Risky play is challenging, exciting play with the possibility of physical, social, or emotional harm. Through risky play, children learn, develop, and experience wellbeing. Children with disabilities have fewer opportunities than their typically developing peers to engage in this beneficial type of play. Our team designed a novel, school-based intervention to address this disparity; however, our intervention yielded unexpected quantitative results. In the present study, we qualitatively examined divergent results at two of the five schools that participated in the intervention. Specifically, we aimed to explore how staff culture  influenced the intervention. To explore this relationship, we employed a retrospective, qualitative, multiple case study. We used thematic analysis of evaluative interviews with staff members to elucidate the cultures at each school. Then, we used cross-case analysis to understand the relationships between aspects of staff culture and the intervention’s implementation and results. We found that staff cultures around play, risk, disability influenced the way, and the extent to which, staff were willing to let go and allowed children to engage in risky play. Adults’ beliefs about the purpose of play and recess, as well as their expectations for children with disabilities, particularly influenced the intervention. Furthermore, when the assumptions of the intervention and the staff culture did not align, the intervention could not succeed. The results of this study highlight the importance of (1) evaluating each schools’ unique staff culture before implementing play-focused interventions and (2) tailoring interventions to meet the needs of individual schools. Risky play is challenging and exciting play with the possibility of physical injury, failure, or emotional harm ,2. RiskyIn school, recess provides an opportunity for students of all abilities to experience the benefits of free and risky play. For this to be possible, school staff supervising the playground must step back and allow children to manage risky situations. Unfortunately, staff members may be hesitant to step back due to threats of liability, personal reservations about risky play, and cultural shifts towards risk aversion and surplus safety ,5. TheseParadoxically, children with neurodevelopmental disabilities, such as autism spectrum disorder (ASD) and intellectual disability (ID), may benefit more from access to free and risky play than their typically developing peers. First, risky play affords children with disabilities opportunities to make decisions in low-impact scenarios. There is growing consensus that children and adults with disabilities should be enabled to make decisions about their medical care, education, and daily lives ; therefoOur team developed a novel intervention to promote and shift adult attitudes around risky play in school programs for children with disabilities. The intervention comprised two components: one adult-directed and one child-directed. The adult-directed portion (Risk Reframing Workshops (RRWs)) involved workshops encouraging school staff and parents to discuss the benefits and challenges of risky play for their students. For the child-directed portion, we introduced loose, recycled materials to the playground  to encourage cooperative, active, risky play. For a full description of the intervention, see Bundy and colleagues (2015). Fundamental assumptions about play and disability underscored this intervention. Our team, led by an occupational therapist, approached play as the primary occupation of childhood . We defiThrough this intervention, we asked school staff to undergo a significant ideological shift: from relative risk-intolerance to risk-tolerance in play. Perhaps not surprisingly, intervention processes and outcomes varied immensely across the five participating schools: some schools took quickly to the new approach, and their students benefited based on quantitative outcomes, while others struggled to see the benefits of risky or child-directed play, and their students experienced fewer gains.When an intervention does not produce expected results, it is critical for researchers and stakeholders to understand why. In this study, we ask the fundamental question: why did the intervention work at some schools, and not at others? We begin with a hypothesis: the variation among schools can be explained, at least in part, by differences in staff cultures that existed prior to the intervention. For the purpose of this article, we define staff culture as the shared beliefs, norms, values, and practices upheld by adult members of the school community ,19. WhilDomitrovich and colleagues  stated tAs demonstrated by the McIsaac et al.  report, Staff culture around disability may include shared beliefs about teaching and learning, shared expectations for children with disabilities, and norms for supporting/interacting with children with disabilities . Most ofStaff culture surrounding play may also influence play-based interventions for children with disabilities. Play theorist Sutton-Smith  describeFinally, culture surrounding risk could influence staff members’ desire and ability to enact this intervention. While recent studies in the literature have examined parents’ beliefs about risky play, relatively few have examined school personnel’s perspectives—and how these beliefs play out on the school playground. Research examining early childhood educators’ beliefs leads to a fundamental contradiction: while many teachers believe that risky play benefits children, they also feel responsible for keeping children safe from any potential harm .What was the staff culture  surrounding disability, play/recess, and risk-taking that characterized each of the two schools?How did staff culture differentially influence how staff engaged with the intervention and, subsequently, the quantitative outcomes?Given the potential for these three areas of staff culture to influence the intervention, the purpose of the present study was to examine widely held beliefs, practices, and norms about disability, play/recess, and risk at schools that participated in the study. Specifically, we employed a multiple case study approach, using two participating schools as cases, to address two related research questions:We employed a retrospective, multiple case study to explore the influence of staff culture on intervention processes and subsequent outcomes for the novel playground intervention. We drew upon Yin’s  multipleWe selected two of the five schools that participated in the intervention for inclusion in the present study. Before selecting the two cases, the first author, PG-D, engaged in a debriefing session with two members of the intervention team, authors AB and JR. During five video conferences (~6 h), we reflected on each of the five participating schools. Our semi-structured discussions centered around school characteristics such as size and type, school policies, interactions with school staff, and intervention processes. Based on these discussions, we selected the two schools included in this study.Our choice of these two schools represents Yin’s  maximum In the section that follows, we briefly describe the relevant contextual factors of the two schools included in this study. Additionally, we provide a brief overview of the intervention process and outcomes at each school. To maintain the schools’ confidentiality, we withheld some factors.School A was a small, private school exclusively for children with ASD with a student body of approximately 80 students. The school housed an early learning program, a primary school program, and a secondary school program. The school was located in a suburb of Sydney, Australia. While our research team did not collect data about children’s socioeconomic status, many children likely came from local upper- or middle-class families. Although the school did not charge tuition, parents were expected to make contributions to the school’s fundraising efforts. Additionally, children who attended this school had to have a recent ASD diagnosis. Most children who attended the school presented with moderate to severe ASD; many were nonverbal and had moderate-severe ID.Staff employed a multidisciplinary approach to ASD-specific education, with multiple therapists and teachers collaborating to meet academic and therapeutic goals. The low ratio of students to staff (approximately 3:1) allowed for individualized support. Staff frequently and systematically collected data about goal attainment, adjusting individual support plans accordingly. Professionals received regular training in positive behavioral support (PBS) to manage behavior. Family involvement was paramount to the school philosophy. In addition to involving parents in individualized education plans (IEPs), School A offered family-, parent-, and sibling-support groups.2 (6725 ft2). The playground had few natural features, with the exception of two mature trees. The ground was primarily soft-fall material, with some synthetic and natural grass. Playground features included a nest swing, a tire swing, a sling swing, a slide, stairs, a tunnel, a rock wall, a sliding/climbing pole, a climbing wall, a spinning barrel, a balance beam, a flying fox, a trampoline, a ball pit, and a sand pit. The children also had access to loose play materials including balls and items for water play. Many adults roamed the playground, with at least one adult for every 2–3 children.Children at School A had access to a playground with abundant fixed and loose play equipment. The playground where the primary school students played was approximately 625 mThe loose parts materials arrived on the playground at School A in June of 2015. The children did not immediately approach the intervention materials; instead, most children continued playing with the abundant equipment on the playground. Staff rarely encouraged children to use the materials. The majority of the children never used the materials; the few who did engage generally repeated the same activities each day .Staff members and parents attended RRWs together. Leadership did not attend the RRWs. Throughout the RRWs, staff and parents were generally engaged and talkative. They shared common concerns, expectations, and desires for the children.pre = −0.70, SDpre = 0.82; Mpost = −1.17, SDpost = 0.82). Observers coded children at play as more engaged or very engaged slightly less often . Coping inventory scores did not change significantly  = 1.692, p = 0.10, d = 0.24).Quantitative outcomes suggested that the children experienced few benefits from the intervention. We collected data about 46 of the students regularly on the playground . School B was a mainstream government school with a student body of approximately 270 children, ages 4–12. The school was located in a socially and economically disadvantaged neighborhood and had a large population of recently immigrated families. More than 75% of students spoke a language other than English at home. School B had three specialized classrooms for children with disabilities: one specifically for children with ASD diagnoses and two for children with moderate-severe ID. Our data collection focused on students from these three classrooms, although all children had access to the materials.Each special education classroom had one qualified special education teacher; several paraprofessionals supported the teachers. The special education program  was relatively new, with two of the three support classrooms added less than a year prior to the start of the intervention. Children in the classrooms had mixed diagnoses; many had ASD and/or ID. Perhaps because of the variety of diagnoses, staff did not follow specific academic or therapeutic approaches. All children had individual education plans (IEPs). At the time of intervention, School B had recently adopted PBS for all children, with and without disabilities—however, staff were still in training to use this approach. Family involvement was somewhat limited in the special education program, perhaps due to language or socioeconomic barriers.2. The play space was largely empty, with fenced-in grassy fields and concrete areas with painted markings for games such as four-square. With the exception of several mature trees, natural play areas were limited to grass. School B had no fixed play equipment. Children could bring out some play items, including balls and art materials. There were two soccer goals on a grassy field.Children at School B had access to a large playground, approximately 12,700 mThe staff maintained a recess ratio of approximately 30:1. All staff had rotating playground duty. Ball games were very popular; prior to the intervention, sports were the only organized play option. Most children with disabilities were integrated onto the main playground; several of these children had direct support from a paraprofessional. A small number of younger students with more severe disabilities played in a separate space—notably, these children were not included in the present study because they did not access the loose materials during recess.The loose parts materials arrived on the playground at School B in May of 2016. Both mainstream children and children from the support unit rushed immediately for the materials. Staff expressed concerns about the number of children attempting to play at once. Consequently, the research team and school agreed to a rotating schedule wherein children from the support unit always could play with the materials and mainstream children rotated each day by grade. Children used the materials to enact imaginary play schemes, build towers, and create novel games.Staff members and parents attended separate RRWs due to scheduling constraints. The deputy principal and principal attended sessions with both groups. Administrative leadership also held separate staff meetings to discuss and troubleshoot the intervention.con = −1.28, SDcon = 0.83; Mint = −0.31, SDint = 0.72). Observers coded children at play as more engaged or very engaged more often . Coping inventory scores increased significantly  = 3.38, p = 0.03, d = 0.64).Quantitative outcomes suggested that the children enjoyed several benefits from the intervention. We collected data about 20 randomly selected children . Interview data collected with staff members from each school served as the primary source of data for the present study. These interviews were originally conducted and recorded by another member of the research team (JS) to serve as evaluative feedback about the intervention study.JS recruited participants on a voluntary basis. At the conclusion of the intervention (the third RRW), participating staff were asked if they were interested in participating in further interviews. JS conducted individual, semi-structured interviews using an interview guide developed and approved by members of the research team. The interviews were transcribed verbatim by a professional service. While the interviews served as a primary data source, PG-D also reviewed context reports for each school generated by research students. These context reports detailed the physical and social environments on the playground at each school, as well as other school factors germane to the intervention. Finally, PG-D conducted in-depth discussions with authors AB and JR at several points during analysis and write-up of the case report. Perspectives from these researchers, who were deeply embedded in each school during the intervention, served to clarify and complete our interpretations of each case.Author PG-D conducted all data analyses using NVivo qualitative analysis software . She employed Yin’s  cross-caTo operationalize Yin’s analytical strategy, PG-D first analyzed each case separately. She conducted within-case thematic analysis of staff interviews to highlight shared beliefs and practices around disability, play/recess, and risk-taking, employing Braun and Clarke’s  six-stepAfter completing within-case analyses, PG-D conducted cross-case syntheses. Cross-case syntheses aimed to determine if patterns within each case were replicable in the other case . PG-D coWe took several steps to enhance confidence that data were collected and analyzed rigorously . Given tIn the section that follows, we present the results of the cross-case analyses. For each school, we present the results of thematic analysis, followed by theoretical propositions pertaining to the relationships between themes and intervention processes/outcomes at each school.Below, we present the results of the analyses related to School A.Staff at School A often emphasized the ways that disability set their students apart from other children. ASD and disability permeated the interviews with all staff members. One teacher reflected on play with her students: “Working here, it’s really different to where play is anywhere else. Just trying to teach kids that don’t even get the basic foundations of interacting with others. Yeah, just a completely different experience here than in other settings” (Teacher A2).In addition to emphasizing the differences between their students and typically developing children, staff were clear that these differences engendered limitations in what their students could and could not do or understand. One teacher voiced concerns over her students’ understanding of danger:Some of them don’t get the rules and they don’t understand the danger. A lot of the kids don’t have any understanding of the danger I feel, some do, but I think a lot of them are just trying to get through the day. (Teacher A1)Another teacher explained why she felt that many of her students could not play cooperatively:Because it’s really tricky for our kids, like they’re overcoming all of their issues to be able to just play with us. To overcome all of their issues and then have to overcome all the other kids with autism’s issues, makes an interaction between two of our kids really quite difficult. (Teacher A4)Staff members at School A had considerable expertise in working with children with ASD and received frequent ASD-specific training. Their extensive knowledge about ASD may have led them to foreground disability during our interviews.School A had an established, shared philosophy around play. Throughout the interviews, staff emphasized that they used recess as a pedagogical tool to develop children’s social, play, and physical skills. They referred to recess time as “play lessons”. One teacher described the school’s approach to play: “Everything we do throughout the day, we’re prompting the kids, and our playground time is an actual programmed lesson, play lessons, where we’re teaching social foundation skills” (Teacher A2).On the playground, children had an adult play partner . Play partners guided children to meet specific, measurable goals related to play . Staff at School A demonstrated a belief that children with ASD could and should be taught to play “properly”. The occupational therapist gave an example of play lessons:If I knew that Jack has a turn-taking outcome, I’d be like, “oh, Jack, let’s go on the trampoline, oh, it’s blah-blah-blah’s turn, okay, that means we have to wait”. And you’d try and facilitate those interactions that are working towards their goals, instead of just letting them work it out for themselves. (OT A1)The need for play lessons, according to the staff of School A, stemmed from disability: without specific teaching, children with ASD would not play “appropriately” . One teacher explained, “I guess kids with autism, most of our kids, if we left them to their own devices, they’d sort of be quite happy in a corner on their own” (Teacher A3). Thus, staff felt that adult intervention was imperative during recess.The staff at School A recognized the need for children to experience risks and challenges, but many believed that these opportunities should be designed and monitored by adults. One teacher explained how she created situations for children to learn to ask for help: “With [learning to ask for] help, we’ve left them a bit longer…So, we’ve had a focus on waiting, teaching them what to do and then sabotaging situations so that they ask for help” (Teacher A1). Another teacher selected opportunities to step back, but only when she knew students would be successful:Although it might not be risk as such, you know, I step back a lot and let the kids try and problem solve, especially things I know they can figure out, well, they can eventually figure out, that’s not going to get them too upset. (Teacher A3)Organic risk-taking opportunities, such as climbing or solving conflicts, were tightly controlled and only allowed for certain students. Staff used their knowledge about individual children to decide whether they would permit risk-taking. A teacher explained why she allows some children to climb on play structures, but prevents others:Kids who climb all the time and I see from assessing them that they’ve got really great gross motor skills, I’d be more likely to step back and let them climb to the top of the tree, than I would a kid who trips over all the time and spends most of their time on the floor or falling over or has less skills. (Teacher A1)Staff reported two common reasons for stifling risky play opportunities. First, accountability to parents: many staff suggested that they might be more inclined to permit risks if they did not fear reporting injuries to parents. One teacher reported, “It’s probably the thing I fear most, having to ring a parent that a student has been hurt, especially when it could have been avoided if someone had just stepped in” (Teacher A3). Staff also attributed their low tolerance for risky play to behaviors associated with children’s autism—particularly “meltdowns” (Teacher A3) or tantrums resulting from an injury or challenge. The occupational therapist explained his approach to risk, “So we definitely think, because of our kids having some pretty intense behaviors, and they come on really fast a lot of the time, we tend to be really like risk managing, which is a terrible way to put it”.The cultures around play and disability at School A diverged significantly from the assumptions of the intervention. While we expected that adults who worked with children with disabilities would do so from a strengths-based perspective, the staff at School A foregrounded children’s disabilities. Moreover, we expected that staff would be motivated to allow children to engage in play for its own sake and to play with their peers; instead, we found that the staff viewed play as an adult-led, goal-oriented activity.We propose that the mismatch between the cultures around disability and play/recess at School A and the assumptions underlying the intervention led to hesitance among staff members to step back on the playground. The pedagogical approach to play left staff unmotivated to attempt the intervention, favoring their existing “play lessons” approach. In an attempt to remain adherent to the intervention though, the staff largely avoided the loose materials:We always try and engage with the kids in the playground, and we didn’t stop trying to engage with the kids in the playground in the other areas, it was just in that area that was like the dead spot where you don’t engage with the kids. (Teacher A1)As a result, one teacher suggested the children did not enthusiastically approach the materials:I think the big thing that came up for me was in the playground we’ve been told and taught to play with the kids and interact with the kids, but we were told not to encourage them to play with the playground stuff. But somehow within that message, it kind of became if they’re playing with the playground stuff, walk away. So, I didn’t always do that, like I was sometimes playing with them when they started playing with it. But I think because they are so used to taking their lead by us, it ended up… didn’t get used that much. (Teacher A4)Additionally, the disability-first culture may have contributed to staff hesitance. The staff members overwhelmingly suggested that the children had too many limitations to benefit from this type of intervention. The occupational therapist, for example, foregrounded the children’s difficulties to explain the lack of engagement with the intervention materials:I just think, like, because these kids find it hard to play, a lot of them, I think perhaps if it had been presented a bit better, like if some materials had been put into the sandpit, if some had been put into the ball pit, if they’d sort of been spread out a bit. And maybe if the staff had been allowed to model, like, different things you could with it as well, I wonder if it would have got them playing a bit more. (OT A1)The children followed the staff’s lead and avoided the materials and little meaningful change occurred as a result of the intervention. Without seeing early positive results, the staff settled into their typical ways of engaging with children on the playground. Our team observed little change in the staff culture around risk, and children demonstrated few changes on the outcome measures.Unexpectedly, however, seeing the poor results may have spurred cultural change at School A. During our interviews, which were conducted after the staff received preliminary results of the intervention, staff members reflected on the need to change their approach to risk after seeing the results.And so I really don’t think, upon reflection, we do give them enough of a chance to initiate the play because we’re always trying to get so much out of them, which is probably why they didn’t get as involved as what we would have thought they would. (Teacher A2)The occupational therapist and teachers suggested ways they might approach play differently after the intervention. One teacher proposed bringing her students to a nearby mainstream school playground to engage with other children instead of playing with adults; another suggested taking days off from play lessons and allowing the children to play independently. Unfortunately, because the study period concluded, we do not know if the staff members remained faithful to these plans.Next, we present the results of the analyses related to School B.In contrast to School A, staff at School B emphasized that, for the most part, students with disabilities were not very different from other students. Mainstream teachers noted that there were students with disabilities in every classroom, not just the support unit. As a result, they felt a sense of responsibility to all students with disabilities: “We’ve got disabilities in every single classroom. So, if we’re not accepting of the disabilities within those units, then you know, that’s, I would just find that very um, hypocritical” (MS Teacher B2). Another teacher considered whether she treated students with disabilities differently on the playground:I don’t think I think of them any differently. They play the same games that other kids play, and they do the same thing that other kids, so not really. No. I let them do their own thing and if they look like they’re going to, you know, get injured or hurt someone, of course I’ll step in, but I don’t think I... No, I let them do their thing. Why not? We’re all entitled to it. (MS Teacher B4)Staff who worked in the special education classrooms , on the other hand, acknowledged differences between their students and mainstream students. However, throughout the interviews, their statements reflected high expectations for their students: “We’re always working towards—with high expectations or, ‘Of course you can do that; of course, you can do that because other kids can do that.’” (SU Teacher B1). One teacher felt that students with disabilities often just needed more opportunities to practice play and social skills: “Our kids need more and more chance to do it [practice play skills] and then they do learn”. Throughout the interviews, support unit staff acknowledged children’s limitations, but emphasized their abilities.Staff at School B lacked a coherent philosophy about play and recess. Staff who taught mainstream students generally expressed that recess provided students with a break from the demands of the classroom. One teacher described recess as a “brain break” (MS Teacher B3). She emphasized children’s need for time away from the demands of the classroom. Another teacher agreed that recess was a break; however, when probed, she described organic learning opportunities on the playground:They, they’re learning how to, um, create friendships and learning how to maintain friendships. They’re learning how to play safely, um, abiding by their own rules of the games that they’re playing. Um, they’re learning to be you know, good sportsmen. (MS Teacher B2)Some staff, particularly those in the support unit, felt that the playground was primarily a place for children to learn. The SLSO emphasized her role in teaching children the physical skills she felt were necessary for peer play:One of my things, you know, I will get out there sometimes and play captain ball or tunnel ball or some of, you know, the catching games with my class and if other kids want to join in, fine you know, so be it, but my point as well is, our kids who haven’t got those skills, need to get those skills before they go and put themselves in a situation, where they ask other kids, “Can I play?” (SLSO B1)Across our interviews, opinions about the value of play and recess varied widely. This finding aligns with our observations of teachers’ practices on the playground. Some teachers primarily wandered around the playground, intervening only when they felt that student safety was at risk. Other teachers became involved in play, encouraging and engaging with the children.While the perspectives surrounding play differed across staff members, both administrative leaders we interviewed felt that playtime was critical for children of all abilities. The deputy principal expressed the value of play. “I thoroughly believe that play is, basically for every aspect, is an important [part of] development, and it’s an important way that children cope with the world around them. And how they grow confident in the world around them”.Staff at School B emphasized the need to prevent risky situations before they became too risky. Prior to the intervention, children on the playground at School B had few opportunities for physical risk-taking. The wide, grassy field did not offer natural occasions for risk-taking. The main exposure to risk in play was managing interpersonal conflicts. Staff emphasized their role in preventing conflict before it escalated. One teacher described her role: “Wander around, make sure, you know, no one’s hurting anyone. Make sure if there’s any issues that you note it down... I guess just standard rules” (MS Teacher B1). Another described growing conflicts as “hot spots”:We’re just ensuring that, um, there’s no hot spots happening and, um, the teachers that are, that are on duty are, you know, walking where they need to walk and stopping those little hot spots from you know, becoming enraged fires. (MS Teacher B2)Rather than providing children with the opportunity to resolve conflicts, staff often intervened to prevent them.Like School A, School B staff emphasized their accountability to parents in keeping their children safe. A mainstream teacher explained, “It’s more safety. Make sure you’re doing things safely, so you don’t go home injured. We don’t want to have to call your parents and say, ‘They’ve done something silly on the playground’” (MS Teacher B3). A support unit teacher described herself as “hyper-vigilant” to avoid risks that she would have to report to parents (SU Teacher B2).Leadership stressed risk-aversion as a significant problem that impacted staff and children. The deputy principal described the staff as “behind” in allowing children to manage risks: “Our risk taking is… there’s quite a literal response to risk management here in that, um, the only way to, um, help somebody change is to, sort of, lock them down or limit them” . The principal emphasized the impact of risk-aversion on the children:Traditionally the students have been quite compliant. Um, they’ve done what they’ve been told to do, kind of, but not so good at thinking for themselves and working things out. They’re very sort of rule-based and so they haven’t really worked things out for themselves. Both administrative leaders we interviewed stressed the importance of the intervention to help the staff learn to accept more risk in play for children with and without disabilities.The staff at School B shared our assumptions about disability—they had high expectations of their students. While staff did not explicitly share our assumptions about play, the culture around play and recess was marked by ambivalence and ambiguity. Most saw recess as a break and play as incidental, while a few felt that play was essential to children’s learning and wellbeing.Compared to School A, at School B, we found relative congruence between the assumptions of the intervention and the culture. Perhaps, as a result of their high expectations for children with disabilities, staff were motivated to attempt the intervention. Despite some discomfort, staff members largely stepped back on the playground and allowed some risky play. A teacher recalled her reaction the first time she saw children wielding pool noodles as if they were weapons:I stepped away and I’m like, “You know what I’m gonna- I’m gonna wait until I actually- I genuinely think something’s there”. So, I’d wait over there and have my heart palpitating going, “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh”. (laughs) But um, yeah, until like I actually took that step back, I’d be- like, you know, it took me a while to realize oh, that’s how they play. (MS Teacher B1)The children approached the materials enthusiastically. At School B, the ambivalent approach to play may have been buoyed by a relatively empty playground. Before the materials came onto the playground, the children had few opportunities to play aside from organized sports. The deputy principal recalled the children’s first time seeing the play materials:More than excitement, the absolute passion and glee that a large majority of the children attacked the, um, equipment, was phenomenal. They just saw it and couldn’t wait to get a piece of it. And, so, um, they, they were passionate. They were desperate. They were like, um, addicts I think, you know, just returning to their source of, um, uh, addiction, after a long break.In this case, it seems that the absence of a culture around play actually encouraged the children to approach the materials.Because of the children’s enthusiastic uptake of the materials, the staff had ample opportunity to witness early positive impacts of the intervention. One teacher from the support unit observed the impacts of the intervention on her students with disabilities:So, what the playground project did for that, that- say that child with autism who, who plays by himself, is he had to play with others. And then those who were continually- they’re those who continually look for external sources of play, they then had to go up there and do imaginative stuff, because there aren’t- it was, it was junk, right?Having seen these positive results, many staff members continued to step back on the playground and encourage the students to play with the materials. The children continued to experience the benefits of the intervention and the staff’s culture around risk shifted to more risk acceptance.An additional factor emerged throughout our interviews that likely impacted the intervention at School B—the engaged leadership team. We interviewed four members of the leadership team—the principal, the deputy principal, and two members of the teaching staff (one support unit teacher and one mainstream teacher) who held leadership roles. Each of these four staff members demonstrated enthusiastic support for the intervention and willingness to support the staff they supervised. The leadership team served as a liaison between the staff and the research team and held additional meetings with staff to address policy concerns related to the intervention. Their support was essential to the success of the intervention.In this qualitative multiple case study, we explored the impacts of widely held beliefs and practices on the implementation of a novel, school-based intervention. In the preceding section, we described the influences of staff cultures around play/recess, disability, and risk on the way that, and the extent to which, school staff engaged with the intervention. We achieved theoretical replication through the use of multiple cases . TheoretAt School A and School B, the staff cultures surrounding disability were remarkably different. The staff at School A foregrounded disability when they spoke about their students. Their comments revealed a belief that their students were inherently limited. The staff at School B, on the other hand, acknowledged disability but did not place the same emphasis on it. Many adults, especially those who worked directly with students with disabilities, engendered a culture of high expectations. The school’s culture of high expectations may have contributed to the children’s ready engagement with the materials. When adults hold high expectations for children and adolescents with disabilities, they are more likely to succeed in a variety of domains including classroom behavior and obtaining post-secondary education ,30,31. TWhile our interviews revealed much about the cultures around disability at each school, the reasons for the differences in staff culture remain somewhat elusive. One possible explanation for the differences lies in the nature of the two schools: a private specialized school (School A) and a mainstream public school (School B). Staff at School A had a much stronger focus on autism, while staff at School B taught children with multiple disabilities. It is possible that the staff at School A had more specific knowledge about the children’s disabilities; therefore, they were more inclined to attribute children’s characteristics and preferences to their diagnoses. At School B, on the other hand, staff were exposed to a greater variety of students with disabilities. Furthermore, although the special education classrooms had dedicated teachers, these teachers were often exposed to mainstream students. Their beliefs about what children can and cannot do, then, were shaped by children of all abilities.Prevailing beliefs and practices surrounding recess and play impacted the intervention at each school differently. The staff at School A held onto their pedagogical approach to play, maintaining a high level of engagement with children on all parts of the playground except where intervention materials were located. At School B, on the other hand, there was no prevailing culture surrounding play or recess. The intervention provided a guidepost for promoting child-led play, and the staff members generally accepted the intervention.Sutton-Smith  describeWhile the cultures around play and disability each separately influenced the intervention, their combined impact may have been even greater. At School A, staff held a prevailing sentiment that because of disability, children needed adult support to play. There is little doubt that children with ASD—and some children with ID—play differently than other children. Children with ASD often demonstrate less frequent and less sophisticated social and imaginary play than their peers ,33. CorrOur intervention took a novel approach to promoting play for children with ASD and other disabilities. Instead of an adult-directed approach, we offered children loose materials with no obvious play value. Because many of these materials were large and/or heavy, the children had ample motivation to engage in cooperative or social play. Furthermore, because the materials had no prescriptive play purposes, children were free to use their imagination. Unfortunately, this approach fundamentally did not align with the widely held beliefs about play and disability at School A. Interventions that are misaligned with existing values, priorities, and school policies are less likely to be implemented successfully and sustainably ,37; thisThe influence of cultures around risk on the intervention is decidedly less clear. At the start of the intervention, staff at both schools demonstrated aversion to risk. Of course, this is what we anticipated—and indeed, what we attempted to address through the RRWs. However, their definitions of risk differed: Staff at School A defined activities as risky if they might lead to injury or “meltdown”; Staff at School B focused on interpersonal risks, such as arguments or physical fights among children. Little research has examined adults’ definitions of risk or risky play. Little, Sandseter, and Wyver  intervieAnother element of the culture around risk that separated the two schools was the influence of leadership. At School B, members of the leadership team were particularly supportive of risky play, while at School A, administrative leaders had little direct involvement in the intervention. Support from administrative leadership is a critical piece of implementing and sustaining a novel intervention ,39,40. SOf course, we cannot make definitive claims about the sources of differences in either implementation or quantitative outcomes. Myriad factors may have impacted the study. School B housed mainstream students, while School A did not. Conceivably, the mainstream children demonstrated and encouraged play for the support unit students. Typically developing peers have often been used as models in interventions targeting play for children with disabilities, particularly ASD . AdditioAdditionally, our findings are limited by the absence of implementation-level outcomes, such as the feasibility, acceptability, or sustainability of the intervention . BecauseNotably, we had more interview participants from School B compared to School A. At the time of data collection, we did not intend to compare schools—therefore, we did not attempt to match these two groups of participants. Furthermore, we had a wider range of participant roles at School B (likely reflecting the greater involvement of leadership at this school). We acknowledge this as a potential weakness in the study design.Finally, case study methodology is inherently limited in its generalizability. We cannot say with certainty that the results of this study will be indicative of future schools. However, the cross-case synthesis approach supports our findings . Yin comWhen we initiated the playground intervention, we aimed to shift staff cultures around risky play. However, the adult-directed program we developed mainly addressed culture around risk—we did not address culture around play or disability. We assumed—incorrectly—that school staff shared the values of the intervention team. The results of this study highlight the importance of researchers examining their own fundamental assumptions as well as coming to a deep understanding of existing staff cultures before initiating a novel intervention and tailoring the intervention to address the multidimensional, complex cultures that exist in schools. Had we done so, we may have made several adjustments for School A. We may have challenged staff to examine their beliefs about play and disability during the RRWs. We may have recruited administrative leadership to champion the intervention. Because the playground intervention was part of a cluster trial, we aimed to keep the intervention as similar as possible across schools; therefore, we did not take these steps. However, the results of this study illuminate the need for school-based researchers and practitioners interested in promoting risky play to take careful stock of each unique school environment.


An increasing number of studies are beginning to show that both low-density lipoprotein and high-density lipoprotein cholesterol can constitute risk factors for myocardial infarction. Such a behaviour has been called by experts in the field the “chameleonic effect” of cholesterol. In the present paper, a fractal/multifractal model for low-density lipoprotein and high-density lipoprotein cholesterol dynamics is proposed. In such a context, a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect for systems with spontaneous symmetry breaking is analyzed so that if the spontaneous symmetry breaking is assimilated to an inflammation , then a coupling between two fractal/multifractal states can be observed. These two states, which have been associated to biological structures such as low-density lipoprotein and high-density lipoprotein, transfer their states through a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect. Moreover, in our opinion, the widely used notions of “good” and “bad” cholesterol must be redefined as two different states (low-density lipoprotein and high-density lipoprotein) of the same biological structure named “cholesterol.” In our work, for the first time in the specialized literature, low-density lipoprotein and high-density lipoprotein have been regarded as two different states of the same biological structure (named “cholesterol”), such as in nuclear physics, the neutron and proton are two different states of the same particle named nucleon. Cholesterol fractions, especially low-density lipoprotein (LDL) and high-density lipoprotein (HDL) cholesterol, are frequently analyzed biomarkers in clinical laboratories . We remiObservational studies have shown that LDL and HDL have opposing associations with risk of myocardial infarction, with LDL cholesterol being a positive factor and HDL cholesterol being a negative (protective) factor , 3.However, in the following paragraphs we want to show, by doing a synopsis of the literature in this field that, in recent years, more and more evidence points to the fact that a chameleonic behavior can be attributed to LDL and HDL cholesterol.Observational studies cannot separate the causal role in the pathological process from the role of a marker of the underlying pathophysiology. The results of both randomized trials of LDL cholesterol-lowering treatments  and fromIf particular plasma biomarkers are directly involved in a pathological process, then inherited variation changing plasma concentrations of these biomarkers should affect the risk of disease in the direction and magnitude predicted by the plasma concentrations. This approach has been used in the past to analyze plasma HDL cholesterol; although with restricted sample sizes, a small number of single nucleotide polymorphisms (SNPs) at a few genes and with SNPs that affect multiple lipid fractions , 11.This is a main reason for which current studies have not been able to completely resolve the possible causal relevance of HDL cholesterol concentrations for risk of myocardial infarction.It is our strong opinion that we cannot simply divide cholesterol fractions into “good” or “bad ones”. In the following, we will present arguments for this statement, based on recent published articles .in vitro studies that if HDL is SAA-supplemented, then endothelial nitric oxide (NO) production is reduced and endothelial production of reactive oxygen species is increased, leading, as a result, to the loss of the ability of the HDL to decrease adhesion of mononuclear cells to TNF-α-treated endothelial cells. The authors concluded that “SAA turned HDL into a proinflammatory particle” =0, we avoid calculating the 4th order determinant, Δ, formed with the fractal/multifractal amplitude coefficients A, B, C, and D, by employing the following: we note with ρ the ratio C/B and we divide the first equation to the second one, for each pair. It resultsρ:Due to the algebraic form of the two equation pairs, in order to establish the concrete expression of the “secular equation” ≅ coth(qz), is symmetric just as the fractal/multifractal states of cholesterol with regard to the  reflectivity against the origin. Then, the permitted value equation of the energy of these states, ES, has the concrete form:For ρ−=−1, the amplitude function, θ2(z)≅ sinh(qz), so that the states will be antisymmetric and permitted values equation, EA, becomesFor ES,A could be possible only by means of numerical methods, which in our case is not necessary.Because both eigenvalues equations are strongly transcendent, a direct estimation of solutions V0) between −d and d, leads to the splitting of the fundamental level E0 into two sublevels ES, EA, accounting for the two types of fractal/multifractal states, symmetric and antisymmetric, respectively, in which the system can be found (both states can be associated to LDL and HDL). More precisely, we can see here a process of coupling between two different fractal/multifractal (LDL and HDL) states, made possible through a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect.It results, for now, at least qualitatively, that the presence of the barrier  theelations , 31(52)Ervations , 34.Taking the above into account, we can thus state that LDL and HDL are two different states of the same biological structure, like in the case of neutron and proton which are two different states of the same particle, named nucleon. The state transfer between LDL and HDL occurs by means of a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect.We build a mathematical model for describing cholesterol dynamics, based on recent scientific evidence that cholesterol  has a chameleonic behaviour.z0. This corresponds—as opposed to the case in which the wells are independent, v0⟶∞—to the splitting of the main energy level, E0, into two sublevels which are separated by ΔE=EA − ES. In such a context, by calibrating the model to cholesterol dynamics, it is shown that the HDL to LDL state transfer takes a shorter time than the reverse process, result which is in accordance with clinical observations.Our mathematical model is founded on the hypothesis that both HDL and LDL dynamics are described by means of continuous and nondifferentiable motion curves . In such a context, the dynamics equations in the form of fractal/multifractal-type geodesics are obtained, and from here, in the stationary case, a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect for systems with spontaneous symmetry breaking is analyzed. If the spontaneous symmetry breaking is assimilated to an inflammation , then two fractal/multifractal states through a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect can be observed. These two states can be associated to biological structures such as LDL and HDL. In minimal terms, we can observe here a coupling between fractal/multifractal states of cholesterol, generated by a fractal/multifractal tunneling effect. In this case, we have two potential local parabolic wells with minimal points at ±The fact presented above are in accordance with the latest studies results. Thus, we can unequivocally state that the role of cholesterol fractions must be clearly redefined. Our model could offer an explanation of why high values of HDL cholesterol can be “toxic” or why, in certain conditions, LDL cholesterol can be a protective factor. We can practically discuss about different states of the same entity, HDL and LDL being expressions of a unique entity—cholesterol—with a pro or antiatherogenic effect modelled by the instant state and the alternation between the two possible sides. As a consequence, as long as cholesterol fractions maintain a continuous “fluidity,” the maximum benefit will be attained if the total cholesterol, in absolute value, is decreased. Our mathematical model only enforces the recent medical findings in the field, which are more and more frequent. At the same time, in our opinion, the present mathematical model confirms and explains the apparent paradoxes from clinical studies. Furthermore, our model can be used to analyze biological dynamics at nanoscale , with imThe main conclusions of the present paper are the following:


Commentators are advocating for research to better understand relationships between healthy coastal ecosystems and human wellbeing. Doing so requires inter- and transdisciplinary approaches across humanities, arts, social sciences, and science and technology disciplines. These approaches include culturally diverse knowledge systems, such as indigenous ones, that locate sustainable use of and relationships to marine ecosystems. This paper contributes to this agenda through a case-study of relationships between coastal ecosystems and human wellbeing in Aotearoa New Zealand. This article highlights interconnected cultural and wellbeing benefits of, and socio-ecological relationships between, these coastal ecosystems drawing on a case study of one ocean-based, ‘immersive’ leisure activity, surfing. Further, it examines how these relationships impact human physical, emotional and spiritual wellbeing, and the wellbeing of communities and ecosystems. The research illustrates that surfing creates strong bonds between practitioners and coastal places, linking the health of marine environments and people. We demonstrate the value of a transdisciplinary place-based approach that integrates research across the humanities and social sciences and engages with Indigenous knowledge (Mātauranga Māori). This argument for multicultural co-learning shows the value of Western and Māori vantage points for how we understand coastal blue spaces. Indigenous perspectives, we conclude, deepen appreciation, as well as equity considerations, of how we understand place, wellbeing, and long-term sustainable relationships with marine ecosystems. Despite increasing global recognition of the ways in which the health of marine environments ‘impacts the health of billions of people’, the relationship between marine ecosystems and human health and wellbeing is still relatively understudied . In recoThis paper examines the relationship between coastal ecosystems and human wellbeing in Aotearoa New Zealand, focusing on surfing, a popular ‘immersive’ ocean-based recreational activity .  underpinned by a ‘Western epistemology’  (p. 83).Although Western knowledge often ‘incorporates knowledge from non-Western epistemologies’ including Indigenous knowledge [IK] systems  (p. 86),This paper builds on these insights which, as we show, are central to our transdisciplinary engagement. Furthermore, we recognise that knowledge production is essentially political and historical. Therefore any engagement with Mātauranga Māori perspectives must always recognise past and existing frameworks of power . MātauraThe remainder of this paper is structured as follows: first we outline our transdisciplinary approach to understanding ocean-human health and wellbeing by discussing the different bodies of literature from which this is drawn. Although beyond the scope of this paper, we recognise that transdisciplinary is a term that is used differently across disciplines and subject areas. Here, transdisciplinary refers to knowledge production that is both inter-disciplinary, and also attempts to reflect on and challenge dominant ways of knowing. Engaging in transdisciplinary research creates many challenges, not least the ways in which the ‘knowledge structures, data or mind sets, theories, models, paradigms, norms, values, interests, linguistic forms, and the roles of actors and institutions’ are understood in our different disciplinary approaches . This diThe importance of considering the cultural benefits of the environment to human wellbeing in environmental decision making is increasingly recognised in ecosystems research ,16,17,53Fish et al.  introducComplementing this research on cultural ecosystem services, and our focus in this discussion, is the more interpretive, place-based and salutogenic research emerging across the social sciences and humanities, and particularly health geography where a so-termed ‘hydrophilic turn’ has emerged  (p. 1). Bell et al.’s  researchNonetheless, this body of work shows that such relationships are complex and context-specific, and that blue spaces can also bestow risk, trauma, fear, and disengagement impacting human wellbeing and more-than human relationships ,63. For Furthermore, some blue-spaces are also sites where individuals and communities can be marginalised or excluded through various economic, political, cultural, and historic processes ,50,56. AThese inequalities and dissonances also relate to how we are able to experience and develop health and wellbeing. Wellbeing is a concept that has been diversely defined across disciplines from neuroscience to social science, therefore recognising these different conceptions of wellbeing is vital . At its In Aotearoa New Zealand, the coast has long held an acute significance as a prized source of kaimoana (seafood) pre-colonisation; as a strategic position for pā (villages); as a space of bicultural encounters in early ‘contact’. In the following section, we explain these multiple discourses and practices, and how they connect contemporary Aotearoa New Zealand, the natural world and coast amongst Māori and non-Māori. Aotearoa New Zealand’s majestic physical landscape is promoted as a mecca for adventure sports enthusiasts . It has However, for Māori, who constitute around 67% of Aotearoa’s population, connections to moana (sea) have particular significance  having pAs discussed above, Mātauranga Māori  encapsulTwo (of many deities) related to the ocean are Tangaroa (God of the Sea) and Hine Moana (the Ocean Maid). Commonly, Māori refer to the sea and coast in reciting their whakapapa (family lineage) and pēpeha (story of self-identification). A Māori worldview recognises that along with the privileges  associated with the environment, there is also a responsibility to offer care and maintain and sustain it for future generations . Termed Unfortunately, the Mātauranga  associated with some of these customs, beliefs and practices is now diminished or lost. The demise of these traditional narratives and customs occurred as a result of British colonisation  . The colWhile internationally surfboard riding has since the 1960s become associated with California , surf boWaiti and Awatere  found thContemporary Aotearoa New Zealand, however, is an increasingly multicultural Pacific rim nation with 87.7% of the population now living in an urban environment  (p. 33).In the final section of the paper we explore public responses to the loss of mobility and freedom experienced during the COVID-19 lockdown in Aotearoa with respect to access to beaches and participation in surfing. The initial COVID-19 full-lockdown in Aotearoa New Zealand began 25 March 2020, and continued until 27 April 2020, and was imposed with speed and severity. The first case of the virus was reported on 28 February 2020. At this time public health experts urged the government to act with great urgency, convinced that Aotearoa New Zealand could stop the virus from spreading, and even wipe it out entirely, if a lockdown was implemented strictly and swiftly. The nation returned to Level 1 on midnight 8 June 2020 . These eAs discussed above, the integration of different disciplinary paradigm and knowledge systems are at the heart of this transdisciplinary project. Therefore, we briefly highlight the methodological and epistemological assumptions that underpin this research, recognising that for those readers in the ‘natural’ sciences who adopt—at least tacitly—a positivist epistemology, these will not be familiar. Our place-based case-study is rooted in a constructionist interpretivist epistemology, or theory of knowledge. Social-constructionism emphasises that our knowledge and understandings of the world evolve through our active and creative interaction with our environments, other people and other entities. In this paradigm ‘nature’ is not perceived as separate from human culture . Social The initial COVID-19 full-lockdown brought the significance and meanings of coastal recreation generally, and surfing specifically, into sharp relief for Aotearoa New Zealanders. In the discussion of our data, we exemplify further the themes already shown in the wider literature; the everyday importance of coastal recreation for people’s sense of wellbeing, and specifically surfers; how surfers experience their connection to coastal places; and the ways these connections relate to their individual and collective identities, including forms of belonging and exclusion. The unusual circumstances of the lockdown showed how surfers had previously taken-for-granted their mobility and access to the coast. Multiple comments revealed the everyday importance of coastal recreation for people’s sense of wellbeing. This was a typical comment:‘this is a surreal situation that none of us have ever experienced before. Those of us who live on the coast have never been told we cannot go in the ocean and would never imagine that day would come’.During this time of lockdown, debates about the importance of coastal leisure for health and wellbeing, including physical , mental, spiritual and economic elements (such as fishing and shellfish gathering) quickly became prominent in national media . Early a‘[surfing] Is essential for mental health purposes’ .‘policing the ocean is just going to put the New Zealand suicide rate up. Suicide is ALREADY a crisis in New Zealand’ .‘You can have all the worries in the world and they instantly vanish when you go for a surf. Other people de-stress in different ways but it seems to me that surfers are a lot more connected to their medium—but then, I’m talking from my selfish perspective.’The experience of being denied access to the ocean spaces they are usually able to surf unimpeded, offered insight into the degree to which surfers rely on oceans and beaches for their health and wellbeing. The perspectives expressed above offer a “salutogenic” way of thinking about human health and the ocean, in that they are focused on the ocean as health-giving and health-enabling . AdaptinIn response to broader restrictions on movements, more Aotearoa New Zealanders than usual visited beaches, including for surfing during the initial period of lockdown . As with‘If some tourists was [sic] to try and drop in or snake my wave, I tell them don’t do it again or I'll cough on you’ Some individuals in the surfing community, such as within local board rider clubs, tried to mobilise collective responses in their communities . For exa‘We understand the pent-up frustration and anxiety that will build up over this time if you cannot get out in the water. But this is about the bigger picture of what we as a world are facing. This is about our communities and the lives at risk. We are fortunate to live in this place and we are lucky to call it home. We need to do everything in our power to protect’ .‘If one person goes surfing, one more will go, then one more, and more. The more crowded the lineup, the more dangerous the lineup’ .By Saturday 4th April 2020 a joint release from the Ministry of Health and New Zealand Police stated that ‘New Government rules specifically prohibit surfing and boating,’ and swimming . They rePlease NO rock fishing, fishing from a boat, surfing, kite surfing, knee boarding, stand up paddle boarding, paddling, snorkelling, surf ski, or diving etc etc—during the Covid-19 lockdown. ... and yep we know it sucks. If you get into trouble, you take our emergency services away from where they need to be. … STAY HOME SAVE LIVES. This complete ban on surfing, and limited access to the beach including for collecting kaimoana (seafood) and fishing, led to vociferous debate, which continued across all media and featured prominently amongst coastal communities including on social media . Posts publicly ‘called out’ those who had surfed. This policing of surfers and water users impacted many residents in coastal towns and cities. Some surfers were strident in their opposition—some to the lockdown rules, and others to those individuals or the authorities who flaunted them ,120,121.‘The guy was clearly asking ‘what on earth are you doing during the lockdown’ but [the surfer] was clearly not bothered about that and then gave him the bird.‘Person 1Bloody idiots, surfing (place name)—I can see several people via the [web]cam... come on stay home. If you mess this up we’re all going to be grounded for longer. Selfish. Person 2Someone go down and pop all the tyres on their cars, wankers.Person 3Someone call the cops [8 likes]Person 4Go for a freaking surf [9 likes]Despite government rhetoric of ‘our team of 5 million’ being in this together and ‘being kind’ to each other , on-lineLockdown exposed and amplified some of the underlying tensions in these communities, such as between surfers and non-surfers, ‘locals’ , and nonAmongst some Māori a further tension existed with public mistrust and a sense of needing to keep themselves safe. Road closures in the Far North region were established by local iwi  leaders to protect their communities from the pandemic ,122. MāoDuring this time, another roadblock was established on an access road to a Northland beach by local iwi, to stop the potential spread of COVID ,126. TheHowever, these narratives also speak to the sociality of surfing and how surfers of all ethnicities are deeply embedded in the economic and cultural wellbeing of coastal communities, as noted here: ‘I’ve got mates who have been mates with each other for 30 years and they’ve fallen out over whether we should be surfing. It’s brought the worst out in people because they can’t do what they love’.As the following social media post on a community group about lockdown anxiety illustrates, coastal communities worked hard to restore a sense of wellbeing and belonging: ‘Our community strengths include our commitment to our people and our environment, the care we have for each other and our ability to collaborate and work together. Well done everyone! Let’s keep caring for each other, continue being courageous and compassionate, continue to stay at home and save lives—We are all in this together’ .Later, when Aotearoa New Zealand moved from full lockdown (Level 4) to Level 3 (13 May 2020), one of the first changes to attract national headlines was the reinstating of right to surf and fish . DespiteWhile the COVID-induced lockdown circumstances were exceptional, they help amplify and highlight the deeply affective ‘everyday’ experiences of recreational surfers’ practices and how they influence people’s sense of wellbeing, collective identities, and forms of belonging and exclusion ,34. ThisOf course, it is not only surfers who experience these connections—Foley also describes swimming as a ‘healing activity’  (p. 218)‘I could still “feel” a buzzing, an openness, and a noticeably big smile that swept over me, creating a second moment of wellbeing’. (p. 11)These experiences and relationships were consistent with those described during lockdown, such as one surfer who said, he would ‘surf every day if he could’, but during lockdown has ‘been visualising surfing to compensate’. Others simply watched the ocean, feeling mounting frustration at being unable to get into the water: ‘Scott, who lives in Gisborne, has seen some of New Zealand’s best surfers sitting and watching the waves this week, frustrated that they can’t surf. The surf has been ideal. A barrelling wave at Wainui that Scott caught on camera from dry land, with police blocking access to the beach’.In summary, the all-consuming nature of surfing was often expressed in the social media posts around COVID lockdowns, showing the ocean’s place as a therapeutic landscape and surfing’s importance for peoples’ perceived wellbeing.The lockdown situation was also informing in understanding the often-contradictory nature of individual’s relationship with the natural world. Some surfers posted photos of the unusually empty beaches, landscapes, and seascapes with comments reminding their social media friends of the majesty of their surrounds, and the joy and privilege these nature-scapes could bring such as ‘watching a sunset’. Such comments reflect the literature showing New Zealander’s strong identification with the coast , positiv‘on the West Coast of NZ watching the sun. Feeling the arms of safety take over...... Enjoy your safety’ .‘I feel lucky. My lockdown experience has been one of neither isolation or loneliness, … Just a few minutes of intentional quiet each day, whether sitting or perhaps walking in nature, with practice, is all it takes to feel steady’ .Others discussed the joys of less human impact , and the different sounds . For example, ‘Back to Nature, Stayin Positive. Stoked to see my feathered friend today.’ Another example was a sunset photo titled ‘Day 7 Level 2’:… ‘you can hear the Oyster Catchers churping or communicating to each other, and then a group fly off for their nighttime location of which I do not know? The Oyster catcher vocals are one of my fav. Stay Positive. Enjoy settled weather’ .However, discussion of the health and wellbeing of the places themselves, while evident, was less visible. Social media posts from Pākehā and Māori referred to the benefits of removing humans from landscapes and seascapes, seeing this as a time for the earth to ‘heal’ and for the balance to be ‘restored’ . For exa‘Papatuanuku, Ranginui & Tongaroa are sighing a breath of relief. They are regenerating and resetting the earth and ocean’As explained Papatūānuku and Tangaroa are central to the Māori creation narrative that exemplifies the intimate link between humans and natural world. This healing of te taiāo (the environment) was exemplified when a school of kanae (mullet—a type of fish) was seen along the unusually clear shorelines of Okahu Bay in central Auckland. Some of the local kaumātua of Ngāti Whātua  recalled that they hadn’t seen kanae there since before they were ‘booted up the hill’ following the land confiscations in 1951 . Often Māori (surfers and non-surfers) also pointed out that the ocean was not solely for surfing; that the beach was ‘like a pātaka kai (pantry) where people actually go gathering for food around the shoreline’, or a place to engage with the Māori deities . As food gathering was prohibited in lockdown, many iwi (tribes) sent care packages to tribal members, no matter where in the country they were. Some of the more remote iwi also incorporated local delicacies  in the packages. However, broader discussion about whether and how sea/landscapes were impacted by the absence of humans, who are usually a part of these ecosystems, was not prevalent amongst surfers. For example, was there perhaps more plastic left uncollected after being washed up on beaches, or animals who missed their regular human companions? To be clear, we are not advocating for a version of environmental sustainability that excludes humans, yet despite surfer’s common assertions of themselves as environmental stewards ,132 and Our intention here is not to suggest, in a comparative sense, that this lockdown was particularly hard for surfers or coastal communities. Rather we have suggested that this outpouring of frustration, anxiety and anger was because of the loss of a practice so embedded in daily life that its impact on people’s physical and spiritual wellbeing was previously taken for granted. However, as previous research has shown, blue spaces can also be sites of exclusion ,56. In tOur case study contributes to the growing body of work illustrating the different ways in which coastal spaces are therapeutic landscapes that can foster physical and emotional health and wellbeing from those on the shore, to full-immersion activities such as surfing ,60,61,62This paper contains advanced thinking around the need for more transdisciplinary engagement to better understand ocean-human relationships. In particular, our concern has been for how the health of marine environments and people are interlinked, and how Indigenous perspectives can deepen appreciation, as well as equity considerations, of understandings of place and the performance of wellbeing. We have acknowledged the ways that Indigenous knowledge systems centrally locate the ontological significance and long-term sustainable use of marine resources. The contradiction, however, is that despite aspirations for sustainable seas and coastlines, such knowledge is persistently marginalised in international research concerning these socio-ecological systems. The exception is research on, by, and for Indigenous communities which, in remaining an important yet niche endeavour, continues to reinforce a position of Indigenous marginalisation in society and the academy and policy sphere. As researchers, not only do we need to explore the knowledges relevant to the places, spaces and communities we research, but also recognise that Indigenous peoples can offer place-specific leadership that cares for place while also challenging oppressive histories. Our paper has attempted to bring to international scholarship an argument for transdisciplinary research via ‘bicultural co-learning’ through an interweaving of Western and Māori vantage points on the significance of marine blue spaces through the example of the ocean-based ‘immersive’ leisure activity surfing. Our research demonstrated that the activity is more than a recreational pursuit on and in the ocean’s surface layer. Rather, it is a metaphorical as well as literal  immersive practice creating strong bonds between surfers and coastal places. While Māori and Pākehā surfers to some extent continue to embody different knowledges and meanings, these bonds were experienced across these surfing communities. We have demonstrated the value of a transdisciplinary, place-based approach that integrates inter-disciplinary research across the humanities and social sciences, including cultural and health geography, sociologies of leisure and sport, and Indigenous knowledge, in this case, Mātauranga Māori. Despite its pervasiveness in the everyday experience in Aotearoa New Zealand, the relationships between marine ecosystems, Mātauranga Māori and human health and wellbeing are still relatively under-studied. There is emerging evidence to suggest that the processes used in Māori ‘science’ have an important role in removing the boundaries between disciplines and helping teams of scientists with different areas of expertise to integrate their knowledge ,41,42,47