The idea of seasteading, a shimmering intersection between utopian fantasy and hard-nosed political ambition, has always glimmered like a mirage on the horizon. Its roots reach back further than one might expect: in the 1960s figures like Major Paddy Roy Bates transformed an abandoned military fort into the “Principality of Sealand,” declaring independence beyond UK waters, an early real-world invocation of sovereignty at sea. In the same era, Italian engineer Giorgio Rosa built Rose Island, a floating platform off Rimini, complete with shops and a post office, only to be swiftly crushed by the Italian Navy in 1969. These prototypes were audacious seasteads, small-scale yet bold gestures toward escaping traditional governance.
By the late 1960s, libertarian dreamers took wing. Werner Stiefel launched Operation Atlantis, constructing ferro-cement vessels to host a floating nation near the Bahamas. Disasters, from hurricanes to hostile reactions, undermined his ambition. Yet, his resolve endured, even planning to build on an oil rig before his project sank into the sea and memory. In 1972, Michael Oliver’s Republic of Minerva emerged from the Minerva Reefs as a libertarian micronation, promising no taxes or welfare, but national powers, including Tonga, extinguished the claim within months.
These early exploits were audacious but limited, flashes of rebellion against state power, grounded in the idea that land was no longer a frontier. That notion found clearer form decades later, when in 1998 Wayne Gramlich coined the term “seasteading,” a blend of sea and homesteading, and envisioned floating structures where new governance systems could be tested. Gramlich’s online essay caught the attention of Patri Friedman, grandson of Milton Friedman, who saw in it the possibility of “Government 2.0,” something that could evolve with the nimble pace of the tech world.
In April 2008, buoyed by that intellectual spark, the nonprofit Seasteading Institute (TSI) was born. Its allies included engineers, artists, legal scholars, and decisively libertarian tech money. Prominent among those backers was Peter Thiel, who provided initial capital ($500,000) and later contributions exceeding $1 million toward seasteading’s ambition of freeing governance from politics. TSI convened conferences beginning in Burlingame in 2008 and continued with design contests, podcasts, and partnership efforts like the Floating City Project.
TSI even inked a 2017 agreement with French Polynesia for a floating island prototype that would host up to 250 people, complete with its own legal and cryptocurrency system. Yet, local suspicion and accusations of forming yet another tax haven for the wealthy undermined the vision. The agreement expired in 2018, and the dream remains anchored in the realm of ideas.
Meanwhile, others sought seasteads through different angles. Ocean Builders, in 2019–2020, purchased a cruise ship, MS Satoshi, with the idea of a floating crypto-community. Libertarian digital nomads would live offshore, free of conventional government oversight. But reality intruded: maritime regulations, insurance woes, and wastewater rules made the venture untenable. The ship was eventually sold, and the project sank into disappointment. Around the same time, a daring attempt off Phuket, Thailand, by Chad Elwartowski and Supranee Thepdet to establish a seastead led to a legal backlash. Thai authorities accused them of challenging sovereignty and moved to remove the floating structure, underscoring how nation-states guard their territorial legitimacy with vigilance.
These episodes underscore the central irony of seasteading: it arises from the dream of no-state freedom yet collides with the stubborn reality of international law and national security. Even the high seas, imagined as a lawless zone, are structured by maritime conventions and admiralty laws that bind all. No floating city has successfully claimed sovereignty in those spaces.
Critics have piled on. Some see seasteading as “techno-colonialism,” remaking colonial structures in maritime guise, wealthy elites seizing space to evade democracy and regulation. Others argue that the technical and social isolation inherent in being disconnected from land makes such communities unattractive, vulnerable, and environmentally risky. Critics warn they will serve as playgrounds for the rich rather than true laboratories for governance innovation.
Through this history runs a persistent thread: a vision of governance as a choice, mutable and market-driven. Patri Friedman envisioned a world where “voting with your house” lets governance types compete like businesses, and dissatisfied citizens float off to a different platform. Yet the movement has yet to overcome its foundational friction with existing state power. Every attempt, from Sealand to Satoshi, remains unfinished, constrained by legal, logistical, financial, or geopolitical tankers. The persistence of this vision should inspire the audience with the determination of its proponents.
Still, the story is far from over. TSI continues incubating ideas and alliances; in 2025, new projects like Ethos Island and an underwater living world record hint that believers keep building, tweaking, retreating, and trying again. And even as Thiel pivots toward land-based “charter-city” models like Honduras’s Próspera, the spirit of seasteading pulses in these experiments in governance outside the normal political map. The ongoing nature of these projects should instill a sense of hope and anticipation in the audience.
Seasteading remains compelling because it taps into something fundamental: the desire to escape the constraints imposed by distant governments, to experiment with new freedoms, and to treat political systems like upgradable software. Its dream is as old as rebellion, but its stage is the water. For now, it lies incomplete, poised between vision and reality, floating, waiting for the tide to relent or rise.
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