed in this sport.

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California’s Highway 1 is a perennial favorite for adventurousÌęroad-trippers—and for good reason. You can visit the sunny beaches of San Diego, the wine country of the central coast, the rugged cliffs of Big Sur, and the towering redwoods of Mendocino without ever leaving the road.ÌęSections of the iconic highway were closedÌędue to wildfire and mudslides for over a year, but theseÌęreopened in July 2018 and the routeÌęisÌęeager for visitors. Along the way, score dreamy campsites overlooking the Pacific Ocean or post up at the many revamped retro hotels that dot the route. Tackle the whole thing, or take it on piecemeal by planning a trip for one of the sections below.

Leg One

San Diego to Santa Barbara

Start from the southern end of Highway 1 in San Diego, where you’ll find a thriving craft-beer scene, friendly surf breaks, and 65 miles of trails in the city’s 1,200-acreÌę. Stay in Ìę(from $323), aÌęhistoric guesthouse on Coronado Island in the heart of San Diego Bay, and don’t miss the ever changing collection of small plates, like pork shoulder with bacon-braised lentils and black trumpet mushrooms, at theÌęaward-winning restaurant Ìęin the city’s Harbor View neighborhood.

, near Newport Beach (south of Los Angeles), has oceanfront cottages and private rooms for rent starting at just $37 a night, or continue north andÌęhitÌęÌęin Huntington BeachÌęfor mahi-mahi tacos, beer, and a surf session before checking into Malibu’sÌęÌę(from $369), a revamped 1950s-era motel with wetsuits and surfboards for rent and a rooftop deck.ÌęNear Santa Barbara, Ìę(from $179) is another renovated motel, this one with outdoor showers overlooking wine country and loaner mountain bikes for exploring the area’s miles of quality singletrack.

Leg Two

The Central Coast

Camp, sandboard, or drive ATVs on more than five miles of sand dunes in ,Ìęand check out the history of skateboarding at the .ÌęThen be sure to grabÌęa scoop of Harmony Valley Creamery ice cream at the legendary Thursday-night Ìęin San Luis Obispo. The (from $445) opens in June, or check out the town’s eccentric Ìę(from $109), where you can stay in a rock-lined room designed to mimic the granite walls of Yosemite.

Instead of continuing north on Highway 1, make aÌęshort detour inlandÌęto visit the wineries that surroundÌęPaso RoblesÌęin addition to a new multi-acreÌęinstallationÌęfrom artist Bruce Munro called , where you can wanderÌęamong 58,800 solar-powered spheres that light up the night. Back on route, spot elephant seals on the beach in the seasideÌęvillage ofÌęCambria, and book a tour of Ìęin San Simeon to take in the art, gardens, and free-roaming zebras that were once part of William Randolph Hearst’s private zoo.

Leg Three

Big Sur to San Francisco

Stop off inÌęÌęand you’ll find a secluded beach and views of the Big Sur coast.ÌęThen hike the trails and pitch a tent in , which should reopenÌęsometime this summer after a storm damaged it in early February. From there, it’s just an hour north to Big Sur proper and the surf breaks at Sand Dollar Beach. If you’re in search of some luxe accommodations, opt for a safari-style tent nestled in a redwood forest at Ìę(from $450), which overlooks the ocean and has Japanese-inspired hot baths and a gallery featuring the works of local artists. Can’t-missÌęeats in the area include the cookies at Ìęand theÌęAmbrosia burger on the outdoor patio atÌę.

On your way north toward San Francisco, , in the charming one-square-mile town of Carmel-by-the-Sea, has espresso and surprisingly good ramen bowls, and there’s quality mountain biking in Santa Cruz’s , just south of San Francisco. Don’t miss the freshly baked artichoke bread at Ìęin the old fishing town of Pescadero, just off Highway 1, and the sunset fromÌę.

Leg Four

Mill Valley to Mendocino

Once Highway 1 crosses the Golden Gate Bridge, you’ll be treated to vast stretches of empty, jagged coastline and little towns worth longÌępit stops. Start with a mountain-bike ride or a trail run with ocean views in ,Ìęnorth of Muir Beach, where mountain biking first got its start. There’s a well-loved surf break in Bolinas—and good beta and gear at the town’s , which rents boards and offers lessons—if you can find the turnoff for this . Fuel up with tasty tacos in an old lifeguard tower atÌęÌęin Stinson Beach.

In Guerneville, Ìę(from $190) rents decked-out Airstreams for a night along the Russian River and provides canoes for a mellow paddle. Or book yourself into the Ìę(from $189), which has recently renovated rooms on a rocky bluff above the sea. In Mendocino, Ìęrents paddleboards and bikes and offers guided boat tours on outrigger canoes up the Big River, which flows into Mendocino Bay. From there the highway continues along the coast for a few dozen miles before turning inland to join Highway 101.

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Call your family and tell them you'll see them next month. You know what can't wait until the holidays? A total getaway, booked far from the in-laws and last-minute cranberry sauce-run traffic. Ditch the post-turkey nap (well, not completely—see choice number one) and treat yourself to a whirlwind weekend instead.

Hanalei, Kauai

Ìę

A photo posted by St. Regis Princeville (@stregiskauai) on Jan 29, 2015 at 8:03pm PST

Book a flight to Kauai and you’ll spend your holiday surfing, drinking fresh papaya juice, and hiking the trails along the rugged Na Pali Coast. Rent a surfboard at and hit the break at Hanalei Bay. Refuel afterward with acai bowls at the Aloha Juice Bar. The Ìęin nearby Princeville serves a proper Thanksgiving feast with a turkey carving station, sushi, and lobster ravioli.Ìę

Joshua Tree, California

Ìę

on Aug 14, 2015 at 5:04pm PDT

Joshua Tree National Park is scorching hot midsummer, but come November, temperatures dip to a more palatable 70 degrees. Pitch a tent and cook a Thanksgiving dinner over the campfire at Hidden Valley Campground, which has walk-to access to some of the park’s classic climbs. Or stay in a vintage Airstream just outside the park entrance at . Get climbing gear and guidebooks at the local climbing shop Ìęthen tackle routes like Double Cross or Sail Away for single-pitch cragging. Ìę

Bend, Oregon

Ìę

A photo posted by laura lisowski (@lauralisowski) on May 23, 2015 at 8:45pm PDT

If early-season storms nail Bend, Mount Bachelor may have a few trails for skiing and snowboarding by Thanksgiving. If not, the trail running, mountain biking, and climbing are all still good that time of year. Stay at , a former Catholic schoolhouse turned hip lodge with outdoor soaking pools, a movie theater, and on-site restaurant. After playing outside, grab a pint at , which has 19 taps and truffle mac and cheese on the menu.

San Pancho, Mexico

Ìę

A photo posted by Hotel Cielo Rojo (@hotelcielorojo) on Jul 3, 2015 at 4:45pm PDT

San Pancho is located just outside of the surfing hotspot of Sayulita. You’ll still have easy access to quality surf breaks, jungle treks, and sea kayaking but without the crowds. Plus, in November, cool ocean breezes replace summer humidity. Many of the restaurants in town serve Thanksgiving dinners (check out Maria’s Restaurant, La Ola Rica or Cielo Rojo Organic Bistro). Want to cook? The Mega, the main grocery store, sells turkeys this time of year. Stay at for your own palapa in the trees.Ìę

Tofino, British Columbia

Ìę

A photo posted by Long Beach Lodge Resort (@longbeachlodgeresort) on Nov 6, 2015 at 7:24am PST

Surfers love Tofino for its serene beauty and laid-back, northwestern feel, and November is as chill as it gets in Tofino. Rent a thick wetsuit and a board at Ìęand have the break at Cox Bay to yourself. Or get a water taxi to Meares Island and take a hike with views of the surrounding islands. Stay at the , which has an on-site surf school and aprĂšs-surf ceviche in their Great Room. Want to go shrimping? Hire , the best fishing guide in town, who offers discounted rates in the winter months.Ìę

Santa Barbara, California

Ìę

A photo posted by The Goodland – A Kimpton Hotel (@thegoodlandsb) on Nov 5, 2015 at 9:42am PST

Burn off that turkey dinner by signing up for the Ìę(they also have a trail marathon and half marathon) in Santa Barbara’s Santa Ynez Mountains, taking place the Sunday after Thanksgiving. You can camp at the start of the race at the or get a courtyard room downtown at , which has morning yoga classes and poolside sangria and DJs. Hit up the Santa Barbara farmers’ market for all your mashed potato and pumpkin pie needs.Ìę

New Orleans, Louisiana

Ìę

A photo posted by Dr W's Honey Island Swamp Tour (@drwagnerhoneyislandswamptours) on May 9, 2014 at 10:14am PDT

Spend Thanksgiving at opening day of the thoroughbred racing season at the track in New Orleans—it’s a citywide tradition (and don’t forget to wear a big hat). Sign up for a Ìęfor alligator sightings through swampy cypress trees or Ìęthrough Bayou St. John. The turducken originated in Louisiana—get yours for Thanksgiving dinner at the . Don’t miss fried oyster poor boys at .Ìę

Flagstaff, Arizona

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A photo posted by tara7326 (@tara7326) on Feb 22, 2015 at 7:05pm PST

By Thanksgiving, the Arizona Snowbowl will be open for early season riding and they’ll be making snow on about 60 percent of the mountain, plus Flagstaff still has hiking, trail running, and climbing in late November. Sleep in a yurt at the Ìęor get a room at the historic Ìęand don’t miss the holiday lights display at the Little America Hotel. Josephine’s Modern American Bistro serves Thanksgiving brunch or stock up on an Arizona-raised turkey for your own Thanksgiving meal at .

Frisco, Colorado

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A photo posted by Arapahoe Basin (@arapahoe_basin) on Nov 11, 2015 at 8:52am PST

Loveland and Arapahoe Basin are already open for skiing and riding, so you can bet on good snow conditions for Thanksgiving in Frisco, Colorado. Over Thanksgiving, the area has a Turkey Day 5K race, plus a rail jam and a Santa on a snowcat at Copper Mountain. Have dinner at the new Ìęfor locally sourced meats on a wood-fired grill. If you need to catch up on work for a day, head to , a new co-working space downtown.

Boca Raton, Florida

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A photo posted by Dan Ellithorpe (@baseballsizedhail) on Aug 6, 2015 at 8:27am PDT

You’ll come to Boca Raton, Florida, in November for the beach—surfing, stand-up paddleboarding, reading a book on a beach towel—and the pleasantly sunny weather this time of year, but there are plenty of other things to do. Like free yoga on Saturdays at Sanborn Square, a 5K Turkey Trot, trail running at Quiet Waters Park, or wildlife spotting at the Wakodahatchee Wetlands. The Ìęhas 6 a.m. group runs on Saturdays that end at the water.Ìę

The post 10 Far-from-Home Thanksgiving Escapes appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

“Pass the rock,” says Kyle Korver.

The six-foot-seven Atlanta Hawks guard is arguably the best shooter in the NBA, so this should be funny, given the circumstances. See, we’re not on a basketball court. We’re not even on land. On a sunny California afternoon in June, in a pristine harbor along the coast of Santa Cruz Island, 30 miles south of Santa Barbara by boat, we’ve been taking turns lumbering along the shallow seafloor for the past three hours lugging an 85.2-pound stone that Korver procured from a nearby beach. It feels a little lighter in the ocean, thanks to the relative density of water, but it’s still a heavy-ass rock.

Korver is treading water above me. I drop the boulder below his feet and surface. Struggling for air, I try to ignore the spasms in my hamstrings and the giggling of girls on a nearby boat. It looks nice over there, with the beer and the snacks and the lounging.

Smiling sincerely, with huge white teeth—a 33-year-old, brown-haired, Midwestern, XXL Cousteau—Korver freedives a few feet into the churning murk to retrieve and then run underwater with our rock. Through my goggles, I can just barely see him leaning forward like a running back, pushing off the soft, downward-sloping sand with his size 14 neoprene booties. It’s a slow-motion sprint-with-stone that would look silly on land. But he’s Walter Payton in a wetsuit down here, seven feet below.

Our suits protect us from the chilly water, but they won’t deter the great whites, which are common here, trolling for wayward flesh. Korver dreamed about these sharks recently; they’ve been in the news. The thought of an exploratory bite isn’t entirely unwelcome to me, however. It would result in a return to the boat: No more treading water wearing 15-pound weight belts. No more stinging eyes, stuttered excuses, and chafed-raw fingers.

Alas, the sharks aren’t hungry. Thirty or forty seconds after passing the rock to Korver, it will be my turn to take the rust-colored sedimentary stone—somewhere between five million and thirty million years old, probably never molested by humans until today—for yet another march along the 200-meter stretch of the Coches Prietos anchorage that, for our purposes, constitutes a lap in this Sisyphean relay.

Fourteen laps down, ten to go.

We’re toiling alongside three of Korver’s pals here in Santa Barbara, where he and his family live in the off-season. There’s , 48, the mastermind behind this sufferfest, a Harvard-trained sports scientist who works with pro athletes and enjoys all-night jogs; , 34, a mellow real estate investor who ran 150 miles across the Sahara in 2012 and looks like he could be Laird Hamilton’s clean-cut younger bro; and , 35, a sturdy, Alaska-bred, former junior Olympic skier whose artwork, collected by John Legend and Rob Lowe, depicts “the color of speed.”

I reconsider what Parrish said earlier: “Just run underwater for the time it takes to make your morning coffee—get your mug, pour a cup, add milk and sugar, stir
”

“We’re all a bit nuts,” he told me soon after we met, stating the obvious. Elliott underwent emergency intestinal surgery just three weeks ago, and he still didn’t bail on what he calls, with characteristic understatement, “today’s run.”

“Tłó±đ doctor said no baths,” Elliott told me. “But he didn’t say anything about the ocean.”

This is the second time in two years that these four guys have gathered to push themselves to their limits in what has become an annual rite of enlightened punishment. This year, Elliott thought schlepping rocks undersea would do the trick. So it is that we’ve been shuttling two stones—the other would weigh 68.5 pounds on Korver’s digital scale once we got it back home—in rotating teams of two and three. I’m the swingman, which means I don’t carry it quite as often. But I’m suffering all the same. Korver pushed to make the relay a 5K. “It sounds better than two miles, right?” he said before we started. This guy set an all-time NBA record last season for consecutive games with a made three-pointer, and he believes he did so because of the ritual we’re experiencing right now. Ritual being a euphemism, of course, for something far, far worse.

“It’s called misogi,” Korver almost whispered when we first spoke about it last year on the phone.

“Can you spell that?” I asked.

He paused. “I’m not sure.”

The truth is, none of the guys is certain how to spell it or say it, or even exactly what it meant thousands of years ago in Japan, where the general concept originated. But each man speaks of it with religious conviction. Kearin, the ultrarunning realtor, has purchased —his preferred spelling—whose homepage announces: “Learn about a concept that will forever change the way you approach your life.” Elliott agrees. “I’ve been innovating sports science for 20 years,” he says, “and there are no substitutes for the tools gained in misogi.”

Elliott has been a team physiologist for the New England Patriots and a sports-science consultant for the Utah Jazz. In 2005, he founded Santa Barbara–based (P3) “to apply cutting-edge science for optimal athletic achievement.” He helps athletes at all levels, including Brooklyn Nets point guard Deron Williams, former San Francisco Giants pitcher Barry Zito, and a few U.S. Ski Team members. He recently signed a contract with the NBA to analyze the physical mechanics of each of its incoming players, the first league-wide effort of its kind.

If you visited P3, Elliott’s team would spend three hours figuring out your body. Using a 3-D motion-analysis lab, they’d watch you perform your sport. They’d collect 5,000 data points. In the end, they’d know that you have, say, six degrees less mobility in your left ankle than your right, which is causing your chronic back problems.

But Elliott isn’t just another data-obsessed fitness nerd. He’s more of a philosopher-adventurer than a technician. And he wants to spur an awakening. “We live in a lapdog culture,” he often says. “But that’s not our genetic need. Our capacity is far greater than we realize.” Bear with him.

In 1993, before his second year at Harvard Medical School, Elliott backpacked Wyoming’s Wind River Range with his best friend, an elite judo competitor and Rhodes scholar finalist. “Our relationship was based largely on a common drive to kick each others’ asses,” Elliott says. They flew from Boston to Wyoming, slept in a field by the airport, and hitched to the trailhead. While trudging 12 hours a day, his buddy told him about a “judo concept,” Elliott recalls, “borrowed from an ancient Japanese religious ritual.”

The idea, as the friend interpreted it: take on challenges that radically expand your sense of what’s possible.

For 15 years, Elliott thought about what his friend called misogi. “We’ve evolved with a desire to challenge ourselves,” he says. “It was necessary to get the tribe over the pass in winter, to hunt the mammoth. Now we live in the center of the table. We’re afraid to fail. Fuck that! How can you reach the edge of your potential without risking failure?”

Elliott gradually honed his own version of misogi, which would require completing only once or twice a year. “If it’s hard enough,” he believes, “the lesson will last.”

“This is about testing your abilities in a foreign environment,” he says. “Tłó±đ more blind, the more bold and adventurous the effort.” There’s no entry fee. No spectators. “It’s not a ride at Disneyland or a Tough Mudder,” he says. “It’s a personal quest designed by you. And it’s really fucking hard. You have a 50 percent chance of success, at best.” Regardless of the outcome—the thinking goes—you’ll realize your potential.

So what really is misogi? The first written reference occurs in the eighth century, in one of the earliest Japanese texts. In the myth, says Janine Sawada, a professor of religious and East Asian studies at Brown University, a god named Izanagi goes to the netherworld to find his wife, Izanami. This was a taboo journey. So Izanagi stops after he comes out and washes off, thereby purifying himself.

As the centuries passed, misogi came to describe more adventurous acts of purification. According to Sawada, “ascetic practitioners” wandered around the mountains of medieval Japan challenging themselves. “Tłó±đy’d go stand under waterfalls and chant esoteric Buddhist texts at the top of their lungs for a certain number of minutes or hours.” They did this in all seasons.

“Now,” says Sawada, “some Japanese who aren’t religious will douse themselves with cold water in nature as a self-cultivation practice. Westerners are getting involved, too, the way some go to Japan to practice Zen.”

A major Shinto shrine now has a branch near Granite Falls, Washington. “Tłó±đy get in the lake in their skivvies and do what they call misogi,” says Sawada. She wasn’t surprised to hear that some Americans—like Elliott, who believes that no one else is doing misogi his way—have adapted the ancient ritual in more athletic ways. “It’s got this cultural history behind it,” she says. “That’s appealing. But I think this modern misogi concept you’re describing is largely invented.”

In 2010, Kyle Korver set the record for the highest three-point field-goal percentage in an NBA season, hitting 53.6 percent from behind the arc. Some call him one of the best shooters ever. Genetics has something to do with this. His mother, Laine, once scored 74 points in a high school game. His six-foot-five father, Kevin, a pastor in Pella, Iowa, hooped, and his three younger brothers (Klayton, Kaleb, and Kirk) played in college.

Korver was an exceptional high school player—he also wrote a sports column called Kyle’s Komment—who went on to average almost 18 points per game during his senior year at Creighton University, in Omaha, Nebraska. But he was chosen late in the second round of the 2003 NBA draft by the Philadelphia 76ers and, as he himself acknowledges, was not expected to stand out much at the professional level.

After stints in Utah and Chicago, Korver was traded to the Hawks in 2012. “I’ve never been the fastest guy,” he says. “I’ve never been the tallest guy. But I know how to keep going, to grind. It’s probably not one of the sexier gifts you can get, but it works.”

Hawks general manager Danny Ferry agrees. “He works with a purpose and a focus and maximizes who he is,” Ferry has said. “He’s very diligent, very smart.”

These words are gratifying, as was Korver’s recent . (He was one of the final cuts.) But at 33, only dedicated grinding will keep him at the top of the game. Korver has been working individually with Elliott, whom he knows from his days playing with the Jazz, during the past seven off-seasons.

It wasn’t until the summer of 2013 that Elliott introduced the idea of misogi. “He was perfect for many reasons,” says the sports scientist, “including that he has already developed internal drive—he has a search for truth, fearlessness, honor. He’s warrior-like and has an adventurous spirit. But especially because he’s always trying to be better.”

“I feel it,” Korver told Elliott after hearing about misogi. “But what are we doing?”

“Have you ever stand-up-paddleboarded before?” asked Elliott.

“NŽÇ.”

“How do you feel about paddleboarding from the Channel Islands to Santa Barbara? Twenty-five miles across open water?”

“It sounds nuts,” said Korver, “but I’m in.”

So were Parrish and Kearin. They arrived at the Channel Islands not long after sunrise on an early September day in 2013. Kearin captained the support boat—someone had to. Parrish and Elliott paddled alongside Korver. They expected glassy water but instead found one-to-two-foot swells.

Elliott had quickly explained the plan to Ferry, the Hawks’ GM, beforehand. “He was scared,” says Elliott, “but he didn’t stop us.” Korver’s hands, elbows, feet, and knees could get hurt. Even a twisted pinky could alter his painstakingly perfected shot.

Korver fell within 45 seconds.

“It was the side swell,” says Elliott. “We paddled on one side for the first four hours; the wind was trying to blow us to Malibu. We paddled on our knees.”

“After 20 minutes,” says Parrish, “my shoulder started locking up. For the first six hours, I didn’t think we’d make it.”

As the guys get wound up telling it, human blood began to chum the waters, along with an unwisely discarded chicken burrito. They mistook a giant sunfish for a shark.

“One fin. It looked like a buoy at first,” says Korver. “I was scared and hurting. My toes bled.”

“Kyle grew up in Iowa,” says Elliott. “He’s not a water guy. I felt responsible.”

“All I could do was focus on each stroke,” says Korver. “How far am I taking it out of the water? Where’s my release? My shoulders, my knees: Am I bent in? Can I balance better? I was analyzing every piece of that stroke and making it absolutely perfect.”

Nine hours later, they arrived on the mainland. Their first group misogi was complete. “It was an awesome moment,” says Korver. “At some point you have to accept that there is no backing out and you’re gonna set yourself on repeat until you cross the finish line. Excuses have to be dropped. Your mind has to focus. And you have to train that mindset. Everything falls into place by doing the smallest thing perfectly. That lesson from the misogi carried over to my shooting.” He made a three-pointer in his 127th straight game the next season——and decided that he’d keep on doing misogis as long as his wife and Ferry would allow it.

When I ask , a neuroscientist at the National Institutes of Health, what the benefits and drawbacks of our underwater rock running might be, he has a one-word answer: “.”

But, Fields continues, putting yourself through a difficult, foreign experience can have neurological benefits. “You can exploit the biochemistry of novelty,” he says. “Tłó±đ molecular processes that are engaged during a novel—stressful or traumatic—experience get turned on, and everything gets stamped into long-term memory.” Everything. This is why witnesses remember trivial details. “This effect can be used to advantage in training,” says Fields. Also, he notes, the prefrontal cortex controls the body’s stress, fear, and pain responses. Willing yourself to persist through pain and adversity can strengthen control of those responses. “That,” says Fields, “is what this Japanese method is doing: expanding your limits by strengthening forebrain control.”

Whatever the consequences, Korver hasn’t talked much with his Hawks teammates about misogi, because they might think he’s nuts. But one Hawks business consultant caught wind of it. Inspired by Korver, Jesse Itzler has lately been contemplating his own misogi. “I’ve run the USA Ultra Championships,” Itzler says. “But that’s planned, trained for. I’m struggling to nail something that fits the misogi mold. One thing I thought of, I call it By Sea, By Land, By Foot. It’d be a 100-mile paddle, a 100-mile run, and a 100-mile bike, back-to-back-to-back. But I don’t want to end up in the hospital.”

A week before I flew to California last June, Elliott revealed the task he’d chosen this year in an e-mail to the crew: “Although it’s used as big-wave hold-down training, I’ve never heard of anyone carrying rocks underwater for distance. Which makes distance irrelevant
and thus perfectly relevant as a misogi challenge.”

The night before our aquatic 5K, we meet at Korver’s house in the Edenic hills above Santa Barbara, looking out over the Pacific. We drink wine and eat gluten-free food as Korver’s two-year-old daughter, Kyra, and Kearin’s two girls crawl and run around us with toys.

“Tłó±đse kids need to start doing misogis,” says Korver.

“Walking could be a misogi,” says Parrish. “Balancing is tough at age two.”

Elliott’s intestinal injury actually resulted from a balancing problem. As Parrish puts it, Elliott was “dorking around on a carveboard with a video camera” during one of Parrish’s art projects, “and then suddenly he wasn’t cruising anymore.” Elliott isn’t the only one in recovery: Parrish is still rehabbing from a car accident that hurt his back and neck six months earlier, and Korver is dealing with a nagging foot ailment.

“I told my doc, ‘I’m gonna do a big water run in a few days,’ ” says Korver. “He thought that was a good idea.”

“He was imagining a shallow pool with old ladies,” says Kearin.

“Whatever. This misogi is doctor prescribed!” says Parrish.

The conversation then turns to the challenges of tomorrow. “We’ll start collecting data”—assessing the task and the temperature of the water with our bodies, not equipment—“and losing body heat at the same time,” says Kearin.

“After 15 minutes we’ll make some adjustments,” says Parrish. “Tłó±đn life gets really simple. Pain comes in layers. You’ve just gotta go through all the layers. Then it’ll actually start to feel good.” He pauses, looking at me. “Whether you make it or you tap out doesn’t matter. Tomorrow you’ll have run a rock under the ocean farther than any of your buddies.”

“So the goal is two miles, right?” says Elliott, nursing a beer.

“I thought we were saying five kilometers,” says Korver.

“Tłó±đ last misogi was nine hours,” says Parrish.

“This is different,” says Korver. “We’re in the water.”

“Yeah. There’s no glide,” says Elliott. “Even if you’re getting a drink, you’re treading. You’ve got weight belts on. Holding your breath over and over. What if it takes us three hours to go one length and we’re sucking wind?”

Before disbanding, Kearin suggests a contingency plan: “If everything falls apart, there are two big peaks right above the anchorage. If we have to, we’ll rotate running rocks up them. So bring running shoes.”

Korver is up at 4:15 to take care of his crying daughter. Once Kyra falls back asleep, he lies there thinking about the difference between a misogi and a basketball game: You can’t lose a misogi. I may get really cold. I may get really tired. I may not know how it’s gonna work. There’s nerves, but it’s different than basketball. This is adventure.

As I lie awake in my motel room, waiting for my alarm to go off, my own nerves are frayed. I’ve intentionally not trained for what I’m about to do; I wanted to test my limits. I felt the same way before I hiked the Appalachian Trail more than a decade ago. Did that prepare me for this?

Parrish picks me up around six, buzzing from coffee. I ask about Alaska to distract us. “My home ski hill was 20 miles north of America’s northernmost stoplight,” he says. “I remember races so cold the lifts wouldn’t run.” Parrish was an elite racer but not quite good enough to make a living. Over the years, he worked as a concrete layer, heavy-machinery operator, and Internet marketer before becoming an artist. He aims to display his totem poles in the Guggenheim by age 40. The misogi sent the same message to Parrish as his art: you can do whatever you want.

On the boat, Kearin hands me a few of his coffee-flavored chia bars as we bounce toward the Channel Islands. “I was never into organized sports growing up,” he says. “But I heard about the Sahara Race a few years ago and it intrigued me: half the racers fail! My wife was pregnant, but she said, ‘Do it now.’ ”

“It was the hardest physical thing I’ve ever done,” he says. He ran a marathon a day for the first four days and a double on the fifth. There was a victory lap around the Pyramids.

“When I got back, Elliott was like, ‘How’d it go.’ We sat down for a quick beer. Two and a half hours later, we were out in the parking lot talking about misogi. I was hooked.”

Arriving two hours later at the Coches Prietos anchorage, we put on our wetsuits and swim to the empty, perfect beach to look for large rocks. Within minutes, Korver thinks he’s found a keeper. “This is it,” he says, wading with the thing, his arms bulging. It looks far too big to me. But once I hold it in the water, carrying the rock seems
 almost fathomable.

I start with Elliott, who isn’t taking any real precautions three weeks after going under the knife, and Kearin; they’ve found a slightly smaller stone. We gather at one end of the anchorage, in around eight feet of water. Elliott descends first and makes it maybe seven yards. Kearin goes a bit farther, rises, and treads water above the rock so I’ll know where to find it. My turn! Diving down, as the surf clouds the water and pushes me around, takes so much energy that once I’ve wrangled the stone into my arms I feel that I must refill my lungs instantly.

During my first few dozen attempts, I rise to the surface after a few yards and sputter something vaguely apologetic: “Guys, just, it’s not… Hold on. Shit.” Meanwhile, Korver carries the boulder greater and greater distances with seeming ease. Emerging after one carry, he yelled out, “Boom!”

For me, the first hour is an eye-stinging, lung-burning, pride-killing exercise in futility. The second hour, too. And much of the third. I get tangled up with the story’s underwater photographer at one point and nearly come to blows. Elliott accidentally rakes me across the face with the rock. Shortly thereafter I hit his shin. There are few words exchanged beyond: “Here… You got this
 Good job.” Except I’m not doing a good job. I can’t seem to take a big enough breath. I’m often gripped with panic when I touch bottom and try to move. I can’t get traction. ‹My gloves feel too large, so I rip them off. My goggles fog and I curse them. I bemoan my employment, my employer, my god.

Why, I ask myself repeatedly, don’t I just swim to the boat, get in, and say that I’ve pulled a muscle? It might be obvious, but it’ll spare me who knows how many more hours of shameful shuffling along the seafloor. I can “report” the story from Over There.

Finally, an opportunity to flee arises: we need potable water, and someone must swim to the boat to get it. I volunteer. But once I’ve quenched my thirst and had a snack, I return.

I don’t know if it was an underwater version of Stockholm syndrome or if layers of pain actually began to peel away, as Parrish said they would. But something funny happens once you’ve been in the grip of a painful ordeal for a certain amount of time. Namely, the body and mind—inured to the unwelcome task they’ve been set upon—mostly stop fighting it. Resisting takes too much energy. It cannot be sustained. And, gradually, in place of my instinctive resistance came an active kind of relaxation and acceptance.

That’s not to say that I was at peace down there, or in any way Zen at all. Far from it. But I did occasionally smile and chuckle as I descended and rose with the multimillion-year-old rock. I even gave it a nickname, Old Red. Red and I were going on a very slow journey, I imagined, to the netherworld and back. The fate of my girlfriend in Atlanta depended upon it.

It may sound like madness. But so do many goals: get your art in the Guggenheim, run your first ultra, set an all-time NBA record.

I began to go five and even ten yards. These were not Walter Payton scrambles, you understand, like Korver and Kearin’s insane 20-yard carries. They were, at best, the kind his backup could muster. But the guys cheered when I pushed hard. My muscle spasms came and went like sudden squalls. Thoughts of quitting ceased. I recall very little actual conversation, but at one point I think Kearin did say, “Tłó±đ writer’s killing it.” That goes up on the shelf with the greatest compliments I’ve received in my 33 years.

Four hours and 49 minutes after starting, we are done, in every sense. Elliott turns to me and says, “I thought for sure you were going to quit at the beginning.” The others agree. “You had that look,” says Korver, who tells us he worked even harder today than he did on his paddleboard last year. “You’re our brother now,” says Parrish, panting and seeming a bit deranged. I hear myself howl.

Back on the boat, we pose for pictures in the setting sun. “Life isn’t a movie,” says Elliott, pleased with our effort. “It’s snapshots. It’s so easy to burn a day. Why not make it memorable? Add fear and adventure and you’ve got a rich experience.”

“It’s this W—a win—you have in your back pocket,” says Parrish. “That can translate to somewhere else. You can say: ‘I have no idea what I’m doing now, but I know I did this crazy thing over here.’ ”

“Tłó±đ misogis have turned into my grind activator,” Korver tells me later. “An 82-game season is more of a grind than anything else I’ve ever been a part of. There are so many highs and so many lows. Days when I have lots of energy and days when I have none. Those are the days when you have to call on your grind mode. Find the Repeat button. Learn to relax in it. Maybe even learn to enjoy it. And when I need it, I can imagine myself stroking across the Pacific Ocean. Or picking up and running that rock.”

Before parting that night, Parrish suggests an idea for next year: going into the woods, felling a tree, and making tables on the spot. “That’s what happens when the Alaskan artist starts designing the misogis,” Elliott says. “It turns into arts and crafts.” Joking aside, Elliott knows there’s business potential here, but he’s hesitant to go in that direction. “It’s so pure,” he says. “I want to keep it that way.” Meanwhile, he says that more pro athletes—including last year’s NBA Finals MVP, Kawhi Leonard, of the San Antonio Spurs—have expressed interest in trying a misogi.

In the months since my own challenge, I’ve had trouble articulating exactly what happened to me down there with the rocks. My answers sometimes sound like the dubious fruit of a vision quest or a self-help seminar: Yes, my sense of my limitations has been expanded. I could even say they’ve evaporated at times. But the truth is, most -succinctly: my lungs and my balls feel twice as large.

Most people aren’t ready to hear that sort of thing. My mother wonders, worriedly, if “that doctor guy might be full of shit.” All I can say for sure is this, Mom: anything is possible.

Charles Bethea () wrote about Lonely Planet CEO Daniel Houghton in April 2014.

The post The One-Day-a-Year Fitness Plan appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Pro beach volleyball player lives less than half an hour from the Pacific Coast. But surprisingly, the beach isn’t his favorite thing about living in sunny Solvang, California. “It is focused on families and children,” says the 2008 Olympic gold medalist, who moved to town in August 2002, when his kids were 3 and 1. “People are friendly, and everyone knows everyone else—I could never get that in a big city.”Ìę

Rogers received a proclamation from the mayor and signed autographs at a homecoming celebration after the 2008 Olympics. More than 500 people attended the event.

Located in the heart of Santa Barbara wine country, Rogers says Solvang operates at a slow pace. “That is why my wife and I moved here,” he says. “Neither of us are into the hustle and bustle of the city. We like to enjoy a glass of Pinot Noir on our porch while enjoying the natural view.”

Here’s what else the five-time world champ has to say about life in the Santa Ynez Valley.

Describe Solvang.
The Santa Ynez Valley is made up of five small little towns: Solvang, Santa Ynez, Buellton, Los Olivos, and Ballard. Solvang, where I live, is a quaint Danish town with windmills, wineries, and great places to eat. The Santa Ynez river runs through it, and it is bordered by the coastal mountains.

One thing most people don’t know about Solvang?
It isn’t as big of a secret as it used to be, but the wine industry is blowing up here. We are becoming well known for our Pinot Noir and the .ÌęOnce the movieÌęÌęcame out, people started buying up all the Pinots from the area.

Favorite place to get outside?
The Santa Ynez River. It runs through the entire area, and I am down there almost everyday running, walking my dogs, jumping in with my kids, or generally exploring what the river has to offer.

Best time of year to visit?
All year long in my opinion, but I am biased. Weather-wise, either spring or fall are the best times. Usually it is a bit nippy (50 degrees or so) in the mornings, but warms up to around 80 in the afternoons.

Best restaurant?
.ÌęThis quaint little Italian restaurant has been the go-to restaurant for my wife and me since it was opened about ten years ago by immigrant Italian brothers. Great wine list, great food, and great ambiance for both locals and tourists.

Must-see attraction?
The city of itself is great. Spend a day going into wine tasting bars, eating delicious Danish food, and shopping. Another favorite spot of mine is . You’ll feel like you’re in France or Italy. Ask about the “Villa” while you are there. Simply amazing!

Best place to stay?
My house because we have a beach volleyball court! But if you aren’t invited there, I’ve always liked the .

Need to Know:

Population: 5,343

Solvang is 130 miles from the Los Angeles airport, and 300 miles from the San Francisco airport.

The post My Hometown: Beach Volleyball Player Todd Rogers on Solvang, California appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

WHERE TO USE IT: The best surf road trip begins in San Diego and heads north. Start mellow, with the friendly Tourmaline break, in Pacific Beach. Camp on the bluffs at San Onofre overlooking Old Man’s, a longboarder’s heaven (), then switch to your shortboard and hit Newport’s jetties midweek to avoid crowds. Malibu’s iconic First Point and Rincon’s 300-yard rollers are musts—as are the tacos at Santa Barbara’s La Super-Rica Taqueria (805-963-4940). Last stop: the cold-water pier break at Pismo. Save everything north of there for winter.

1. Since the six-foot Firewire Arbor Colab Koa Dominator can be set up with three to five fins, it thrives in most surf conditions. Testers called it a “quiver killer.” $750;

2. Yep, that’s the Hawaiian flag on Oakley‘s polarized Bruce Irons Signature Dispatch. $230;

3. With a barefoot-friendly foam topsheet and chatter-free wheels, Santa Cruz‘s West Cliff longboard is one smooth ride. $133;

4. Teva‘s Bowen Coastal sandals are made of comfortable full-grain leather that will never get natty like old nylon. $50;

5. Tide info, wave counter…Nixon‘s waterproof Housing provides all your surf intel. $140;

6. Hoodie as headphones. Rusty‘s fleece Stealth has covert, washproof earbuds at the ends of its drawcords. $70;

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Chill

Santa Barbara

Santa Barbara Mountain Biking

Do yourself a favor and stay downtown—gourmet restaurants and good bars fan out in every direction, and beach access is just a few blocks away. Check in to the new, Moroccan-style Canary Hotel (doubles, $310; ) and stop in at the bar, where locals pretend they’re vacationing. Then sushi it up. Shoot for an outdoor table at Arigato Sushi (1225 State Street), where you’ll find a feast of yellowtail and the best people-watching north of L.A. (Oprah and Jack Johnson own homes here.) Back at the Canary, soak in the rooftop hot tub, cool off in the pool, then take a glass of local Justin Vineyard syrah to the outdoor fireplace.

Bike

Ironically, good rentals are hard to come by in this two-wheel-crazy town, so bring your own. The Town Free-for-All road ride leaves from the Santa Barbara Coffee Roasting Company every Saturday at 8 A.M. (). Alongside a peloton of up to 60 riders, grind out 68 miles along California 150 toward Lake Casitas and Ojai. You’ll cut east into orchard country, climb for five miles at a 3-to-8-percent grade, then descend back to the coast for a spin back northwest along the beach. Not in the mood for a hammerfest? Walk a few blocks down State Street to Wheel Fun Rentals, where you can pick up an electric-blue Sun beach cruiser and roll down the path that skirts the beach and harbor (from $16; ). Beware of salsa dancers on roller skates.

Surf

Kelly Slater paddles out at Rincon Point, 15 minutes south of Santa Barbara, but you should park at the University of California at Santa Barbara, few miles north of downtown, and head to Campus Point. The waves are a consistent four to five feet, and there are only a few passing sharks. Plus the locals who surf the gentler Poles, just south of Campus Point, are actually nice. Need a lesson? Caio Blanco, a Brazilian expat, can help with everything from timing the breaks to teaching a few handy words of Portuguese street slang. (Hey, you never know.) And for true wimps like, um, this girl I know, he’ll even give you a tow back out ($65 per hour; ).

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