The beach was disorienting. There was just so much of it, spreading north and south as far as I could see: only sand, dunes, and ocean. No high-rise condos. No putt-putt courses. No boardwalk crammed with souvenir shops. It was just raw.

It was my first time in North Carolina’s Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and I was in awe over the wild nature of the land and seascape—the exact emotion that our national park system is supposed to induce.

The park system protects many pristine beaches, long stretches of sand or secluded rocky coves just as awesome as a 14,000-foot mountain peak or 5,000-foot-deep canyon. And it’s summer, the perfect time to go to the beach. There’s no better place to do that than in a wild national park. Here are my top ten to visit.

1. Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, Wisconsin

The sea caves of are truly stunning. Dozens of them, where Lake Superior has eaten holes in the orange and red sandstone cliffs, are scattered along the mainland of Wisconsin and the 21 islands that comprise this national lakeshore. But don’t ignore the beaches between these cliffs, which are just as spectacular. The great Meyers Beach, which is on the mainland strip of this park unit and accessible by car, is the easiest choice. But if you truly want wild sand, strike out for one of the isles that sit deeper in Lake Superior.

Several of those islands have beaches you can only reach by boat, and most are beautiful. But Lake Superior’s water temperature is notoriously cold, so my advice is to head to Julian Bay, on Stockton Island, where on sunny days a protected, shallow bay offers water temps in the 70s. The 1.5-mile-long beach wraps around the bay, giving you plenty of opportunity to find your own patch of sand with views that stretch across Lake Superior. Better yet, especially for kids, the sand “sings” when you brush it with your hand, because of the shape of the grains. It actually sounds like a seal barking.

Though you can kayak to some of the islands in this park, Stockton is 14 miles from the mainland, so consider taking a water taxi or hopping on the from Bayfield, Wisconsin ($52). The boat will dock at Presque Isle Bay. Walk the .4-mile Julian Bay Trail to Julian Bay Beach and relax. You can bring camping gear, but the ferry runs morning and afternoon service so you could just spend the day.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park. Getting around requires aquatic transportation, though.

Stay the night: Stockton has a waterfront campground with 21 sites tucked into the pines of Presque Isle Bay. ($15 a night.) Make reservations at .

2. Cumberland Island National Seashore, Georgia

There’s a lot of human history to be discovered on , a 36,415-acre barrier island near the Georgia-Florida border that has been both the home of a freed-slave settlement and the resort mansions of the Carnegie family. Those slaves earned their freedom by fighting for the British in the War of 1812. Meanwhile, descendants of the Carnegies still retain rights to live on the island.

The natural beauty is a mix of marsh channels, live oak forest, and wide-open beaches. There are castle-like ruins to explore andĚý also plenty of wildlife to keep an eye out for—alligators dominate the interior marshes, and a herd of feral horses, descendants of a pack left behind in the late 1800s, roam the island. Almost 10,000 acres of Cumberland is federally designated wilderness. The beach is extensive, running for 17 miles along the eastern edge of the island.

Crowds are scarce because the ferry from St. Marys can only bring a maximum of 300 people over on any given day, so it’s easy to find a slice of sand to yourself if you’re willing to hike. The majority of day trippers stick to Sea Camp Beach, on the southern end of the island, less than half a mile from the ferry drop. You can rent a bike ($16 a day) and ride Grand Avenue north, or hike along the beach until you find a spot with the right amount of solitude. The waves are generally too little to surf, but perfect for swimming, reading trashy novels, and taking naps.

Logistics: Catch a from St. Marys ($40 per person). Entrance fee is $15 per person.

Stay the Night: Cumberland Island has . Sea Camp is the most developed and easiest to reach, just a half mile from the ferry dock. It has 18 sites situated in a live oak forest with plenty of shade a quarter mile from Sea Camp Beach ($22 a night). Stafford Beach is your other developed option, with 10 sites and cold showers (which is fine—it’s hot here, so you wouldn’t want a warm shower), flush toilets, and potable water. It’s a 3.5-mile hike from the ferry dock, but puts you in the middle of the island with fewer crowds and quick access to the north side of Cumberland. ($12 a night.)

3. Olympic National Park, Washington

Olympic National Park encompasses some of the most diverse terrain of any park in the country. Protecting nearly a million acres, the terrain varies from glaciated peaks to rocky beaches. There are 73 miles of coastline within the park’s boundaries, including the popular and picture-perfect Rialto and Kalaloch beaches.

But if you want a wilder experience, hike beyond these vehicle-accessed destinations and deeper into the Olympic National Park’s Wilderness Coast. Just be prepared for an arduous hike: a mix of forested paths, boulder hopping, and steep, rope-assisted trails that climb and descend tall headlands. You also have to pay attention to the tides; high tides can close out the beach.

Ozette Ranger Station, in the middle of the Wilderness Coast, is the perfect starting point. From there, you can do short, three-mile boardwalk hikes to Cape Alava or Sand Point, or begin multi-day treks 20 miles south to Rialto Beach or . If you head north,Ěý you’ll be inundated with tidepools full of starfish, tall cliffs with sweeping views, and more sea stacks rising from the surf than you can count.

Shi Shi itself offers two miles of hard-packed sand bookended by tall cliffs and sea stacks. It’s a popular spot, so don’t expect to have it to yourself, but you won’t find a better sunset on the West Coast. The waves are good too, and people surf here, but that means lugging your board on the hike.

Logistics: There’s a $30 entrance fee to enter Olympic. If you plan to hike the Wilderness Coast, you can arrange for a shuttle with .

Stay the Night: Get a wilderness ($8 per person per night) and you can camp in one of the traditional forested campsites adjacent to the beach or pitch a tent on the sand itself. You can build a fire on the beach below the high-tide line, but may only gather driftwood, not wood from the forest. Shi Shi Beach, 15 miles from the Ozette Ranger Station, is a popular destination for backpackers.

4. Virgin Islands National Park, Virgin Islands

The U.S. Virgin Islands are a collection of three tropical keys in the Caribbean that range from the touristy (St. Thomas) to the culturally significant (St. Croix). Virgin Islands National Park protects more than 7,000 acres of the decidedly more rustic St. Johns, comprising roughly half of the island’s total footprint and offering a mix of lush, forested hiking trails and picture-perfect beaches.

Trunk Bay is the most famous, largely because of its natural beauty; the white sand forms a horseshoe around light blue water, islands rise from the sea just off the beach, and mountains frame the horizon. Yes, it’s crowded, but it’s worth it. The Underwater Snorkel Trail is also a great way to get acquainted with the unofficial sport of the Virgin Islands—staring at fish through goggles.

But don’t spend all your time at Trunk Bay. Hit a few of the park’s beaches to get a taste of the variety of terrain. Brown Bay has a small spit of flat sand that’s only accessible by boat or trail, offering more solitude than Trunk Bay. Maho Bay is known for an abundance of sea turtles thanks to its healthy seagrass beds, and Honeymoon Bay has two beaches split by a rocky point where several species of coral offer habitat for colonies of colorful fish. I recommend visiting as many beaches as you can while you’re on the island, and bring goggles and a snorkel. The park protects roughly 5,000 acres of coral reefs and seagrass beds beneath the surface of the clear water.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park, but Trunk Bay charges a $5 amenity fee.

Stay the Night: The privately run operates within the national-park boundaries, complete with its own beach. You can bring your own tent, but we say opt for one of the campground’s eco-tents, which have queen beds, fans, and shaded decks. (Two-night minimum; $165 per night.)

5. Assateague Island National Seashore, Maryland

is a 32-mile-long barrier island that splits its zip codes between Maryland and Virginia, though most of the national seashore is located in Maryland. It is a wild expanse of land known for its maritime forests, salt marshes, and mellow interior bays.

The Atlantic side of the island is dominated by a primitive beach that stretches for miles between choppy surf and tall dunes. Oh, and Assateague also has a population of magnificent wild ponies. Legend has it that the equine are descendants of ponies that swam to shore from a sunken Spanish ship in the 1500s.

The national seashore is just a couple hundred miles from Washington, D.C., so it can be crowded, but the beach is gorgeous, and there’s a good chance you’ll build a sand castle a couple hundred yards from a pony.

Take a break from the beach and paddle the Sinepuxent Bay, a shallow sound on the inland side of the island, where you’ll have a good chance of seeing the wild ponies as they graze on the tall grass that borders the water. has boat rentals and tours (rentals start at $20, tours start at $50). is a thing on the island. In Maryland, crabbing season runs from April 1 to December 31. Only keep crabs you’re planning to eat, and only if they’re at least five inches across.

Logistics: Entrance fee is $25. Get a to explore the Over Sand Vehicle (OSV) zone ($110, valid for one year), which is 11 miles long and offers your best chance of avoiding the crowds.

Stay the night: The many camping options here range from the developed campground of —an 800-acre state park on the same island as the national seashore with 350 campsites ($27.50 a night)—to the primitive beach camping within the Bullpen area of the OSV zone ($200 for a year). Note that you must camp in a hard-sided vehicle with an approved waste-management system. Campfires are allowed on the beach below the high-tide line.

6. Redwood National Park, California

Redwood National Park is best known for protecting some of the world’s largest trees, which can rise to more than 350 feet tall. The park also encompasses 40 miles of northern California’s coast, where sandy beaches hide beneath bluffs holding old-growth spruce forest.

Gold Bluffs Beach makes for a good introduction to the coast, with miles of gray sand flanked by orange-colored cliffs. It’s a popular beach with easy road access, so you’ll need to apply for a if you’re visiting between May 15 and Sept. 15, and pay a $12 day-use fee.

Gold Bluffs isn’t your only destination in Redwood National Park. The California Coastal Trail stretches for 70 miles through the national park and adjacent public lands, connecting a number of less crowded beaches. You can visit a few gems by hiking an portion of the CCT from False Klamath Cove south to the Klamath River. The trail mostly traverses the wooded hillside above the ocean, but short side spurs lead to secluded beaches without any road access.

One of the best is Hidden Beach, where a gray-sand cove is flanked by grass-covered hills, and massive rocks jut out of the Pacific surf. A pile of driftwood has collected at the high-water mark of the beach, and small boulders are sunk into the sand. The whole scene has a misty, moody vibe that feels more Pacific Northwest than California.

Logistics: No entrance fee required, but the parking lot at Gold Bluffs has a $12 day use fee.

Stay the Night: Grab a site at which sits within Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, and has 26 sites you can reserve up to six months in advance ($35 a night) with quick access to the beach below and the California Coastal Trail.

7. Cape Cod National Seashore, Massachusetts

protects 40 miles of the coast where Massachusetts meets the Atlantic, defining the edge of New England, and is so beautiful that in the 1800s Henry David Thoreau wrote about this place: “A man may stand there and put all America behind him.” The seashore has no shortage of beaches, but Race Point, in Provincetown, offers an idyllic slice of the region.

This expanse isn’t rugged and dramatic like some of the West Coast’s beaches. Instead of tall cliffs and jagged sea stacks, you have soft sand and rolling sand dunes speckled with wispy grass. The beach itself is mellow, conducive to relaxation and the occasional nap. The sand next to the parking lot ($25 fee) in Provincetown can get crowded, but Race Point stretches for several miles around the tip of the Cape, so if you have the legs for it, keep walking until you find a quiet spot.

The thick grassland that separates the beach from the road and parking facilities gives you a more rustic vibe than a lot of more overdeveloped East Coast beaches. Spring is whale-migration season, so bring some binoculars and look for right and humpback whales cruising the channels off the coast.

Logistics: $25 entrance fee.

Stay the Night: There’s no camping within Cape Cod National Seashore, but the park has a that put you close to the park’s beaches (from $170 a night).

8. Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida and Mississippi

The beaches along the Gulf of Mexico are known for their sugar-white sand, like those found on , which protects pieces of the coast of Mississippi and Florida and islands within the Gulf. The national seashore hosts a mix of historic military forts, coastal forest, and pristine beaches.

The best sand of the lot is on Horn Island, an 8-mile-long, 1-mile-wide barrier island off the coast of Mississippi, protected as a federally-designated wilderness, and only accessible by boat. Horn is located seven miles off the coast of Mississippi, sitting in the Mississippi Sound of the Gulf of Mexico. No commercial ferries service the island, so you’ll need your own boat (or to hire a private charter) to reach it.

A sandy path connects the two sides of the island. The beach on the south side, facing the Gulf, features soft sand flanked by small, grassy dunes. The interior of the island has warm lagoons and tall pine trees with tufts of green nettles at their tips, looking like giant bonsai trees. You’ll find the occasional alligator on Horn, as well as nesting ospreys. Anglers wade into the shallow waters of the Gulf and cast for speckled trout and redfish, but mostly, you just soak in the deserted-island vibes.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to visit Horn Island, and you don’t need reservations to camp. But you do need a boat. There’s no regular ferry service to Horn, but you can find .

Stay the night: You’re allowed to on the beach here, as long as you stay off the dunes and any vegetation. There are no facilities and no drinking water, so bring everything you need on the boat. You can have a campfire below the high-tide line. No permits or reservations needed, but there is a 14-day maximum stay.

9. Channel Islands National Park, California

If you ever wondered what California was like before all the people showed up, take a 20-mile boat ride out to Channel Islands National Park, a five-island archipelago with craggy coastlines, rugged mountains, and remote coves where you’ll find more sea lions and seals than suntanned bodies. Santa Cruz Island is the largest within the national park, with a total of 77 miles of shoreline, and has regular ferry service. It also has the best beaches.

Start by exploring and snorkeling in Scorpion Beach, a rocky patch of land between two cliffs with clear water and underwater kelp forests. If you want a more adventurous beach, hike four miles across the island from Scorpion Beach to Smuggler’s Cove Beach, a mix of dark sand and rock tucked into a protected cove surrounded by steep headlands. You might see some sailboats anchored off the beach, but probably won’t have to share the sand with anyone.

Regardless of the beach you choose, keep an eye out for gray, blue, and humpback whales frolicking in the water near the islands in the summer and fall. You can also sign up for a to explore the sea caves that punctuate the rocky coast ($186 per person).

Logistics: Entrance to the park is free. If you don’t have a boat, from Ventura, California. It’s a 20-mile cruise to Santa Cruz. (From $31)

Stay the Night: Santa Cruz has one developed campground, , with 31 sites and fresh water. It’s just a half-mile walk from the boat landing. You can make reservations six months in advance. ($15 per night.)

10. Cape Hatteras National Seashore, North Carolina

stretches for 70 miles, protecting a string of barrier islands off the coast of North Carolina. The park is a mix of dune-flanked beaches, meandering channels, historic lighthouses, and small, thriving towns. This is the wild Outer Banks that has attracted visitors from the pirate Blackbeard, looking to lay low from the law in the 1700s, to surfers today seeking consistent East Coast barrels.

A single highway connects most of the Outer Banks with a series of bridges, with quality beaches along the entire length of this park. But Ocracoke Beach, on Ocracoke Island, is your destination, because it’s largely undeveloped, and it’s less crowded than most other beaches in the area; the island is isolated on the southern end of the national seashore. To reach it, you need your own boat or to catch a ferry ride from the mainland.

Development is centered around the harbor on the southern end of the island, complete with a lighthouse, while the rest of the spit is left mostly untouched. Ocracoke Beach is 16 miles of sand, tall dunes, and relentless surf. Bring a board, or ($25 a day), some fishing gear, and a 4WD vehicle; sections of the beach are open to offroad vehicles with a permit.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park, but you need to catch a from either Cedar Island or Hatteras Island to reach Ocracoke ($15 one way). You can get an to drive on sections of Ocracoke Beach ($50 for a 10-day permit).

Stay the Night: Ocracoke Island has a (136 sites) with gravel tent pads situated just behind the dunes, so you can hear the waves crash as you drift to sleep in your tent. ($28 per night.)

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national-parks columnist. He is constantly having an internal debate about whether it’s better to live at the beach or in the mountains. Right now, because it’s summer, the beach is winning.

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The best part of snorkeling? Getting up close and personal with sea life. The worst? Chewing on a piece of breathing plastic the whole time.Ěý

That’s where the comes in. Rather than a goggles-plus-mouthpiece setup, the Ninja Mask is a large, clear mask that fits over your entire face and allows you to breathe normally through your nose and mouth and also take advantage of a wider field of vision.Ěý

The getup should be comfy for up to 30-minute dives and the lenses are supposedly fog-free.Ěý

From $145,

Ěý

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Fifteen-foot-long tiger sharks swim in clear, cobalt waters. Below them, the warm kiss of the Gulf Stream nourishes the shallow shoals that are home to castles of coral and forests of algae.

Thirty-four miles off the coast of North Carolina, there’s a marine ecosystem that’s a mix of artificial engineering and natural wonder. Welcome toĚý, a renovated Coast Guard light station straddling hurricane alley, the “graveyard of the Atlantic.” This week, Annenberg-backed 501(c)3 teamed up with Ěýto debut three cameras live-streaming from the Frying Pan.

The tower, which resembles an oil platform, was built in 1964 to help ships navigate. It was automated in 1979, but then the advent of GPS made it obsolete. In 2004, the Coast Guard abandoned the station, but because it’s situated above a protected reef, the structure was never destroyed. Nearly five years ago, a software engineer bought the hunk of steel for $85,000 in a government auction.

This year, Explore.org began the painstaking process of camera installation. It’s a philanthropic endeavor—no ads or fundraising involved. Explore.org’s founder, , wants viewers around the world to experience this place from the comfort of their screens.

“You’re going to see something that’s never been seen before,” he says. “Seeing sharks in their natural environment, that’s never been done, even with scuba or snorkeling, there’s some human interaction. This is the first time it’s completely pure.”

Marine life here isn’t distracted by human divers or boats with noisy engines. Result: scientists could get a whole new way to study sea life.

Weingarten’s track record includes filmmaking from the Arctic and Africa. Millions have tuned in online, and through media partnerships with organizations like the BBC and National Geographic. The Frying Pan project is closer to Weingarten’s home but it was no easy install.

Since underwater cameras often get covered by microbial organisms that obscure imagery, Explore.org used View Into The Blue’s . Magnetic arms employ an automated wiper to dislodge oceanic schmutz. In the Frying Pan stream, you can actually see the arms cleaning the camera casings every few hours.

The second major hurdle required even more MacGyvering because it’s impossible to transmit wireless signals underwater. Explore.org ran 250 feet of cables from the main deck of the Frying Pan Tower through the maintenance deck and down to cameras at depths of 15 feet and 50 feet.

But workers also needed a way to get the images to the mainland so they could broadcast them online in real-time. The tower network was hooked up to an autonomous battery system that operates on solar and wind power. Large high-frequency radios were installed to communicate 60 miles between a dish on the Frying Pan and an 1,800-foot tower in Winnebow, North Carolina.

A fourth camera was mounted on the tower in Winnebow and trained toward the Frying Pan. View Into the Blue then arranged for a 25-mile relay from Winnebow to a TV station in Wilmington. Signals were sent over Time Warner Cable servers and distributed to Explore.org. For the images broadcast on your computer to make the trip in milliseconds, they had to travel 90 miles from the tower to their broadcast location.

Weingarten admits that it was so much work, he’s not sure if he would do it again. But now that it’s done, he’s excited about the potential. The end goals are to make this place a scientific research center, maybe feed live footage to aquariums, and possibly study how marine life deals with natural disasters like the hurricanes that plague North Carolina’s coastal region every year.

“This is the ultimate marine observation tool,” Weingarten says. “You could write your PhD based on these cameras.”

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“They wanted short pilots so they could pack in more gear and people,” says five-foot-three . That's how the 27-year old got her first gig as a submarine pilot. Since then, she's come out of the sub to pilot Remotely Operated Vehicles (ROVs) for San Francisco-based ocean exploration robotics clubĚý. While Bergman jokes that her petite size launched her career, her mechanical and scientific knowledge are what led her to the waters in the Caribbean, Arctic, and West Coast—and into classrooms across the world as a champion for female engineers.

Bergman's life reads something like a YA adventure novel. At just 15 years old, sheĚýtalked her way into a gig as the diesel engineer aboard a tall ship that was traveling from California to Canada.ĚýShe carried that love of the sea into college, working as a mechanic on a steam ship while she studied oceanography at the University of Washington. When she graduated in 2010, the submarines came calling, and she put her engineering and oceanic skills—and slight stature—to use. But an opportunity from National Geographic helped her develop yet another passion: teaching.

In 2013, she won a to explore the deep coral reefs off Curaçao and while streaming live video to classrooms through a Google Hangout connection after resurfacing. “The question for me was: How can I bring students down there with me and get them involved?”Ěýshe says. “When it works, they ask amazing questions—they notice things I don't. That part of exploration is what I wanted to pursue and still do.”

Bergman recently made a commitment to expand her educational reach by joining the , a multi-year adventure involving a team of 10 women who will . The expedition's goal: to bring attention to the decline of sea ice on the Poles. Bergman manages the team's ROV camera and educational outreach, the latter of which started last spring at an engineering camp for girls in Port Angeles, Washington. There, a group of 13– and 14-year-old girls built Bergman's ROV “Phantom” from scratch, learning to solder, weld, and wire together the sub. In the Arctic, Bergman used the ROV to break the ice,Ěýsocially,Ěýwith young Inuit girls.Ěý

“They were so shy at first,” Bergman says. “But when I explained that girls the same age as them had built the ROV, they suddenly felt good about seeing what it could do and how they could control it.”Ěý

In 2015, Bergman plans to replicate her girls ROV-building camps with sessions in Atlanta, Georgia, andĚýMonterey and Oakland, California.”The goal is for the girls to build the ROV and then spend two days exploring the water in their backyard,” she says. “I call them 'GURC's', for Girls Underwater Robot Camps.” She points to a recent camp in Berkeley where six girls, ages 12 to 17, built an ROV to explore nearby Lake Anza as a perfect example.

Bergman is also returning to the Arctic, and has been invited to pilot a sub in Papau New Guinea, Roatan and Curaçao. One place she'd love to explore, beyond SCUBA depth, are the waters off Cuba at the 850-square-mile marine park Gardens of the Queen. “The habitats there are very well protected from overfishing and pollution,” she says.

If Bergman has her way, she'll bring along a crowd of girls via a remote hookup to her GURC-built ROVs. “I'm going to teach them how to build a remote control ROV and find the confidence to go in their backyard and explore,” she says. “In 10 years, I want to be surrounded by a bunch of female colleagues.”Ěý

Bergman's Tips for Aspiring Female ExplorersĚý

1. “Don't be afraid of your own curiosity. It's worth exploring.”

2. “Just ask for the gig. You might get shot down, but you might also succeed.”

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Inflatable gear is nothing new. You probably even have a Therm-a-Rest or blow-up raft stored in your gear shed as you read this.

Now, designers are getting more creative with their inflatable designs. Stand-up paddleboards, tents, and even snowshoes can be set up with an air pump—or some powerful lungs. That means lighter, more portable gear for you. Ěý

Black Diamond Halo Jetforce Avalanche Airbag ($1,275)

Few inflatable products have drawn as much buzz as Black Diamond’s new avalanche-safety bag. The Halo Jetforce revolutionizes the airbag pack, making it more versatile and practical for most backcountry skiers.

Jetforce technology uses a battery-powered fan instead of a compressed-gas cylinder, so you deploy can the airbag multiple times on a single trip. You’ll also save money since canisters are good only once before they have to be refilled, which can be expensive. They’re also difficult to travel with because of TSA restrictions.

Klymit Ulaar Jacket ($295)

If there’s an inflatable revolution, expect to lead the charge. The company has developed a seam-welding technology that allows it to produce products like ultralight cutout sleeping pads and inflatable pack rafts. It’s even trying to replace old rigid backpack frames with .

The company’s most impressive product to date has been its inflatable clothing, which was initially funded through Kickstarter. Both the Ulaar jacket and Double Diamond vest allow the wearer to dial in the amount of insulation using argon gas. The weightless compound provides better insulation than fibrous materials because it won’t get wet and weigh you down.Ěý

Heimplanet The Cave ($670)

Inflatable tents are no longer reserved for carnivals and used-car lots. Hamburg, Germany–based has developed expedition-worthy air-pole shelters.

Stefan Clauss and Stefan Schulze Dieckhoff founded the company in 2010 because they wanted a tent that was quick and easy to pitch even in bad weather or at night. They created the Cave, a geodesic structure of air chambers that can be inflated from a single point.

If a frame section fails, a built-in safety system allows the user to separate the chambers. (You likely don’t have to worry about this, however: Videos show the tent holding up to 60 mph gusts.) As a bonus, the tent looks like something out of .

Hövding Helmet ($410)

set out to develop a bike helmet that acts like the airbag in your car. Dozens of sensors in the helmet monitor the cyclist’s movement. At the first sign of an abnormality (read: a crash), the helmet inflates and covers the rider’s head and neck. the helmet inflating in less than a second, well before the cyclist hits the ground.

Worn around the neck, the uninflated helmet looks more like a bulky scarf than a typical lid. Take note: This helmet isn’t designed for mountain biking. “Since it’s based on movements from people cycling normally in the city, it could be ‘oversensitive’ while cycling downhill or jumping,” says company spokesperson Maria Persson.

NRS Baron 6 ($1,395)

Inflatable stand-up paddleboards make a lot of sense in environments from whitewater rivers to high alpine lakes. They’re easier to transport, harder to damage, and lighter than their fiberglass counterparts.

If you’re looking for a casual-float board, check out . At six inches thick and 358 liters of volume, the board could almost accommodate the whole family next time you take to the river.

Like many inflatable SUPs, the Baron inflates to 15 psi, which keeps the board rigid and helps it glide smoothly. The triple-fin setup is versatile enough for rivers, lakes, or even catching a few waves.

Billabong V1 Wetsuit ($TBD)

After nearly drowning at California big-wave spot Mavericks, pro surfer Shane Dorian . So Billabong and maritime safety company Mustang Survival teamed up to design a special suit.

Dorian repeatedly tested the V1 suit in huge waves and found that his time held underwater dramatically decreased with it on. In 2011, the suits were distributed to a handful of elite surfers, but the research and development continued, and .

In the meantime, other companies began to follow suit. Patagonia developed the Portable Self-Inflation (or PSI) vest, and big-wave pioneer Jeff Clark helped come up with the . Few of the products are available to the public yet, but expect to see more prototypes this year and next.

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The display has Swiss Army’s trademark clarity and precision, and 500-meter water resistance means this is a serious diver’s watch—for those who prefer to rely on dedicated instruments to gauge vital data. For the rest of us, the orange readout and strap manage to look both metro and manly.
TAGS: rubber strap, indestructible

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Fifteen hours of driving across the sun-blasted beauty of the Baja Peninsula has transported us from the hustle of San Diego to the dusty Mexican town of Santa RosalĂ­a, tucked of the Sea of Cortez.

These are the evocative waters that inspired John Steinbeck to muse in his that “men really need sea-monsters in their personal oceans.” I’m here to dive into Cassell’s personal ocean and to meet his favorite sea monster. Up high, in the warm sun and soothing breeze, it seems like a good idea. Except that there are a couple of unsettling questions. Like: How often is a monster of myth a monster in reality? And am I going to get the crap knocked out of me 50 feet down?

I worry about these things because Cassell, 44, a world-class diver, underwater cameraman, and Special Operations vet from Escondido, California, is out to convince me—live and up close—that the undersea world’s most intriguing predator is not one of the usual suspects (like the great white shark or killer whale) but a powerful, outsize squid that features eight snakelike arms lined with suckers full of nasty little teeth, a razor-sharp beak that can rapidly rip flesh into bite-size chunks, and an unrelenting hunger. It’s called the Humboldt, or jumbo, squid, and it’s not the sort of calamari you’re used to forking off your dinner plate. This squid grows to seven feet or more and perhaps a couple hundred pounds. It has a rep as the outlaw biker of the marine world: intelligent and opportunistic, a stone-cold cannibal willing to attack divers with a seemingly deliberate hostility.

What about the giant squid, you may ask? “Wimpy,” says Cassell. The giant—which grows to 60-plus feet and is one of only four squid, out of the 400 or so species found in the oceans, that are human-size or bigger—is generally considered to be fairly placid. In any case, it’s so elusive, no modern squid hunter has ever even seen one alive. No, if you want a scary squid, you want a Humboldt. And they’re easy to find, teeming by the millions in Pacific waters from Chile to British Columbia. (It’s named after the Humboldt Current, off South America’s west coast.)

Cassell first heard about the “diablos rojos,” or red devils, in 1995, from some Mexican fishermen as he was filming gray whales for German public television in Baja’s Laguna San Ignacio. Intrigued, he made his way to La Paz, near the , to dive under the squid-fishing fleet. It was baptism by tentacle. Humboldts—mostly five-footers—swarmed around him. As Cassell tells it, one attacked his camera, which smashed into his face, while another wrapped itself around his head and yanked hard on his right arm, dislocating his shoulder. A third bit into his chest, and as he tried to protect himself he was gang-dragged so quickly from 30 to 70 feet that he didn’t have time to equalize properly, and his right eardrum ruptured. “I was in the water five minutes and I already had my first injury,” Cassell recalls, shaking his head. “It was like being in a barroom brawl.” Somehow he managed to push the squid-pile off and make his way to the surface, battered and exhilarated. “I was in love with the animal,” he says.

[quote]“I’m really scared of only one or two things,” he declared with mock grandeur. “Global thermonuclear war would be one. Humboldt squid would not.”[/quote]

After his initial squid beatdown, Cassell built himself some homemade fiberglass body armor modeled after the storm­trooper armor in Star Wars. “I realized I could survive the worst attacks with armor alone,” he says. He’s been observing and filming the Humboldt ever since, over the course of more than 300 dives, and was featured in the Discovery Channel’s 2005 Killer Squid program. As far as he’s concerned, for raw power, aggression, and evolutionary perfection, . “They are one of the most beautiful creatures, and they just happen to be lethal,” Cassell says. “There is no life form on this planet more alien than a Humboldt squid.”

Cassell is in Santa RosalĂ­a this time around to shoot additional high-definition footage for a documentary he’s putting together called Demonio Rojo: The Truth About the Humboldt Squid. His girlfriend, Shawna Meyer, 32, is with us to keep everything organized, and Dale Pearson, a 37-year-old part-time contractor who’s been running dive and spearfishing trips to Baja on the side for four years, is flying in to help with the filming and to make his first Humboldt dive. Cassell and Pearson have formed a partnership called Sea Wolves Unlimited and plan to start squid-diving expeditions. I’m their first guinea pig.

The next day, motoring out in two 25-foot home-built pangas with Guerito Romero, a 27-year-old local fisherman, I ask him what he thinks of our dive plans. “Scott es muy crazy,” he says, laughing. Then he starts pinching me, mimicking all the squid bites he thinks I’m in for.

Naturally, I’m trying to figure out whether I should be scared. Cassell, who sports the brush cut and muscular physique of a soldier, isn’t easy to read. He’s modest and soft-spoken, despite an adrenaline-packed life. He grew up in Atlanta and started diving in nearby Lake Lanier at the age of 13. In 1980, when he was 18, he joined the Army to escape an alcoholic father. He learned to fly Aeroscout choppers with the Air Cavalry and became a Special Ops medic, a shadowy period he doesn’t talk about except to say that he spent a lot of time in Central America on counter-drug operations.

Since leaving the military in 1996, Cassell has pieced together a living as a commercial diver and instructor, an underwater cameraman, and a security consultant (testing harbor defenses against the possibility of a terrorist attack). He estimates that he has , and over that time he’s been attacked by a bull shark, pinned against the harbor bottom by a tanker, and treated like a chew toy by a territorial thousand-pound sea lion. So when he says stuff like “Humboldt squid are definitely capable of killing and eating a human being,” it’s hard to know whether the smile on his face is there because he loves swimming with danger or because he’s having a great time trying to scare the shit out of me.

For perspective, I’ve turned to , an avuncular 55-year-old biology professor at Stanford University’s Hopkins Marine Station, in Pacific Grove, California. Gilly, a bluff, ruddy-cheeked man who prefers Hawaiian shirts to a lab coat, has been studying squid for 28 years and is one of only a handful of scientists who are real experts on the Humboldt. He starts with the anatomy basics, digging past a few pepperoni pizzas in a large freezer to pull out a dead Humboldt. It’s just a few feet long, but it’s a remarkable creature. It has large, black eyes and a sleek, rubbery body (called the mantle), which has two stabilizer fins at one end and tapers into a nest of eight arms and two longer tentacles at the other. Its arms are lined with suckers, which are ringed with small spiny teeth, and buried at the heart of the tentacular mass is a creepy-looking, articulating beak.

Gilly admits that very little is known about the squid or its life cycle. He and Cassell suspect it lives about two years. And they agree on something else: that the animals are spookily intelligent. They’ve both seen groups of Humboldt coordinating with one another to herd and attack schools of fish, and Cassell once saw one fiddling with the latch of an underwater cage he had just closed. “They have huge brains for their body size, much larger than most invertebrates,” Gilly says. “They might be as smart as a dog.”

The two men are equally in awe of the Humboldt’s insatiable hunger, which drives the squid to eat just about anything it can catch, and ruthlessly cannibalize one another given the slightest opportunity. Cassell has seen a Humboldt trying to escape a pilot whale and snapping up little fish as it fled, a remarkable Darwinian undersea tableau. Gilly attributes this demonic appetite to simple need—in the course of a Humboldt’s brief life it might grow from a fingertip-size squidling into a 100-pound-plus animal. As Gilly likes to note, that’s roughly the equivalent of a human baby growing to the size of a blue whale—in just 24 months.

It is in the realm of squid-human relations that Gilly and Cassell part ways. Cassell is convinced that the squid are —he’s been slammed and bruised enough times underwater, he says, and he believes at least one of the many stories of Mexican fishermen being attacked and killed. Gilly is not a diver, but he scoffs at the idea that the animals are dangerous predators and says that most Humboldt attacks take place when the squid are excited by the presence of food. “They are equipped to do damage, but so is a dog,” he concludes.

This more benign view is based in part on Gilly’s encounter with the squid during an expedition to the Sea of Cortez in 2002, when he jumped into the water wearing nothing but shorts, a T-shirt, and a mask. Within minutes he saw a group of five squid ascending from the depths, until they formed a perimeter around him. Then, one by one, they reached out and touched his outstretched hand. Gilly says he felt like he was meeting extraterrestrials coming by to say hello.

Gilly is reassuring, but it’s hard to get past the cautionary tale of an underwater photographer named Alex Kerstitch, whose mugging by a group of squid is one of the founding cornerstones of the Humboldt-as-monster legend. One night in 1990, Kerstitch, a biologist at the University of Arizona, was diving in the Sea of Cortez with a film team. Suddenly a squid wrapped itself around his legs, and he felt himself being pulled backwards and down as others piled on. Kerstitch fought, but when the mauling was over, the Humboldt posse had ripped a gold chain from his neck and stripped him of his dive computer, light, and collection bag. Kerstitch died in March 2001, but California-based underwater cinematographer Bob Cranston was with him on the dive. “They really raped him,” Cranston says. “Wherever his skin was exposed, like his neck, he had lots of abrasions.”

Could Gilly be wrong? “I respect Gilly’s work in the lab, but he’s like a guy who has been on safari once and saw only lion cubs instead of big lions,” Cassell says. “I’d love to take him diving and hover about ten feet away while he gets binged by some big ones. E.T., eh? Cute, eh?”

He’s kidding. I think.

If you’re chasing after monster Humboldts, Santa RosalĂ­a is an oceanic game park. For most of its 120 years, it was a copper-mining town, and you can still see the rusting machinery and gaping streetside mine shafts of that Dickensian time. But the mine shut down for good more than 20 years ago, and today Santa RosalĂ­ans mine another natural resource, Humboldts, which are particularly abundant in the summer. Every night the squid come around, a fleet of more than a hundred pangas races out onto the Sea of Cortez, and Santa RosalĂ­a’s hardscrabble pangeros start handlining for Humboldts at depths of up to 1,000 feet. By morning, if luck is with them, each panga is offloading up to a ton of squid at the local processing plant. The catch is packed up and shipped to Asia, where it’s a staple in local cuisine. (It’s a sustainable fishery as long as the pangeros stick to handlining, says Gilly, partly because hammerhead sharks and big sport fish in the Sea of Cortez—which —have been fished down, leaving the Humboldt to thrive.)

Down at the waterfront, Cassell, with his dive gear and cameras, is a glaring oddity, but by now the pangeros are familiar with the eccentric gringo who likes to commune with the “calamar gigante.” As the Baja sun drops toward the hills, Rafael Garibaldi, whose pangas Guerito has lined up for us, mans the outboard and motors us out past the breakwater. Cassell is quiet, checking over his gear, including the restraining cables we’ll use to prevent the squid from dragging anyone deep. Shawna, who’s been with Cassell since 2004 and works for a plumbing-supply wholesaler when she isn’t on one of his “missions,” is perched in the bow fiddling with the video camera she’ll use to film any topside action. And Dale, a crack spearfisherman, is jumping around in hyperactive anticipation of his first Humboldt dive. Dale is the quintessential California water rat: blond, brash, and hilarious. He’s got a big whitetip shark tattooed across the back of his neck and the obligatory shark tooth hanging from a silver chain. “I’m really scared of only one or two things,” he declares with mock grandeur. “Global thermonuclear war would be one. Humboldt squid would not.”

[quote]The squid are all around me. Everywhere, ghostly shadows torpedo through the water.[/quote]

We motor for 20 minutes before Rafael brings the panga to a halt. Cassell clamps two anti-mugging cables to the gunwale and throws them over the side. They drop underneath the boat, dangling to 50 feet. Another cable, this one 70 feet long, is attached to the bow, and Rafael and Guerito pull on gloves and go to work. Rafael, 50, has a deeply lined face and a drooping mustache. He throws a squid jig over the side. It’s an utterly wicked-looking footlong device, fashioned from a glow-in-the-dark plug (squid are visual predators) that bristles with multiple tiers of closely spaced needles. This afternoon’s mission: bring squid up on the jig for Cassell to release, so he and Dale can film them—and any —up close.

It’s a matter of minutes before Rafael utters a soft grunt to announce that he’s got one. He starts swinging his arms rhythmically, working to recover more than 500 feet of line. Cassell pulls his mask down over his face, rolls backwards off the panga, and disappears into the darkening water. Dale follows. They clip in; neither is wearing squid armor, trusting that the presence of more than one diver will keep the squid cautious. Rafael keeps hauling, dragging the monofilament across the gunwale, where years of fishing has burned deep grooves into the wood. The squid finally hits the surface, and even though, at about four feet, it’s not a big one by Humboldt standards, I’m surprised by its heft and the defiant fire-hose spurt of water and ink that gushes into the air as Rafael pulls it clear of the surface. The squid is a deep, angry red, its arms are whipping, and its black, silver-dollar-size eyes are eerily human as they seem to appraise us. Rafael drops it back into the water, and I can see the camera lights circling underneath as Cassell and Dale film.

Rafael almost immediately hooks another Humboldt. With a slight smirk, he waves me over and offers me the line. I start hauling. After just 30 seconds, the muscles in my lower back are on fire. I try not to slow my pace, but I can’t fool Guerito and Rafael, who are getting a big kick out of watching the gringo suffer for a single squid. Suddenly the line starts jerking hard, like when a bluefin tuna starts to run. “It’s trying to get away,” I tell them in fractured Spanish. “No,” Guerito says, with an evil grin. “The others are eating it.”

The next day, it’s my turn to get wet. I remind myself that Cassell is still alive after hundreds of dives, but it’s hard to ignore two important qualifiers. First, he’s a much more skilled diver. And second, he’s a hell of a lot tougher.

I try to channel Gilly, but instead I feel like I have kerstitch emblazoned across the back of my wetsuit as we motor out early in the afternoon. Today, there’s a building breeze, and the sea surface is choppy, which will reduce visibility. Still, we gear up (I also pass on the unfamiliar squid armor after getting assurance from Cassell that he’ll watch my back) and drop into the water as soon as Rafael finds the squid shoal. No matter what happens, I tell myself, do not let your regulator get yanked from your mouth.

Cassell escorts me down to about 45 feet and clips one of the restraining wires to my scuba backpack. I settle in and take a look around. The rays of sun shafting into the depths give the water a greenish, hazy hue, so I feel as if I’m swimming in a light fog. There’s a current running, and we’re quickly strung out on the wires, making it difficult to maintain depth as Rafael starts hauling jigged squid from below us.

[quote]I see a jig rising past me, and the hooked squid is flashing red and white like a neon sign. It feels like fear—or at least a vain plea for mercy.[/quote]

With the current, the poor visibility, the confusion of wires, and a barbed jig whizzing up from the depths (Cassell was once hooked in the chest, and even he admits that it really hurt), I forget for a moment to worry about gangs of squid. Instead, I concentrate on staying clear of Cassell and Dale as they set up beneath the boat and making sure I don’t get hooked by Rafael. Slowly I notice that the squid are all around me. None of them decide to take the rookie for a ride or even move in for a tentacular taste test. But everywhere on the periphery of my vision, ghostly shadows are torpedoing through the water. Their speed and agility is mind-blowing, and every once in a while one will suddenly eject a cloud of rust-colored ink into the water. Cassell later explains that the , which allows them to give the burst a squidlike shape to fool predators. He then shows me a video sequence filmed that day in which a jigged squid inks just as a cannibal is rushing in and dupes the attacker into hitting the cloud.

I see a jig rising past me, and the hooked squid is flashing red and white like a neon sign. It’s a stunning display, and another extraordinary aspect of Humboldt squid behavior. Both Cassell and Gilly believe that the squid use the flashing (which is enabled by millions of chromatophores in the skin that can be opened like little umbrellas to show red or closed to show white) to communicate with one another, though of the “language.” The effect is so dramatic you can almost feel the squid’s emotion being transmitted through the water. In this case, it appears to be fear—or at least a vain plea for mercy. Because as the jigged squid goes past, I can see a pack of four-foot cannibals shadowing along, jetting in mercilessly and relentlessly to take quick bites of flesh.

When I eventually roll back into the boat untouched, the brief experience has already started to transform the squid in my mind from a fearsome unknown into an astonishing example of evolutionary design. On the way back into Santa RosalĂ­a, I start to wonder whether all the talk about red devils and killer squid is more creative marketing than reality. When I spoke with underwater cinematographer Bob Cranston, he admitted that of the Humboldt squid. “There’s a lot of hype,” he said. “But I empathize with Cassell. We’ve all got to make a living.”

I voice my doubts to Cassell. “Well, we’ve just been in with the babies,” he says. “You really need to see the big guys.” I ask whether he has film of his deep encounters with the six- and seven-foot “rogues” and “giants” he likes to talk about and whether he can send me clips of his hairiest confrontations. I like the idea of monsters abroad in our risk-managed, hyper-conditioned world, but now I want to see proof.

A few days after I return home, a DVD arrives from Cassell. It reads humboldt squid clips, and the letters are burned into a picture of Cassell sitting in a panga with a Humboldt across his lap. It’s not just any squid. It’s thick and muscular, perhaps twice the size of anything we saw.

“OK,” I say to myself, and cue up the DVD. I scroll my way past clips of Cassell pimping in his and telling spooky tales to get people squirming in their Barcaloungers. I check out a sequence called “Attacks,” in which flashing squid take runs at Cassell, their arms grating across his camera gear as he grunts and pants for breath. Finally, I find a segment called “Giants” and settle in.

Cassell is in a pale-green underwater world, a couple hundred feet down, and directly in front of him is an utterly massive squid. (Cassell estimates that it was about eight feet long and perhaps 200 pounds.) Its skin is pocked by scars from numerous battles, and its body appears unusually heavy. Dozens of other large squid are swimming nearby, flashing their eerie messages, and none of them seems the least bit intimidated by Cassell. Indeed, they repeatedly jet in to grab at him. Sometimes the probes come head on, the squid lining up like darts and then bull-rushing him with a flare of arms and tentacles followed by the scrape of sucker teeth on his armor. Sometimes there are sneak attacks from behind, signaled by grunts and yelps from Cassell as he tries to free himself. During one attack, you can hear Cassell laughing maniacally before finally conceding an “Owww.”

He’s in a world that would be terrifying to the average diver. But he’s loving it. The mega-squid, which , appears again and again to eyeball Cassell up close and probe him with its tentacles. Scar seems almost imperious in his disdain for this human invader, and Cassell will later write, “It occurs to me that this might well be the first encounter of its kind for both species. I can only describe it as a dance. A dance of peace, curiosity, and discovery.”

Who knows how well Cassell really understands these animals and whether a human can ever really dance with a squid. But Cassell is a romantic. What’s important to him is that in those moments beneath the Sea of Cortez, he transcends the human world and dives his way into an undersea realm that is wild, often brutal, and ruled by a spooky alien species. The monsters are really there; you just have to dive deep enough to find them. And that’s something most of us will never do.

Correspondent Tim Zimmermann’s () August 2005 story on cave diver Dave Shaw was a National Magazine Award finalist.

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Since the invention of the mastodon-hide sandal, humanity has continued to search for the best way to keep shoes snugly attached to your feet. (Velcro, you were this close.) Now, there’s the new Inner Lock Lacing System from ASICS. Whereas the laces of most running shoes simply cinch the upper—tightening the shoe’s sidewalls and pressing the foot down onto the footbed—the new Trail Sensor 2 WR ($110; ), available in June, is designed to cradle the entire foot, resulting in a snugger fit that—in theory, at least—should save more energy for forward motion.

The Innovation

Two winglike inner sleeves are sewn inside the shoe’s upper. One lace (blue) snugs the wings tightly around the foot, locking it down and back. The other (red) closes the upper, providing another layer of security.

The Result
A more secure fit that doesn’t pinch blood vessels on the top of the foot.Plus less interior slippage means less wasted energy—especially uphill—which might make you faster. Look for a complete review in our Winter Buyer’s Guide.

Bike Derailleur Innovations

A radical shift

Bike derailleurs still rely on the same basic mechanics that have been at the core of bicycle shifting since its advent, in the early 1900s. But major manufacturers are now developing electronic systems that promise faster and more precise shifts, lighter weight, customizable features, and improved ergonomics. Though nothing’s official, production versions could be offered as early as 2009.

1. Computer: Integrated computers might register not only the usual speed and distance but also the current gear and remaining battery life.

2. Wires: Shifters and derailleurs will still be linked, but instead of steel cables pulling levers, it will be insulated wires carrying electrical impulses.

3. Hoods: Since designers won’t have to contend with bulky mechanical internals, they’ll be able to deliver more ergonomic shapes and possibly even built-in gear indicators on the brake hoods.

4. Battery: Power will come from an on-board battery. Lightweight lithium-ion cells are small enough to integrate into existing parts, such as water-bottle cages, and would last for days on a single charge.

5. Derailleurs: They won’t look all that different. But inside, fast-acting motors will deliver quick, precise shifts of up to several gears at a time. There will likely be adjustment screws like those on current models.

Waterproofing Innovations

A new way to waterproof

Waterproofing Innovations

Witness shoemaker Hi-Tec’s, er, high-tech answer to making waterproof shoes more breathable. The Problem: Trail-running and hiking shoes with a waterproof-breathable membrane (think Gore-Tex or eVent) struggle to let out trapped heat and moisture. The (Potential) Solution: Hi-Tec’s new Ion-Mask water­proofing technology, which was first developed for the British military, will be available only in the V-Lite Altitude Ultra hiking boot, start­ing this fall ($120; ).

How It Works Boots are inserted into a vacuum chamber, a.k.a. the ionizer, along with a hydrophobic, Teflon-like chemical (1). The plasma-filled tube is electrified via ultraviolet lights (2), vapor-izing the chemical (3), which permanently binds to the fibers of the shoe, creating a water barrier (4) only a few molecules thick. The barrier allows air and vapor to pass through as easily as if the fibers were untreated. The process can be used with any material, from leather to mesh. You Saw It Here First Hi-Tec has exclusive rights on the treatment until 2009, at which point we expect to see it in other companies’ clothing and footwear.

Diving Fin Innovations

Maiden voyage of the man-fish

Look out, Flipper. Biomimetic pioneer Ted Ciamillo has come up with a revoluntionary monofin that promises to propel a person completely out of the ocean. The 42-inch dolphin-tail look-alike, dubbed the Lunocet, uses winglike hydrofoils—the same technology that keeps an airplane aloft—to help propel swimmers through the water at nearly ten miles per hour. That’s theoretically fast enough for a strong swimmer to mimic a dolphin’s breach. Ciamillo plans to debut his invention this April in the Florida Keys, where he and his two-man crew hope to become the first swimmers to get completely airborne. $1,250–$1,800;

The Reaction
Unlike flat, old-school fins, the Lunocet’s front edge is rounded so water flows easily around it. Plus the blades are visibly thicker near the middle (like a wing), so when a swimmer starts to dolphin-kick, high and low pressure points are created on either side of the fin, which creates hydrodynamic lift.

The Technique
The fin revolves around a pivot and comes with a six-speed tension system. Use a 15-degree angle in first gear to swim lazily or crank it to 35 degrees in sixth gear to go full-throttle. The setup reduces ankle strain and allows you to kick continuously at the most effective angle.

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When you’re scuba diving and on the lookout for great white sharks (yes, I said great white sharks), you don’t want to be looking through a pinhole. Sharks don’t tell you they’re coming. They just sort of ooze out of the inky-blue backdrop and suddenly, right below you… well, you’ve seen Shark Week haven’t you?

Aqualung Mythos mask and Caravelle ADJ fins

Aqualung Mythos mask and Caravelle ADJ fins

With this in mind, I snagged an Aqualung Mythos mask ($77.00; ) for a shark-diving trip in the Sea of Cortez, and I loved it mainly for its stellar sightlines. The Mythos offers one of the largest vertical view fields on the market thanks to the lenses being positioned at about a ten-degree downward angle and a frame shaped to sit low on your face, below your cheekbones, essentially giving you unrestricted views up, down, and side to side, almost as far as your eyes can roll in their sockets.

Another thing I liked was the slim (about a centimeter thick), lightweight, and low-volume frame. The construction of the mask allows light to pour through the top and the sides and, combined with the clear silicon skirt (which also comes in black) and great range of vision, it makes you almost forget you’re wearing a mask. I didn’t really appreciate this until I was stuck behind the bars of an aluminum shark cage with three other divers for hours on end, waiting for the Jaws music to stop humming in my brain.

Other plusses: The fit is extremely comfortable—I was submerged for up to three hours straight at a depth of about ten feet and the mask never felt harsh on my nose, nor did I developed any pressure points. It was also easy to purge underwater, and the straps were simple to adjust on the fly.

There was the occasional requisite fogging issue—the lenses would occasionally film over after 15 to 20 minutes in the bathwater-warm agua—but nothing unusual and nothing a quick rinse and spit didn’t fix.

On a snorkeling trip in Baja, I tried out Aqualung’s Caravelle ADJ fins ($89.00; ). The Caravelles are an entry-level fin, but they were all I needed—the reinforced blade was firm enough to have some power but light and flexible enough for casual kicking around the rock reefs in the Sea of Cortez. The strap and foot pocket were comfortable with booties on and easy to release in the shuffle up to shore or the hop back into my kayak. It’s a nice basic fin that won’t disappoint. Just figure out how to make a set that repel stingrays and you’ve got yourself a gold mine.

Caravelle ADJ fins, $89.00; Mythos mask, $77.00;

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Biting Back

An infamous mosquito-borne illness once again rears its ugly head

Fins de Siecle

A new split design has divers in a tailspin

In This Workout, the Fat Lady Always Sings

And you’re up next for Karaoke Spinning, the hot new trend among L.A. fitness fanatics

May Save Lives…and Take First at the Tractor Pull

If Medi-Cats offer the latest in on-slope medical care, how come a ski resort near you isn’t rushing to buy one?

A Cool Breeze and Some Tasty Clear-Cut

Two skaters from Seattle strive to perfect a trick new winter ride

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