For a long time, I genuinely believed the ocean belonged to other people – scientists, researchers, the ultra-wealthy, fisherfolk. Historically, these were the people who filled expedition logbooks. And exploration, for centuries, was led by royals chasing conquest, scientists chasing discovery, and their crews guiding the way.

I envisioned both ends of this spectrum vividly: the white-coated academics uncovering the unknown, and the coastal communities who’d spent generations mastering the tides, harvesting sustenance, and navigating open water without fanfare or technology. To me, these were the ones who truly belonged. They had earned it.

The rest of us? We’re what I classify as the “in-betweeners.” The transient visitors, spectators, people who, by birth or job title, didn’t naturally fit into the ocean narrative. And this idea stuck with me because I knew I’d never become a noble or a biologist or a seasoned fisherman. I was just a person who couldn’t stop thinking about the ocean, stuck in a city destined to two-weeks of vacation a year for the rest of my life. 

Then came the social media era. And with it, a crack in this narrative.

Suddenly, I wasn’t limited to textbooks and NatGeo spreads. I could see, on my own tiny screen, people living real lives tied to the ocean. People who didn’t resemble anything like the textbook explorers I grew up reading about. They were divers, artists, travellers, mothers, students. They weren’t waiting for permission. They had carved out their place and claimed it with sheer grit. Watching them shattered my assumptions, reshaping my understanding and revealing a new path forward. One that didn’t require a PhD, a trust fund, nor a fishing lineage.

All it really required was curiosity. Willingness. And the courage to show up.