鈥淚t鈥檚 like love,鈥� Andrea Crosta says, looking over the Pacific as an early mist parts and the California sun creeps between clouds. The 49-year-old motions to Argos, his听pit-Lab rescue from Tijuana, Mexico, named after the dog in The Odyssey, and they turn down the jetty. 鈥淲hen people ask why I care [about endangered species], I tell them it鈥檚 like love,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey have a right to exist.鈥�

I can鈥檛 say where exactly we are, because Crosta鈥檚 work has made him more than a few enemies. As the founder of the , he鈥檚 spent the last five years infiltrating and surveilling networks in Latin America, Africa, and Asia, where he and a team of , informants, and law-enforcement partners听investigate wildlife crimes. Using hidden cameras and digital eavesdropping, he鈥檚 exposed the link between听 to support jihads, found Chinese , and gathered evidence that influenced how wildlife traffickers are prosecuted听 and .

To say this isn鈥檛 the norm in buttoned-up academia is a colossal understatement. In 2013, after two decades in the shadow world of security鈥攑rotecting ships from Somali pirates and consulting with governments鈥攈e started the EAL. His work eventually caught听the attention of Hollywood heavyweights like Leonardo DiCaprio, who executive produced his 2016 documentary, ,听a look inside the world of elephant poaching in East听Africa.听Crosta鈥檚 new film, which was financed by听听and听recently debuted at Sundance, is even more ambitious. Sea of Shadows听depicts the last days of the world鈥檚 rarest and smallest dolphin, the vaquita, and the role of Mexican cartels and Chinese mafia in its imminent extinction. Vaquitas happen to live in the same waters as another lucrative and endangered catch, the totoaba. As cartel-supported poachers in the Sea of Cortez hunt totoaba with massive nets, they incidentally catch vaquita, which numbered less than 30 as of 2016. Sea of Shadows听follows Crosta and his team as they go undercover, exposing the corruption throughout Baja California that鈥檚 led to violence and crime beyond wildlife.

Crosta takes viewers to Mexico, where we follow a government-supported vaquita rescue that ultimately fails. We learn alongside Crosta鈥檚 team how the totoaba听trade mirrors drug networks in sophistication and value. Wildlife crime is often just one touchpoint of organized crime, Crosta says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 all about money.鈥�

The film centers on the small Mexican town of San Felipe. Since local fishermen cannot legally work due to a government 听to restore marine environments, they鈥檙e forced to do the bidding of , a fish that looks sort of like a bass on steroids. More specifically, the poachers are after the fish鈥檚听swim bladder, the organ that keeps the fish听buoyant. When dried, it sells听for up to $100,000 a kilogram听in China, where it鈥檚 a delicacy for the wealthy, believed to have medicinal qualities.

In this part of northern Mexico, fishermen get around $3,500 per totoaba, which is then sold for $5,000 to traffickers, who resell it听to Chinese traders for $7,000 to $8,000. Traders work in safe houses and often dry听the swim bladders by placing them between laundry-drying machines. When ready for export, the bladders travel听via air routes and transit hubs like Japan, Hong Kong, or Vietnam. Individual smugglers might pack them in checked suitcases to听avoid airport controls听or load them听onto cargo ships, tucked in containers marked as legal seafood.听In 2015, a shipment of 1,200 pounds of totoaba was seized in Venezuela on its way to the States. Over 800 totoaba swim bladders were , valued at $16 million. In December, 听worth of totoaba.

Because fishing nets run $4,000 each, cartels bankroll them, a debt poor fishermen work off by catching totoaba. They know that this work is killing other species, most notably the vaquita, but there are few听economic options and almost zero police intervention. Crosta detailed the whole process in a 100-page , which included video footage of a top poacher killing a Mexican marine with an AK-47 on a San Felipe street. It鈥檚 dangerous territory, and the film reflects that. Groups of locals battle the poachers by cutting their nets and freeing lifeless vaquitas, which generally weigh about 90 pounds and are听so rare that scientists know next to nothing about them.听

Crosta calls his work with vaquitas听鈥渆xtinction in real time. When you have the involvement of Chinese traffickers and narco traffickers, you have much more than a conservation problem.鈥�

Director Richard Ladkani told me he was nervous for the safety of his 12 filmmakers. 鈥淚 was responsible for the crew, so the hardest part was assessing the daily threat level.鈥澨齃adkani also shot The Ivory Game,听but said听Sea of Shadows听was an even more dangerous experience. While he spent a year embedding with investigators, fishermen, and scientists, he had to hire armed bodyguards听and at one point听was caught in a violent mob between locals and Mexican marines over an arrest of illegal fishermen. The melee became so dangerous鈥攁nd the mob so big, with around 300 people鈥攖hat the marines ended up abandoning their position and their injured colleagues. They freed听prisoners and retreated听as they shot live rounds to disperse the crowd, who were throwing rocks and boarding navy vessels with impunity.

鈥淚t was a real clusterfuck,鈥� remembers Marc Davis, a former FBI agent with 30 years of undercover experience, a key to Crosta鈥檚 operational safety and strategy. 鈥淥ne thing I鈥檝e found dealing with civilians, I think some people don鈥檛 realize the 鈥極h shit鈥� situations.鈥�

Many times during the shoot, Ladkani told me, he didn鈥檛 think he could听pull off the film. 鈥淚 wasn鈥檛 sure if we were ever going to see a vaquita.鈥澨齌hat was in question because vaquitas have never before been filmed in the wild, and, until now, they鈥檝e听only been found dead. But before San Felipe became untenable, Ladkani did manage to film what he claims is the first video of a living vaquita. Sadly, that animal suddenly died during a failed capture, an emotional moment caught on celluloid.

That鈥檚 the kind of film this is鈥攐ne step forward, three back鈥攁 documentary-cum-spy flick with handheld point-of-view shots听that make you feel like you鈥檙e there. The team is听onboard a 听boat when activists are chased by poachers as apathetic armed marines look on; they鈥檙e with destitute pescaderos speaking in hushed tones about the cartel;听they鈥檙e reporting with Mexican journalist , a premier听reporter for Televisa who has spent the last few years asking authorities hard questions.听鈥淭he movie is going to be a boost to the issue,鈥� reckons Loret, who told me he received so many death threats that he had to travel by bulletproof car.听

With at least 42 journalists killed in Mexico in 2017, it鈥檚 one of the most dangerous countries for the press. Like Crosta, Loret took a major risk to get the story to his viewers, which number 35 million daily. His role in the film, he said, was to find out听鈥淲ho is the El Chapo of totoaba?鈥澨鼿e traveled听to San Felipe, sparring with locals who question the existence of vaquitas and deplore the fact that they can鈥檛 legally work. It鈥檚 this very irony that Loret calls a solvable problem鈥攊f there鈥檚 political will. 鈥淭he University of Baja has totaba farms. If you provide totoabas legally, you can control the whole thing and create a legal market. That would be an easy way out.鈥�

But the only way to get this issue to the fore, Crosta and his team contend, is by taking major risks themselves.听听听

鈥淪cientists cannot do law enforcement,鈥� Crosta states over a double espresso back in Southern California. 鈥淚f you give responsibility to scientists, of course they cannot do much. For the government, it鈥檚 an environmental problem, but it鈥檚 not anymore. The problem is criminal in nature.鈥�

Crosta calls this a conservation failure that even , with implications beyond Mexico.听If you can make 100 times what you would fishing legally, and you can鈥檛 fish legally, what would you do?听鈥淭hey keep hitting and hitting the fishermen, and most of them are very poor people, so they鈥檙e almost being forced to become poachers,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his is the last chance we have. I don鈥檛 think the vaquita will last another totoaba season.鈥�

The world鈥檚 population of vaquitas听has dropped 40 percent听annually since the 2016 official count of 30. By that math, there could be fewer than ten left. Mexico鈥檚 government 听in late 2017. In December 2018, to the new president to ban the possession of illegal gill nets but enforcement remains scant.

, who leads marine-mammal conservation for Mexico鈥檚 听and appears in the film, confirmed there could be as few as seven听to ten. But he wouldn鈥檛 give me a number as an assessment is ongoing.听Formally , he adds, takes years. 鈥淚f they stop killing vaquitas, they will recover. Here we are at the last minute, a quarter to midnight, trying to do everything possible.鈥�

Back in California, Crosta gets me up to speed where the film leaves off: his scope has expanded to Hong Kong and China, while the Sea Shepherd crew听and some听 are still pulling illegal totoaba听nets, removing 800 to date. But as in the film, there have been other steps in the wrong direction: a fishermen who was interviewed was murdered for not paying debts, he says soberly. And in Crosta鈥檚 own personal life鈥攎oney, marriages, friends鈥攖here have听been many sacrifices.听

Recently there鈥檚 of听, the El Chapo听of totoaba听who听Loret听and Crosta听were looking for, and Mexico has opened a criminal investigation against the Chinese traffickers cited. But听with totoaba season beginning now and lasting into the spring, by the time the film reaches audiences, it may be too late to rally the international community, Crosta says grimly. 鈥淭he problem is that this story takes too long. The right time is now, but it will take months for distribution. We鈥檒l broadcast at the end of the totaba season, and by then, there may be no vaquita left. It鈥檚 a pity.鈥�

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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 to听, a renovated Coast Guard light station straddling hurricane alley, the “graveyard of the Atlantic.” This week, Annenberg-backed 501(c)3 teamed up with 听to 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鈥攏o 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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Bob Windsor has spent the last six years keeping the streets safe in the arctic town of Churchill鈥攐r at least trying to. Even with less than a dozen blocks to protect, the Manitoba conservation officer and his small staff are heavily outnumbered. That’s because every November hundreds of culprits stalk the town and its 800 residents.

Perps are hungry, disoriented, and sometimes very aggressive鈥攁nd weigh half a ton. Welcome to the polar bear capital of the world. The animals gathering in Canada’s far north are waiting for Hudson Bay to freeze. The return of the sea ice enables the ursus population to resume hunting their favorite meal: seals. But until then, they’re landlocked, and attracted to the sinful smells of civilization. And as the rapacious bears encroach, the salt-and-pepper haired Windsor leads the first line of defense of the .

We rode shotgun to see what it’s like policing the arctic.

OUTSIDE: What’s a typical day in the life of a polar bear beat cop like?
Windsor: Usually starts off with a patrol to see if there’s any bears in town. The chance of a bear coming into town is pretty good; hard part is seeing it in weather like this.

Tell me about your hardware. What do you carry to keep the bears away?
I’ve got a scare pistol. Screamer cartridges go into the barrel, makes a big screaming sound, and it’s a visible one, sparkling as it goes. We use that if a bear’s really close. Next would be my shotgun, our most commonly used tool. Cracker shells shoot about 75 yards, then explode. You don’t want to put the exploding part past the bear, because you may chase him back towards you. You want to aim a little higher so it explodes above them.

With the shotgun, on my bandelier, [these] green cartridges are rubber bullets. If a bear’s close, and not responding to sound, that’s an option to get them moving. I like paintballs better than rubber bullets. Rubber bullets are $6 apiece. Their range: maybe 35 yards. After that, good luck hitting anything. Paintballs are really cheap, range-wise a little better, and you can just let them rip. On the bottom of my bandelier are red cartridges. Those are rifle slugs for me to protect myself.

Have you had to use that?
I’ve had to shoot two bears. I was hoping to go my whole time without having to, but there are moments when it’s necessary.

Tell me what it’s like shooting at a bear.
Last November there was an attack in town. Two people were very seriously injured. I was first on scene, and I ended up shooting the bear. Our policy is if a person is killed or mauled, we permanently remove the bear. There was another attack last September where we didn’t find the bear that night, but we caught him in a trap the next morning. That bear is at the zoo now, permanently removed, but not killed.

Have you seen bears on the road we’re on right now?
Within town,听there isn’t a road or an area I haven’t seen a polar bear. There’s times we’ll chase a bear from town, it ends up on this road, and we drive behind it and push it out of town. The majority of the bears we deal with, that’s what we do. If there’s one in or near town, just traveling down the coast, the town is basically in its way. And if it’s heading north, we’ll just help it continue in that direction. Our program is broken down into three zones. Zone One is the town, and that extends about a third of a mile east of town. Any bear within Zone One is removed immediately.

Tell me about the polar bear jail.
opened in 1980. Over 1,400 bears have been through since then. There are 28 cells; two are double-sized. We reserve those for family groups; little bigger area, less stress. Five cells have air-conditioning, so if we have to hold a bear in the warmer months that keeps them comfortable. As of today, we have 15 bears in the facility. Normally we have the 30-day rule. Zone One bears we hold on average 30 days. Exceptions would be perennial problem bears. We dart them before they get to town so they don’t have the chance to break into buildings or do the nasty things they like to do.

How many calls do you get on an average day?
The most I’ve gotten is 22. One night last year between 5 P.M. and 2:30 A.M. we had 12 calls. In an average year we do about 300 occurrence reports. Once we got a call, and there were five bears we had to deal with in that time before we went home. Then you go home and it’s a matter of minutes before the phone rings again. The town is tourism-based, so it’s great when there are bears around, as long as nobody gets hurt.

Have officers been hurt in the line of work?
Not by a bear. The main priority is safety from bears, the next is the welfare of bears from people. Another is protection of human property, prevention of bears from becoming habituated to humans and human food sources.

Do tourists make your job harder?
Most are with guides looking out for their welfare. We do get some tourists without a clue how dangerous these animals are, or how to remain safe. There’s definitely a bigger chance of something going wrong when there’s more people around. The more people, the greater the chance of an attack.

What was the scariest moment you’ve ever had?
The attack last year. The call I took I hope no one has to take again, including myself, and it was a lady screaming. When I rolled up, the bear was on the street and I could see there was blood all over its mouth. Dealing with a bear, that part is easy, but knowing that somebody’s hurt sticks with you. Every time the bear phone rings now, it’s not, “Oh good, there’s a bear call.” Now there’s apprehension. You hope it’s not somebody screaming about an attack.

How much longer do you see yourself doing this?
Well, it was a three-year posting. This is year six. The biggest challenge is media. We’ve had about 25 requests for a reality show series this year alone, for people to be embedded with us, but we said no. For the last month, almost half of each day’s media-related. Some of my staff are mad at the constant cameras, so I hear it from them, then try to soothe them and tell some people to lay off.

But the bear work I enjoy. This is the most unique district in our province, that’s why I wanted to come here. It’s like I tell my wife: I didn’t want to sit back in a rocking chair one day and say I wish I would have. And I don’t have to say that, because I’m here doing it.

Watch a livestream of Manitoba’s polar bears, courtesy of , , and :

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