Excerpt from The Salmon Cannon and the Levitating Frog by Carly Anne York, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

INTRODUCTION

About ten years ago, I was sitting in a Mexican restaurant surrounded by people that smelled distinctly like elephant shit. At the time, I was pursuing my doctoral degree in biology at Old Dominion University, but I volunteered at the Virginia Zoo on the weekends. This volunteer work was the highlight of my week. Every Saturday morning I would bounce out of bed and excitedly toss on a green polo shirt with the zoo's logo on the chest. It's tough to beat the joy of walking into a zoo before it has opened to the public. There is an entirely different feel to the air. The gibbons' calls echo overhead, and the elephants make a deep rumble that vibrates in your core. A chorus of animals from Africa, Asia, and South America serenades the keepers who serve their breakfast. Even the shyest of residents can be found prowling around their enclosure before noisy visitors arrive for the day. Only those who forfeited their weekend sleep had the privilege of experiencing these sacred hours. These mornings were my sanctuary, reminding me of my love for the animal kingdom and equally fortifying me against the relentless rigors of a doctoral program.

The zookeepers and the volunteers had a lovely tradition of going to lunch together after the morning chores were completed, at which point we would all smell pungent enough to make anyone seated nearby lose their appetite. On one particular Saturday, over a plate of cheese enchiladas, I had one of the most uncomfortable conversations of my career. One of my fellow volunteers, Bob, was a retired army officer who had come to prefer spending his days feeding the giraffes over analyzing military tactics. He asked me what I was studying, and I replied that I was exploring squid biomechanics and sensory physiology. At the time, I really enjoyed peppering my conversations with words like "biomechanics," delivered with just enough arrogance to deter further inquiry. Bob, however, wasn't deterred. His eyes, sharp with scrutiny, posed a simple yet profound question: "Why?" He wasn't probing the scientific essence but the purpose. The real-world implication. His blunt question caught me off guard and left me fumbling for a response. I clumsily mumbled about the intrinsic value of knowledge and some nebulous idea of understanding life as a squid. But Bob's query dug deeper. He questioned the economic rationale—why the public dime funded my education and why national funds poured into a project that, to him, smacked of what he called "silly science." Behind his inquiry was an earnest taxpayer's need to see tangible returns on investment. And as much as I didn't want to admit it, I simply couldn't answer his question. My research wasn't going to solve any major world issues. The scientific work that had consumed my life for the past three years wasn't going to do anything as far as I could predict.

Perhaps my research was useless, but I recognize now that it was not worthless. I often think of that conversation in the Mexican restaurant and consider how I could have handled it differently. After a decade of working as a scientist, I have come to realize that we stand at a crossroads of discovery and public perception of science. On that day, over enchiladas, I failed to articulate the essence and significance of "silly science." My goal in writing this book is to finally answer the question that I botched ten years ago.

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As an animal physiologist, I work in the world of basic research. This branch of science is driven by curiosity and the observation of nature, not by immediate demands for application. Though a product isn't the end goal, amazing applications have stemmed from basic discoveries in this field. Take, for example, the invention of Geckskin, a reusable, glue-free adhesive that can hold up to 700 pounds on a smooth, vertical surface. This product came from decades of research on the anatomy and mechanics of gecko toepads. These scientists weren't trying to figure out how to build a super sticker; they simply wanted to know how geckos can walk upside down. Through basic research, biologists discovered that gecko toepads are covered in millions of tiny hairs that create a strong adhesive force, but hundreds of studies were performed before a product was ever conceived, created, and sold. Likewise, although squid have indeed been an engineering inspiration (check out the Robosquid), my research had nothing to do with application. Years after defending my doctoral work, I still don't know how my research can directly benefit humankind. Luckily, I am in good company. Einstein also saw no immediate application when he developed his theory of relativity. It wasn't until almost a hundred years later that his theory became useful in everyday life via GPS. Now, I'm no Einstein, not even relatively speaking, but we do share the enchanting and powerful world of curiosity-driven science.

Excerpted from The Salmon Cannon and the Levitating Frog: And Other Serious Discoveries of Silly Science. Copyright © 2025 by Carly Anne York. Available from Basic Books, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.