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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.

After a month in the dreamy embrace of the San Blas Islands, it was time to lift anchor and head north along the Panamanian coast. Just 20 nautical miles later, we found our first taste of “mainland civilization” in the form of a Panamanian marina—our reentry point into the world of supermarkets, laundry machines, and (gasp!) freshwater showers.

At just $20 per night, the marina was a rare gem—easily the best price we’d seen in the Caribbean for a long time. It felt like a welcome mat rolled out by the coast itself. Surrounding the docks was a peaceful park, a soft-sand beach, and a rather mysteriously empty hotel. Despite its ghost-town vibe, the area had everything we needed.

Well, except for sunshine.

The rain came with the kind of stubborn consistency only the wet season can deliver. We were drenched daily, but on the bright side (pun intended), we managed to refill our water tanks entirely with rainwater. Everything else—including ourselves—got soaked too, but thanks to our trusty onboard heater, we were able to dry out and stay warm. A small win!

A pleasant surprise rolled in on four wheels: a vegetable van brimming with fresh produce—pineapples, papayas, tomatoes, avocados, and more. The marina office also doubled as a tiny store stocked with basic bulk goods. And, of course, the ever-faithful palm trees continued to provide us with coconuts—because nature always delivers where supermarkets fall short.

We ended up staying three days, using the time to catch up on boat chores, restock provisions, chat with fellow sailors, and even complete a 24-hour CTD mooring as part of our ocean data collection. Sure, it rained almost non-stop—but hey, when you’re cruising in the rainy season, you either complain or you collect rainwater, put on a dry shirt, and make it memorable.

And memorable it was.

No journey through the San Blas archipelago would be complete without a visit to Gardi Sugdub—a small island that recently made headlines around the world. Known as the first community in Panama to be officially resettled due to the impacts of climate change, Gardi Sugdub has become a symbol of both environmental vulnerability and resilience. Scientists predict that by 2050, rising sea levels will submerge around 63 island communities in Guna Yala, and as oceanographers, we felt a strong pull to witness the reality behind the headlines.

As we approached the island, a small boat glided toward us. A local man onboard waved, pointing carefully to a safe spot to drop anchor—navigating the shallow waters takes local knowledge. Once alongside, he introduced himself as Ernesto Perez, a licensed tour guide and port lecturer, flashing his official badge with a smile. It was serendipity: we couldn’t have hoped for a better guide to help us explore the life and lore of Guna Yala.

We hopped in our dinghy and made our way to shore, stepping into a village that was not unfamiliar in form—narrow sandy pathways, wooden huts closely packed together, and a rhythm of life that has endured for generations. This wasn’t our first visit to a Guna community, and while we had some sense of the lifestyle—marked by its resilience and simplicity—we were especially curious to see how sea-level rise was affecting this particular island.

To our surprise, we didn’t find dramatic signs of flooding or ocean incursion. When we asked locals about the reason for the relocation of over 300 families to a new mainland village, the answer was simple and surprising: overpopulation. The rising sea was not the primary concern, at least not for those who stayed behind. “We’ll raise the island if we have to,” one resident said, describing a local method of land reclamation: driving stakes into the shallow water and backfilling with coral, rocks, and, troublingly, garbage. It’s a DIY form of resilience—equal parts optimism and necessity.

But this “filling” technique has its darker side. The coastal waters around Gardi Sugdub are increasingly clogged with plastic waste—bottles, wrappers, and floating debris. It’s clear that plastic has become a silent invader, one that is just as dangerous to the island’s future as the encroaching sea. You can’t build a sustainable future on plastic. And it’s painfully ironic: the same plastic that promises convenience is undermining a centuries-old way of life. There are no cars on Gardi Sugdub, and even bicycles are impractical. The Guna way of life is rooted in simplicity, yet modern waste has found a way in.

The problem isn’t just the trash—it’s the system. Grocery stores on the island, limited in variety, are packed with single-use plastic items: tiny bottles of water, sodas, sauces, and juices. Once emptied, many of these containers end up in the sea. At best, some are burned in landfills, releasing toxins into the air. It’s a vicious cycle that can’t be solved by moving people alone.

Real support for the Guna communities must go beyond building model villages on the mainland. What’s needed is a combination of environmental education, waste management infrastructure, and programs that empower young people to care for their surroundings—through beach cleanups, recycling, and cultural renewal. With thoughtful planning, local commitment, and international support, the Guna people can remain stewards of their islands rather than victims of their fate.

So, to the people of Gardi Sugdub, we send our deepest respect. May you never drown in plastic, nor in bureaucracy. May your traditions thrive amid modern pressures. And may your island, whether on land or memory, remain a stronghold of Guna identity in a world that’s changing fast.