Take, for example, whale watching.
Now face it, any hippie can go bobbing around on the ocean staring at a bunch of wet mammals, but if you don't have a couple of heartless conservatives on hand to run the try-works, all that oil and baleen would go to waste on the off-chance the doughty crew of the good ship Paisely actually managed to catch one.
In fact, it turns out I had an unexpected genetic predisposition to the job; one of the many things I learned about my father on his passing was that he had actually done a hitch on the whale-chasers out of Reykjavik after his tour in Greenland/Iceland with the Army.
Then an adolescent traveling with them, some fifty feet long or so, approached Manute'a, and in a display the captain said he'd seen maybe five times in twelve years proceeded to circle and dive under the boat over and over again.
That was when we learned why they're called "blue" whales. Something about their skin and the sunlight filtering through the seawater causes them to glow a beautiful cool neon blue, so this huge spectral shape was just flying under us over and over again, surfacing to spout and breathe, and then diving and coming back in. Deborah thought it was simply being entertained by the sound of the passengers stampeding back and forth across the deck above it as it circled. Once it surfaced so close to Manute'a that the mist from its spout drifted over us. I could wax eloquent about the irridescence of the sunlight on the scattering water vapor but, being the heartless conservative that I am, what I did instead was shout, "WHALE SNOT!" and wig out all the little kids on board.
Finally, the adolescent decided to move on with his companions, and gave us a perfect Hollywood parting dive. It was a remarkable experience and I almost completely forgot to regret the loss of the chance to run the try-works. It's a trip worth taking if you can.