ANTONIO SACRE: Finally, a whale comes up, 30 feet in front of the bow, and Henry screams, "There she blows!"

(laughter) JENNY HOFFMAN: I had been running for 2,862 miles, and I needed to pee.

(laughter) So we drove through the desert, into the mountains, and as we got higher in elevation, a huge thunderstorm rolled in, and it was pure magic.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Into the Wild."

With just a single step beyond the edge of the known, our entire world can transform.

We experiment, we discover, and we find out the true essence of ourselves.

And tonight, our storytellers will share their reflections on their true selves, found only after they've stepped into the wild.

♪ ♪ HOFFMAN: My name is Jenny Hoffman and I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and I am a lucky mom of three great kids.

I'm a physics teacher, and I like to run.

And I understand that you have your own lab at Harvard, the Hoffman Lab-- no big deal.

(chuckles): I wanted to know, what do you do there?

You know, for us laypeople, what goes on there?

And tell us a little bit about that.

I am really lucky to have the chance to work with some great students.

I lead a research group, and we build microscopes that look at what electrons are doing in materials.

So we're trying to understand, you know, how these materials are going to work in your electronic devices, how the electrons get from point A to point B, and we're going to image them with our microscopes and see what's going on.

HAZARD: Wow.

And how does storytelling sort of inform your approach to education and teaching?

I mean, we are always trying to tell a story about our science.

If you discover something and you can't communicate it to the world, then there's not much point in having discovered it.

Um, and I'm used to telling stories more in writing.

So this is a new forum for me, to tell an oral story.

Um, but we're always, when we try to communicate our science, trying to think about, what is the story that's going to explain to the audience exactly what's going on in a material?

I had been running for a very long time.

In fact, I had been running for 2,862 miles, and I needed to pee.

(laughter) I put one foot in front of the other and looked around.

Where was I?

Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania?

And sized up my options.

How did I even get here?

I've always been driven to tackle the biggest, hardest, highest, longest thing in front of me.

And after years of dreaming, planning, and training, I was two days away from a goal that had grown to permeate my entire imagination.

I was running across the United States of America.

I had left San Francisco 45 days ago, and I was on world-record pace to arrive in New York City.

But I had an immediate and urgent problem, and after over six weeks of running through rural America, I found myself in a small city with no convenient cornfields to hide in.

(laughter) So I needed a real toilet.

So I looked around, and I spotted a convenient pizza joint that looked auspicious.

I hoisted my tired legs up the big concrete step to the front door, and I asked the cashier to borrow the bathroom.

But she was not impressed with the smear of sunscreen and salt and bugs on my face, nor my pleaded CliffNotes version of my journey so far.

And after a long, wasted minute of hemming and hawing, she turned me away.

And in my frustration and fatigue, I forgot the big steps I had just climbed, I pivoted into free space, and I crashed hard onto both knees on the concrete sidewalk far below.

And I thought to myself, is this how it's going to end, really, after so many days of relentless running on this road?

Just as it ended four years ago, on my last trans-U.S.A. run attempt, crying on a sidewalk with a wrecked knee?

And a flood of memories flashed through my mind.

When I first bought a one-way ticket to California four years prior, I had underestimated the challenge.

I started in San Francisco, naively running down the eucalyptus-lined boulevards on day one.

But by day two, I was already overwhelmed as I slogged through California's hot Central Valley and through the thin air of Yosemite's high mountain passes.

I had suffered excruciating shin splints on Nevada's rumble-stripped highways.

I shivered through Utah's chilly canyons in the pre-dawn hours, and dodged an endless parade of cement trucks on its shoulderless highways in the hot afternoons.

I was stalked by a mountain lion, I battled 50-mile-per-hour headwinds through most of Colorado, and I entered Nebraska in a fog so thick, I couldn't see ten feet in front of my face.

And as I finally crossed the Mississippi River, I had tears of homesickness streaming down my face after so many lonely days of solo running.

And then, with less than a week to go, I took a wrong step in Eastern Ohio, my right knee buckled under me, and suddenly, just like that, my run had been over.

Through the long drive of shame home, and the months spent recovering from surgery and learning how to walk again, that cross-country run played on a repeat loop in my brain.

And every time I was rolling down any road, my eyes were on the shoulder, thinking, how could I place my feet?

So, when I finally earned another sabbatical, last fall, despite the vivid, hard memories of my previous attempt, I couldn't shake the dream.

I bought another one-way ticket to California and set out to try again.

But this time, I had more social support.

A sisterhood of six amazing human beings tag-teamed to help me through all of the emotional highs and lows and physical challenges of the journey.

My faithful crew chief, Jill, befriended families and businesses along the way, and as we traversed that same 20-mile stretch dodging cement trucks in Utah, she charmed the workers at Ash Grove Cement, and they gave us free Wi-Fi and breakfast burritos, and even a reflective vest that kept me safe the rest of the way across the country.

And although I was terrified to put myself out there after such a devastating failure four years prior, I posted my daily reflections on social media, and a growing response showed me the collective energy behind me, pushing me forward through every grueling hour of every exhausting day.

And one friendly couple sent me an encouraging word of the day for every letter of the alphabet: amazing, believe, courageous.

And when they got to day 27, they started over with foods.

We had... (laughter) Chocolate cake, deviled eggs, eclairs.

It forced Jill to be creative in the tiny RV kitchen.

And just over the last three rainy days in Pennsylvania, as I had stood forlorn and lost and damp on a hilltop, a friendly gentleman had invited me into his warm home and pointed me in the right direction.

And a student brought me Mister Rogers' favorite burnt almond doughnuts from Pittsburgh.

A local pilot flew his small plane over my head, snapping aerial photographs, and my daughter's friends sent crayon signs urging, "Run, Jenny, run."

So there, on that sidewalk, outside that pizza joint, with swollen knees and bloodied hands, I found another gear.

I might have peed in my pants.

(laughter) But I picked myself up and continued stiffly towards my goal.

And as I crossed that penultimate state of New Jersey, I finally understood something of the character Gollum, operating with a single thought, a single destination, a single craving dominating my mind.

New York City Hall, my precious.

(laughter) And suddenly, in the dark, there were lights flashing and horns blaring, and a police escort arranged by a friend surrounded me and accompanied me to the George Washington Bridge, where a small crowd awaited and flowed with me across the bridge into Manhattan.

And as our pack streamed down those last 12 miles, we picked up followers like the Pied Piper, strangers and friends from all epochs of my life, from kindergarten to high school, from childhood summer camps to college crew team, to former and current students and science collaborators, and even my own children.

And when I finally arrived and touched the steps of New York City Hall, more than a week under the world-record pace... (audience murmurs) ...fulfilling a lifelong dream, I thought, every human being deserves one magical moment like this, surrounded by so much love.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ SACRE: My name is Antonio Sacre, I am a storyteller, a children's book author, and a screenwriter living in Los Angeles with my wife, two kids, two cats, and a dog.

And so, you know, I know that humor is a very important part of, you know, your practice.

And I'm wondering, why is that?

Why is humor so important for you to bring into storytelling?

Both my dad's Cuban side and my mom's Boston Irish side have these sort of really sad stories.

You know, leaving Cuba was really difficult, and what they had to go through, and even the generations that left Ireland and what they had to go in Boston.

And one way that both sides of my family dealt with that was humor.

Even things that were very difficult, they could always find the laughter there.

So, that, that's part of my DNA in some ways.

I am wondering, tonight, when our audience does hear your story, what would you hope that they take away from that experience?

I hope tonight, when they hear my story, that, of course, I hope they listen to it, but I hope that simultaneously, they are thinking of their own stories.

And it would be fantastic if, on their way back, they're telling their own stories to the people in their car, or calling somebody, or going home and connecting with somebody they haven't and sharing the stories that they're reminded of.

♪ ♪ I have always loved whales, even long before I tried to decipher Moby Dick as an English literature major at Boston College.

My senior year there, I was a resident assistant tasked with planning a dorm-wide activity.

I planned a whale-watching expedition out of Gloucester, where the students saw whales.

Whales-- leaping, breaching, flopping, mating, birthing, feeding, slapping the water and spraying the boat.

By all accounts, the most spectacular exhibition of whale-watching ever seen.

You might have noticed, I said, "The students saw."

I did not see a thing-- I spent the entire voyage, from the second we left the harbor to the moment we returned, with my head deep in a black garbage bag.

(laughter) I was known as the Puking R.A. for the rest of the year.

(laughter) And while I did get through Herman Melville's opus three more times, to the point of almost understanding it, I never went whale-watching again.

Until I had the great fortune of meeting an amazing woman, a high school English literature teacher who was very impressed that I had read Moby Dick.

How impressed?

So impressed that we got married.

Andrea and I have two wonderful, sweet, and, what's the word?

Annoying little children.

(laughter) They are both in their early adolescence now.

We are big readers in our family, and when our son, Henry, was three years old, upon being told that the library was closed and we'd have to wait one whole day to get more books, had his first, but not his last, real meltdown.

"We don't have any books!"

He stomped to the bookshelf, pulled down one of our copies of Moby Dick, and said, "Daddy, read this one."

It was a little hard to read the book to him, because he didn't, you know, know words.

(laughter) Or what a mammal was, or the intricacies of the early-19th-century whaling industry.

But heck, I'd do anything for my kids, except get them a smartphone before they turn 16 years old, for which my son thinks I am a monster.

(cheers and applause) It took us over a year to get through it.

I might have added some pirates.

(laughter) Ninjas.

Spider-Man might have made an appearance or two.

When my son was eight years old and our daughter, Nina, was five years old, I told them the story of my failed whale-watching trip in college.

And so, Andrea and I planned a whale-watching trip from Long Beach, only 27 miles from our house in Los Angeles.

The traffic app said to allow 120 minutes.

(laughter) It's L.A.-- we needed the whole two hours.

Traffic was terrible, parking was terrible, cramming the horse-sized motion sickness pills down everyone's throat was terrible.

But nobody was going to throw up on my watch.

As the boat left the harbor onto smooth seas, I finally relax, not nauseous at all, knowing I'm not going to be the puking dad on this trip.

When the boat comes up to full speed, my children are transfixed, their first time on the ocean.

Over the roar of the wind, Henry yells, "Dad, when are we going to see the whales?"

And as if the captain can hear him, from high up in the tower above the boat, she says over the loudspeaker, "Uh, welcome to our whale-watching trip.

"Now, there's no guarantee "we're going to see any whales out there today.

"They are wild animals, and we are in their habitat.

"But I'm going to do the best I can for you.

"Meanwhile, you can take a look at the seagulls flying above the boat-- oh, wait, those are pigeons."

Henry whines, "Pigeons?

We have those at home.

This is stupid."

A little while later, she says, "Oh, we have our first sighting at 12:00."

And all of us on the boat are excited, anticipating, and then sort of peter off into disappointment.

'Cause way, way, way in the distance, there's this little tiny spout of water vapor, like a wave, even, or a mirage.

Henry says, "We came all this way "to see a whale peeing in the ocean?

(laughter) This is stupid!"

(laughs): The captain says, "Some people think "that looks like a whale peeing in the ocean, "but really, it's the whale breathing.

"They are mammals just like us.

"Now, I'm going to move the boat over in that direction, "and sometimes, they come up in that same area.

We'll see."

As we get closer to the area, she shuts off the boat and drifts towards a very distinctive spot on the ocean.

She says, "Ooh, a flukeprint, "made when the whale dives deep into the ocean.

It's as unique as a fingerprint is on humans."

Henry says, "Fingerprints are boring.

I got ten of them.

This is stupid!"

When, finally, a whale comes up out of the water, 30 feet in front of the bow.

Just curving, snout, and eye as dark as the sea.

The whale sends a huge spout of hot brine-scented vapor into the air.

So close, we can smell it and see the barnacles on the whale itself.

And Henry screams, "There she blows!

(laughter) Lower the boats and kill that whale!"

(laughter) (chuckles): And the passengers on the boat are gasping in astonishment and awe and surprise and wonder.

And the whale just keeps curving out of the water.

Now the dorsal fin, now the back, impossibly long and slow, almost in slow motion.

So awe-inspiring, majestic, powerful.

The captain says, "Uh, we don't kill whales anymore.

(laughter) "But that, good friends, "is the second-largest whale in the ocean, the fin whale.

"In all my years of doing this, I've never seen a sighting like that one."

Andrea's got tears streaming down her face.

And Nina says, "Mommy, why are you so sad when it was so cool?"

And she says, "Honey, I'm so sad 'cause it was so cool."

And the captain turns the boat back towards home.

Nobody knows what to say-- Henry settles into my arms.

He says, "Dad, that was amazing."

I said, "I know, honey."

We look at the fast-approaching harbor.

He says, "Dad, you're, like, the world's second-best dad."

(laughter) And I know deep in my heart that whatever he says next, I'm going to tell a story about it.

(laughter) And I looked at him, and I say, "Henry, "you know, there's a lot of dads in the world, and world's second-best dad is really pretty good."

(laughter) "I know, Dad, but don't you want to be the world's best dad?"

"Sure, Henry, sure.

I'd love to be the world's best dad."

He says, "Well, when we get to shore, you can drive me to Target and buy me some Pokémon cards."

(laughter, applause) And I look out at the horizon, and to quote Herman Melville, gaze out at "the great shroud of the sea rolling on as it rolled 5,000 years ago."

And I look down at Henry, and I say, "Son, I'm okay being the world's second-best dad."

(laughter) (cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ AVESHA MICHAEL: My name's Avesha Michael and I lived in Los Angeles for 22 years, and I live in Chicago now.

It's where I grew up-- been there two years.

And I'm a ceramic artist.

HAZARD: And so, live storytelling, you know, is that something that you've done a lot of, or are you coming-- is that more of a new experience for you?

I never knew it existed.

You know, I know it's one of the oldest crafts, but it wasn't until I moved to Chicago two years ago that I discovered it.

And there's an incredible community there, um, and I just-- head over heels.

So I've been immersed in it since.

What do you find challenging about storytelling?

I think it's just allowing myself the freedom to have fun and play, and, and not leave that out.

And why do you feel that it's important to share your story with a wider audience?

We all have deep and meaningful relationships, and we all are-- we're complex humans.

And so, um, speaking to not just the beauty but also the pain, and, um, bridging those, I think, is really valuable, because it's just a common human experience.

♪ ♪ I was driving my 1994 camper van, Lottie, from L.A. into the Eastern Sierras for the first time.

And she was lavender on the inside from floor to ceiling.

And she was my sanctuary, a cocoon during the pandemic for me.

It was Fourth of July, and fireworks were really stressful for me at the time, so I needed to get out of L.A. and as far into nature as possible.

And nature was always my refuge.

So we drove through the desert, into the mountains, and as we got higher in elevation, a huge thunderstorm rolled in, and it was pure magic.

Lightning bolted all around us and clouds just spilled over the mountaintops.

And the contrast and play of light and shadow was exquisite.

As a photographer who always camps with my film camera, I finally understood why it was Ansel Adams Wilderness.

We drove about five hours, and finally, I saw the dirt road to the off-grid campground.

And that meant no water, no cell service, and no electricity.

And I was driving on the edge of this cliff in a complete downpour.

And I thought to myself, "What are you doing?"

But then I saw the hot springs below, and I knew I was there.

And I arrived just as the storm started to clear.

So it was the sweetest welcome.

Now, the first thing I did was, I put ten dollars in this little green box, and I grabbed a bundle of wood, because I love a good fire, but I also loathe mosquitoes.

And I picked this site under a family of pine trees.

And I parked Lottie.

And I decided to go for a walk, just to let things dry out.

And the path was so quiet, like, I felt like I had the entire woods to myself-- it was incredible.

And the damp pine needles under my feet, while the light started to stream through the trees, it reminded me of the first time I went camping when I was a little girl.

My dad took me on a weeklong backpacking trip into the rugged Colorado Rockies when I was just eight years old.

And we hiked day after day on the soft brown bed of the forest floor.

And we had these huge packs with everything we needed to survive.

We hiked in the rain, we hiked under bright blue skies, and we slept under blankets of stars.

Now, my dad was a musician and a creative growing up.

So while other kids got to go play sports with their dads, I got to go to Chicago pubs while my dad's band played.

And while other families got to go to Disneyland, I got to go to off-grid cabins in the woods.

And I grew up in an extremely healthy household.

There was absolutely no sugar allowed in the house, and that's probably why it's my drug of choice now.

(laughter) But we also only had one hour of TV, a week-- and he picked it, and it was Knight Rider with David Hasselhoff.

(laughter) Now, one of the first nights that we were in the Rockies, we set up camp under a circle of big pine trees.

My dad showed me how to pitch a tent for the first time.

He showed me how to hang food from a tree so the bears couldn't get it.

This was a time in my life when it was just my dad and I.

And I was five when my parents divorced, so I went with my dad, and he raised me.

And he was my entire world.

So, I felt safe in the forest because of him.

He started a fire, which I love.

And after that, we crawled into the tent, and I drifted off and fell asleep the way I always did, with my cheek in the palm of my dad's hand as my pillow.

And I tried that with every man I dated.

(laughter) But it was never quite the same as my dad's hand.

(laughter) My dad always took me into nature when I grew up, and even as adults, we always did camping trips together.

We had a really strong connection.

But as I got older, our relationship became strained.

And...

I grew up poor.

My dad always struggled financially, and I overcame that by becoming really self-reliant and ensuring that I had really impeccable credit, because that was the only security I had.

It was all I had to my name.

And at one point, my dad made some really selfish decisions, and he shattered that.

It destroyed my credit, it destroyed my security, but mostly, it broke the trust that I had in my dad.

And I felt really betrayed, and I was really upset, and we ended up becoming estranged for several years.

I just really needed time to work through my own anger and my own hurt on my own.

But in 2022, I got a call that my dad died.

And I let out a curdling scream and I fell to my kitchen floor.

Because losing my dad while estranged is the most gut-wrenching pain I've ever experienced in my life.

And it's my greatest regret.

Now, for work, I sculpt clay, and I work with it until it's refined and it's finished.

And yet, my relationship with my dad was left raw and unresolved.

And while it was healthier for me in some ways at the time, it was always so extremely painful to be estranged from my dad.

It was particularly hard in the years before he died during the pandemic.

That loss of connection was almost unbearable for me.

But every time I went out into nature, I found this constant tether to my dad that was free of all the hurt that I felt.

Just like that time when I was camping alone during Fourth of July, and we were still estranged before he died.

I was sitting on this log, and my bare feet were on the ground, and I was just listening to the trees rustling above.

(inhales) And I was breathing in the fresh air.

And I felt my dad's presence.

And I heard him reminding me that the closest thing I have is my breath.

And I felt that closeness that I longed for with my dad, and I felt his immense love for me.

I will always cherish that my dad gifted me nature as a little girl, because it is my favorite place in the entire world.

And it's where I go to heal.

And in many ways, I am closer to my dad today than I've ever been.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪