Goodbye Earth, but First, you have to Try the Waterslide (ENG)

I can't stop thinking about the company behind the cruise ship Icon of the Seas - the largest of its kind - launched in early 2024 and now slicing through the waves of the Caribbean. I think about the countless decisions made along the way, each one driven by a mindset rooted in relentless competition. A reality where success is measured by who can dominate the market, where the pursuit of being bigger, bolder and wilder takes precedence over everything else. A world where growth is an obsession, and consideration for anything beyond profit remains an unfamiliar concept.

I imagine how it must have sounded - the grand vision, the promises of unparalleled success, and the bold claims of how this ship would redefine the company’s future. How inspiring it must have felt, with superlatives filling the room, painting a picture of limitless potential. I can almost see everyone walking out, carried by the belief that anything is possible.

I think about the immense efficiency required for a project of this scale, and how the owners aren't shipbuilders, but an investment company - driven not by craftsmanship, but by the pursuit of maximum returns. I consider how this influences every stage of the process, particularly the management, whose primary focus is on the numbers. The relentless pressure to turn losses into profits, and how a project of this magnitude plays into grand ambitions of global dominance and success - an ambition that management can already sense within their grasp.

Then I think about the passengers - the weight of expectation pressing down on them throughout this overpriced vacation week. The pressure to experience constant joy, to validate the cost with unforgettable moments, and the frustration that builds when fellow passengers fail to play their expected roles in the dream. The awkwardness of a crying child (especially when it’s your own) breaking the illusion of perfection. And beneath the surface of curated fun, I wonder -where do you go when sadness creeps in, when something hurts, when reality refuses to be left behind?

I think about those who design the ships - the years of student loans, the deep sense of professional pride, and the thrill of contributing to the creation of the largest vessel ever built. I imagine the meticulous focus on buoyancy, colors, costs, speed, and the keel. The endless debates at the drawing board, weighing the fine balance between budget constraints, safety standards and environmental considerations. And I think about those who physically build the ships, whose hands shape the steel and weld the parts together - many of whom desperately needed the job and took immense pride in doing it well.

I think about the salespeople, sitting in their cubicles, dialing number after number, working through their scripts filled with exaggerated promises of “endless luxury” and assurances of how thrilled their children will be once the trip is booked. Selling, after all, is an art honed through years of mastering the subtle craft of persuasion - where every hesitation from a potential customer is seen as an opportunity, a buying signal, met with yet another well-rehearsed argument. The salesperson assures them how effortless it all is, that payments can be spread out, and entices them with fabricated discounts that seem too good to pass up. I also think about the mounting pressure they likely face from their managers - targets looming over them, call lengths scrutinized, their worth reduced to numbers and bookings. Their commissions hang in the balance, leaving little room for doubt or second thoughts in their voices. In the vast expanse of the call center, there's no space for reflection, barely even for a bathroom break. The ship must be filled.

I think about the captain. The entertainers, the waitstaff, the cleaners—and all the vomit that will inevitably need to be cleaned up. What do their wages look like? What are their working conditions? I imagine the mandatory training sessions, where they are taught the art of the perfect smile and reminded that the customer is always right - no matter how poorly they behave.

Does anyone ever stop to question if something feels off? Do they carry a lingering sense of unease about the changing state of nature around us? I wonder how much those involved in building the ship have reflected on the climate impact. Does it ever weigh on their conscience as they head to work each day? And if it does, how does that inner conflict show itself?

Once the decisions are made, does everything simply continue, like a well-oiled machine? When someone else is in control, is there even a chance to make a meaningful impact? In an operation of this scale, it's easy to feel insignificant. You are just another cog in the wheel. Raising concerns could mean confronting managers or colleagues, posing risks to both job security and workplace dynamics. In the end, the need for a steady paycheck and a harmonious work environment often outweighs personal reservations and ethical dilemmas, leaving little room for questioning or change. And in the end, the paycheck and the stability of the work environment often take precedence over personal doubts and ethical concerns.

I think about the owners' ESG policy, which proudly declares that “sustainability is a core value,” and wonder how things could have gone so far off track. How did no one in the meeting raise their hand and ask, “Are we sure this aligns with our sustainability goals? Is investing in this cruise ship really the right move right now?” Did anyone stop to question the environmental impact - how these massive ships disrupt biodiversity? Was there any real consideration of how many voyages it would take for the ship to break even, compared to the emissions and ecological harm it would inflict along the way?

How many people, over the years, have dared to raise their hands, stand up, and walk out of internal meetings when something felt fundamentally wrong? When the decision was made to keep docking ships in Haiti despite the ongoing humanitarian crisis after the earthquake - did anyone voice their discomfort? Did it feel unsettling to watch drinks being served while passengers stood on deck, observing the suffering below? And who spoke up when the choice was made to dump oil into the ocean in 1999 and then cover it up? I think about how poor decisions continue to be made within a culture driven purely by self-interest and profit, with little to no regard for the broader world the business impacts. Where everything seems acceptable as long as no one finds out. Where success is measured by getting away with it, and wrongdoing is met with laughter, not accountability. In such an environment, is there even room for someone to stand up and say, “Enough”?

I think about all those affected. The polluted air in port cities where cruise ships dock, their engines running constantly to generate power, releasing harmful emissions that choke the atmosphere and endanger public health.

I think about how local tourism rarely benefits from these massive floating resorts. Instead of exploring authentic markets, family-owned restaurants, or historical landmarks, passengers flock to pre-arranged, corporate-sponsored excursions, leaving local businesses struggling. The cultural richness of destinations is reduced to a mere backdrop - an exotic setting for a fleeting photo-op - where authentic connections are replaced by generic, commodified experiences.

I think about the dolphins in Venice, cautiously reclaiming the canals during the COVID lockdowns, their natural behavior altered by years of invasive maritime traffic. About the whales disoriented and distressed by the undersea noise pollution from ship propellers, disrupting their communication and migration patterns. About the seabirds scavenging through the plastic waste left behind by passengers too preoccupied with leisure to notice the traces they leave behind.

Finally, I reflect on how deeply interconnected we all are. How our choices ripple outward, affecting people and places we may never see. How we observe what others do, drawing silent comfort from their actions, convincing ourselves that if they continue, so can we. It's as if we are caught in a shared illusion, a collective daydream where the urgency of reality is muffled by the allure of familiarity. And in the stillness between moments, the weight of what we ignore quietly lingers.