Author: Igor

After a short ride on our dinghy, we arrived in Portobelo, a town closely linked to Panama’s colonial history—and once the heart of Spain’s treasure-shipping operations in the New World. It’s hard to believe that this quiet, sleepy town was once the bustling epicenter of gold, silver, and spice flowing from South America to Europe.

The remnants of grandeur are still here, albeit wrapped in rust, vines, and time. The old customs house, Aduana Real, now serves as a museum. Its thick coral-stone walls and cavernous halls once stored the riches of the empire while bureaucrats stamped and sealed royal paperwork with appropriately smug ceremony. Walking through it now, we could almost hear the echo of clinking coins and whispered plots to steal them.

We wandered along uneven cobblestone streets, past colorful houses and weather-worn churches. Our destination was Iglesia de San Felipe, home of the Black Christ of Portobelo—a life-size statue of Christ dressed in purple robes, revered by pilgrims from across the country. Legend has it that the statue mysteriously arrived on a cargo ship in the 17th century and, in typical divine fashion, refused to leave. Whether you believe the story or not, there’s something deeply moving about the quiet reverence inside the church, where the air is thick with incense and candles flicker beside weathered prayer cards.

We then decided to climb the hill overlooking the town—a sweaty but rewarding hike. The trail, half-covered in tangled roots and shaded by jungle canopy, eventually opened up to reveal a stunning panoramic view of the bay, the crumbling forts, the moored sailboats, and the turquoise sweep of the Caribbean beyond. Up there, the whole of Portobelo unfolded like a storybook illustration of a forgotten empire.

After the descent, we visited two more forts located right in town—San Jerónimo and Santiago de la Gloria. These moss-covered stone fortresses, once bristling with cannons and soldiers, are now quiet ruins occupied by iguanas and curious tourists. Still, their strategic placement facing the bay hints at the constant threat of pirate attacks that plagued this coast in the 17th and 18th centuries. Climbing over the walls and peering through cannon embrasures, we imagined the thunder of gunfire and the sight of sails on the horizon—moments before either riches were defended or stolen.

Back on our boat that evening, the forts silhouetted against the setting sun, we felt Portobelo had left its mark on us. It’s a place of contradictions—majestic and humble, haunted and hopeful, cracked by time but full of life. Like the Black Christ in the church, Portobelo remains right where it’s meant to be—rooted in history, refusing to be forgotten.

The arrival of our sailboat Oceanolog in Portobelo Bay was marked not by the booming salute of cannons (though we half-joked about it), but by a quiet anchoring beneath the historic walls of Fort San Fernando—a striking reminder of the Spanish colonial legacy in the Caribbean.

Climbing the path from the lower battery to the upper levels, and finally to the old watchtower, we were treated to sweeping views of both the bay and the town of Portobelo. It was easy to imagine the days when this coastline bristled with muskets, red sashes, and the ever-looming threat of pirates.

The bay’s defenses have seen centuries of drama. The first fortifications—Fuerte San Felipe and Fuerte San Diego—were constructed in 1601 to protect this valuable Spanish outpost. But history wasn’t kind to them. In 1739, British Admiral Edward Vernon led an assault that reduced those forts to rubble. The ruins lay quiet for two decades, until the Spanish rebuilt over them in 1760, creating Fuerte San Fernando, equipped with a 14-gun battery and a smaller six-cannon emplacement.

Fast forward to the early 20th century: American engineers, eager to fortify the Panama Canal, dismantled large portions of the fort. The old stones were repurposed to build the breakwater that now protects the canal’s northern entrance—a fittingly practical (if tragic) second life for a fortress meant to guard an empire’s treasure route.

As we stood among moss-covered walls and rusted cannon mounts, the past felt startlingly close. Portobelo’s role as a crossroads of colonial ambition and Caribbean resistance still lingers in the air—alongside the scent of sea salt and history.

On our way to Lipton Bay Marina, we stumbled upon something truly surreal—something that looked like a house, but not quite a house… a tower, but not really a tower either. Intrigued, we grabbed the binoculars and squinted into the distance. There it was: a round, white structure perched on a single leg, seemingly floating above the sea like a giant alien mushroom. A few minutes later, another one appeared on the horizon—similar shape, two kilometers off the coast. The weirdness escalated. We cruised around the bay in awe, and by the time we finally found a spot to drop anchor (no easy feat—it was packed with yachts), we spotted yet another one of these UFO-esque structures near the bay’s entrance. This one looked a little different but equally otherworldly. At first, we thought we had stumbled onto the set of a sci-fi film—or maybe an ambitious Bond villain’s hideout. But a quick Google search told us otherwise.

The next morning, curiosity got the better of us, and we hopped into the dinghy to investigate these floating marvels. Up close, the first one was… less majestic. Turns out, this SeaPod prototype was never completed. An abandoned dream, bobbing gently on the tide. We made our way toward the second one, which looked more promising—and habitable. It’s actually available for short-term rentals, likely targeting curious guests and potential buyers. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get any closer due to a coral reef surrounding it, making it inaccessible from our side by boat. But we got a decent look—and a story worth telling.

These strange marine mushrooms are the creation of Ocean Builders, a Panamanian company specializing in high-tech marine living. In 2022, they unveiled their SeaPod—a futuristic floating house designed by Dutch architect Koen Olthuis. The SeaPod rises 2.2 meters above the sea, offering 360-degree panoramic ocean views from its 53 square meters of windows. It spans 3.5 levels and includes a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. Fancy a bit more drama? You can also add an underwater room to spy on fish like a Bond villain. Prices range from $295,000 to $1.5 million, depending on the bells and whistles. The house is marketed as a way to live on water without sacrificing modern luxuries, “designed to feel like living on land—only better,” according to Ocean Builders’ director.

As a sailor, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this idea. Living on a boat already comes with enough sway, squeaks, and salt. Turning that into a permanent living situation—without the mobility and adventure of sailing—seems a bit questionable. A weeklong stay? Sure, sign me up for sunsets and sea breezes. But full-time floating? I’ll pass. From what we’ve seen, the grand rollout hasn’t quite taken off. Ocean Builders originally planned to deliver 100 SeaPods to early adopters by the end of 2023, with 1,000 more on the way in 2024. Fast forward to 2025, and… we’re still looking at the same three prototypes, one of which appears occupied. The others? Stalled or abandoned.

Despite the setbacks, the SeaPod is an ambitious, fascinating project—part utopia, part startup hustle. Visionaries like these often take the first steps that lead to real change, even if the first few prototypes don’t quite float everyone’s boat (pun intended). We’ll be watching from our gently bobbing deck to see how this experiment unfolds. Who knows? Maybe one day floating homes will be as common as floating docks. For now, it’s one wild idea… floating just off the coast of Panama.