I had been dreaming of coming to Raja Ampat since first learning about it in 2018. It was my gateway into conservation—my intrigue surrounding this place set me on a path that would change my life forever. Sitting in my high-rise office in New York, I’d found myself succumbing to exhaustion and a little bit of despair. I’d inadvertently devoted my career and spent my days contributing towards the planet’s destruction rather than its protection.
My growing knowledge on the subject was simply something I couldn’t ignore or unsee. This breaking point made me realize it was my responsibility as a lifelong ocean lover to play a part in helping the planet instead of hurting it—even if only ever destined to play a small part. I wanted to be a player in the quest to find solutions. I figured the first step was to meet those on the conservation frontlines, already contributing to causes that I cared about.
I had just started working with a mission-driven venture capital firm (in addition to my full time role in corporate marketing) and thought their network might be the best place to begin my search. That’s how I got connected to my first ocean nonprofit, Blue Sphere Foundation, run by the renegade activist and underwater photographer / filmmaker, Shawn Heinrichs.
If you don’t know Shawn, he’s one of the guys who helped put Racing Extinction on the map—a documentary that opened our eyes to the power of ocean conservation. I was beyond nervous. I had zero background in marine work and was as corporate as corporate gets producing strategies for the likes of mega brands such as Rolls-Royce, IHG, and Norwegian Cruise Lines.
At the time, Blue Sphere was running a campaign called Protect West Papua, aiming to raise $100K in a single day. I didn’t even know where West Papua was, let alone why it needed protecting—but I signed up anyway. That decision split my path in two: half corporate strategist, half conservationist. What started as a trial quickly became a full-fledged volunteer role, exposing me to both the power and pitfalls of environmental storytelling.
I learned what could and couldn’t be said about the ocean, how to craft narratives that transported people to distant, at-risk places, and how to balance urgency with accuracy. I figured out how to write from the gut, ground it in science, cite experts, and, most importantly, listen to those on the frontlines—the ones living on the fringes of these ecosystems—to shape how we advocate for protecting them.
The campaign was fighting for the protection of one of the last thriving marine sanctuaries on the planet. At the time, West Papua’s archipelago called Raja Ampat was under threat from illegal fishing, destructive shark finning, and unregulated tourism, all of which were pushing its fragile ecosystems to the brink. The Protect West Papua campaign aimed to secure critical funding for enforcement, establish no-take zones, and support local communities in becoming stewards of their own waters. Yes, it was very much about saving sharks and coral reefs. But so much of this effort was about protecting an entire way of life, ensuring that the people who have lived in harmony with this place for generations could continue to do so in peace. Communities and ecosystems I was being exposed to for the first time.
I had no idea that West Papua was home to some of the most biodiverse marine ecosystems on the planet—reefs pumping with life, dense mangroves, virgin jungles, waters patrolled by manta rays and whale sharks, and islands where entire communities relied on the ocean for survival. I had no idea that conservation is always on the back foot—scrambling for funding, fighting to hit donation targets, all while doing the life-altering work the world depends on.
Through this, I learned that to be an eco-warrior, you had to be equal parts passionate, connected, and marketable—all in order to sell people on the vision of a better world. Shawn was a master at this, and I absorbed everything I could from him. My eyes were opening to what role I could possibly play in this wild new world of caring for and protecting our natural spaces and supporting the people who depend on them.
The images captured hypnotizing scenes of manta rays soaring over flawless reefs, schools of fish moving in perfect synchronization, and even sharks once believed to have totally vanished hunting in their former stomping grounds. From my DUMBO office, these pictures transported me into an entirely different place, one where people were actively fighting for the ocean, not just acquiescing to its inevitable decline. It was a wake-up call. A realization that there was a big, wild world out there, and people were seizing opportunities to protect it. My calling became very clear from that moment on.
By 2019, Conservation International—the leading international NGO spearheading marine protection efforts in Raja Ampat—had officially stated that the Protect West Papua campaign was a success, and the region was now recognized as a “Conservation Province.” This designation was groundbreaking, making West Papua the first province in Indonesia to commit to a sustainable development model that prioritized environmental protection, Indigenous land rights, and long-term ecological resilience.
A major player in the Protect West Papua movement was a regional force called Misool Foundation—a powerful nonprofit tied to the incredibly remote Misool Resort. Misool is one of the four main islands that make up the Raja Ampat regency, and the furthest south. The Foundation had spent years turning former shark-finning camps into marine sanctuaries, proving that locally-led conservation works when communities have the resources and autonomy to protect their waters. They pioneered a model that combined ecotourism, strict marine protection, and community involvement, ensuring that the people of Misool benefited from preserving their own backyard.
Back then, I wondered if I’d ever make it to West Papua, Raja Ampat or Misool for that matter, to meet the people I had been supporting from afar. Seven years later, I found myself boarding one of three flights to Sorong—the portal to the regency—ready to live alongside the Foundation myself. This time, to tell a different story than the one Shawn once told, but all made possible by the work that all these stakeholders had a hand in back then. A story not about destruction, but about what happens when conservation actually wins.
Touching down for the first time, the privilege of my circumstances all hit me. It was surreal to finally be here, in a place that had been imprinted in my psyche for years. Although Raja Ampat was certainly foreign and remote, it felt oddly familiar. Because in a way, it was as if I already knew it. It’s one thing to admire a place from a distance—to get lost in the dreamlike imagery of Raja Ampat, where countless karst islands rise from the sea, their jagged limestone peaks draped in emerald green plant life.
From above, the reefs fan out in a perfect, surreal contrast of blues and greens, a sight so breathtaking it hardly looks real. But being here, tracing the paths of those who fought to protect it, revealed a different side. A more intricate, layered reality. One that can’t be captured in a single aerial shot that so defines this region nowadays.
As we moved from island to island, we got a glimpse into what life was really like here—not from the deck of a luxury liveaboard or the comforts of a resort, but through the eyes of the villagers who call this place home. We navigated through the stilted wooden villages by boat, tasted every variation of the local sambals (Indonesian chili sauce), and met children eager to explore the world beneath the waves. We saw firsthand how the Misool Foundation team, as well as all of its collaborators, are working tirelessly to create a better future for the region, one where conservation and community go hand in hand.
That campaign I had played such a small part in back then helped to secure legal protections for millions of hectares of rainforest and marine ecosystems, preventing large-scale industrial exploitation. For decades, illegal logging, mining, and destructive fishing practices had chipped away at the region’s biodiversity. But with its Conservation Province status, practices were now in place to safeguard these ecosystems for the long haul. Even more critically, the movement had strengthened community-led conservation efforts, ensuring that those who had always relied on these waters were now the ones leading their protection. Ecotourism, sustainable fishing, and localized resource management became viable alternatives to destructive industries—offering both environmental and economic security to the people of Raja Ampat.
The campaign’s success proved something vital: large-scale conservation efforts can work when they are driven by local leadership, backed by science, and supported through international collaboration. Raja Ampat’s reefs, once threatened, now are considered some of the healthiest in the world. Fish biomass has significantly increased within Raja Ampat’s marine protected area network, and species once on the brink have made comebacks. From eco-warriors like Shawn to local organizations like Misool Foundation, to behemoth NGOs like Conservation International, and most importantly, the communities living on the frontlines, Raja Ampat has been a conservation proofpoint at its best.
Misool Foundation took us deep into their ongoing efforts, offering a firsthand look at what’s possible when protection measures are enforced and upheld. We patrolled the waters with local rangers, fiercely loyal to the region, ensuring that illegal fishing was kept at bay. We met restoration teams painstakingly bringing decimated reefs back to life through hands-on intervention. And we witnessed the newest chapter of their work—a rewilding program reintroducing zebra (or leopard) sharks back into the area after being nearly hunted to extinction.
Standing on the boardwalks of the Misool archipelago—a place that once felt like a distant dream—I watched the tide pull in and out, letting the weight of the moment sink in. This wasn’t just another stop on expedition for me; it was a full-circle moment. I thought back to the days in my DUMBO office, staring at a screen, trying to grasp the urgency of this fight from half a world away.
Now, I was standing in the middle of it, witnessing firsthand what years of relentless conservation efforts had made possible. Shawn’s photos, the ones that first pulled me into this mission, flashed through my mind again, reigniting the same fire that started it all. Raja Ampat had always been a symbol—a reminder of why we fight for places we may never see with our own eyes. But now, standing here, I realized Raja Ampat was the example of what’s possible.
I looked out over the same island-dotted seascape I had obsessed over in photographs, only now it was no longer just an image—it was a living, breathing reality. I knew what lay beneath the surface, not just from the scuba dives, but from the village meals of mie goreng and nasi goreng, from the voices of those who had been here since the beginning, from the stories of battles fought and victories won.
Raja Ampat was no longer just a name whispered in dive circles; it was proof that when people commit, when they refuse to accept defeat, change isn’t just possible—it’s inevitable. Hope isn’t abstract. It moves with the tides, takes root in action, and thrives where people fight for it. Here, in these waters, is one of the strongest examples of what’s possible when a community unites under a shared vision for the future. I’ve never been more proud to have been a part of something.
To be continued …
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