Author: Olivia Moller
For most of human history, coastal waters were not commodities. They were commons, shared by fishing families, small ports, and island communities who depended on them for food, trade, and cultural identity. Access was governed by tradition, not by price. What changed was not the sea itself, but the way outsiders began to look at it.
Over the last three decades, freediving, scuba tourism, and adventure travel have transformed large areas of the tropical ocean into an economic landscape. Reefs that once supported subsistence fishing now support dive schools. Drop offs that once held nets and traps now hold descent lines and underwater photographers. Beaches that once launched small wooden boats now launch RIBs carrying paying guests. None of this is illegal. Most of it is even encouraged by local governments looking for foreign currency and international visibility. But it has created a new kind of ownership that is not written in law but enforced by money, branding, and influence.
In many parts of Southeast Asia, the Caribbean, and the Indian Ocean, dive tourism now generates more income than traditional fishing. That sounds like progress. Yet the benefits are not distributed evenly. The companies that control boats, marketing channels, booking platforms, and social media reach are rarely local. They are usually based in Europe, North America, or Australia. The reefs may be in the Philippines or Indonesia, but the profits are booked in London, Berlin, or California.
This is how the modern ocean becomes real estate. Not through fences or deeds, but through logos, online reviews, and global travel networks. A reef with good visibility and photogenic coral becomes valuable. A reef without an Instagram presence remains invisible. Slowly, what can be marketed becomes what is protected and what is used, while everything else is left behind.
Local people find themselves in a paradox. Their waters are suddenly famous, yet their control over them is reduced. They work as boat crew, instructors, or guides, but rarely as owners. They follow rules written by international agencies and insurance companies. They watch their fishing grounds turned into no take zones not always for conservation, but for tourism.
This is not colonialism in the old sense of flags and armies. It is colonialism through economics, attention, and access.
Who Gets to Use the Reef
Marine parks and protected areas are often presented as a victory for conservation. In many cases they are. Fish populations recover. Coral reefs stabilize. Biodiversity increases. But protection does not automatically mean justice. The question is not only whether a reef is protected, but who is protected from whom.
In several popular dive destinations, local fishers have been banned from traditional fishing grounds to create marine reserves. At the same time, dive boats, liveaboards, and training schools continue to operate in those same waters. The fish cannot be taken, but they can be photographed, marketed, and sold as part of a tourism experience. This creates a system where the reef is protected for visitors, not for the people who have lived alongside it for generations.
The language used to justify this is often environmental. Locals are described as unsustainable or destructive, while tourists are framed as gentle observers. Yet the ecological footprint of dive tourism is rarely small. Boats burn fuel. Anchors damage coral. Thousands of fin kicks disturb sediment and marine life. Waste, sewage, and plastic follow every operation. The difference is not impact, but perception.
A fisherman taking a few reef fish to feed a family looks like extraction. A tourist paying for a guided dive looks like conservation. In reality, both are forms of use. One is simply more profitable to the global economy.
This imbalance becomes more visible when conflicts arise. In parts of the Philippines, Indonesia, and East Africa, there have been disputes between dive operators and local fishers over access to reefs. Fishing nets are removed. Lines are cut. Boats are chased away. The justification is always the same. The reef must be protected for tourism. The reef must remain pristine for visitors.
The result is a quiet transfer of rights. Local communities lose access to resources that sustained them. Foreign operators gain exclusive use of those same spaces. The reef does not belong to everyone anymore. It belongs to those who can monetize it.
The Price of Being a Guide in Your Own Home
Dive tourism creates jobs. That is often presented as its greatest benefit. Local people become instructors, divemasters, boat crew, and safety divers. They gain skills and income. In many places, it is better than fishing or farming. But it is also a form of dependency.
Most dive professionals in tropical destinations work for foreign-owned schools or international franchises. The branding, the pricing, and the marketing are controlled elsewhere. A local instructor may guide dozens of divers a week, yet see only a small fraction of the revenue. Tips become essential. Contracts are seasonal. Health insurance and long term security are rare.
This changes the social structure of coastal communities. Young people stop learning traditional fishing or boat building. They train instead for dive certifications that are valid only as long as the tourism economy holds. When political instability, pandemics, or climate events disrupt travel, those jobs disappear overnight. The reef remains, but the livelihoods built around it collapse.
There is also a cultural cost. Local knowledge of tides, fish behavior, and seasonal patterns is often replaced by standardized training manuals written for a global audience. The sea becomes something you manage through checklists rather than something you know through lived experience.
In some areas, locals are even required to pay to access their own waters. Marine park fees, permit systems, and tourism taxes are structured around foreign visitors, but locals are not always exempt. The ocean becomes something you need permission to enter, even if your family has lived there for centuries.
This is what economic colonization looks like in practice. You are allowed to stay, as long as you work within a system designed by others.
When Conservation Serves the Camera
The modern dive industry runs on images. Reefs, sharks, turtles, and deep blue drop offs are content. They are posted, shared, and monetized. What gets photographed gets protected. What does not fit the visual narrative is ignored.
This creates a dangerous feedback loop. Reefs that are easy to access, well lit, and visually striking become overused. They are promoted by influencers, dive schools, and tourism boards. Boat traffic increases. Human presence becomes constant. Meanwhile, less photogenic or more remote areas receive little attention and little protection.
Local communities quickly learn this logic. To attract investment, they must make their reefs visible to the global audience. That often means allowing more boats, more divers, and more filming. The ecosystem becomes a stage set for international consumption.
Even conservation projects are shaped by this economy. Funding flows toward charismatic species and beautiful locations. Slow, complex work like sewage management, fishing reform, or coastal development control receives far less attention.
In this way, the camera becomes a tool of power. It decides which parts of the ocean matter and which do not. Those who control the narrative also control the flow of money and influence.
For locals, this can feel like being trapped inside someone else’s story. Their home becomes a backdrop. Their reef becomes a brand. Their role is to smile, guide, and stay out of the frame.
What a Fair Ocean Would Look Like
There is nothing wrong with diving. There is nothing wrong with travel. The problem is not people wanting to experience the ocean. The problem is who benefits when they do.
A fairer system would start with local ownership. Dive schools, boats, and tourism infrastructure should belong primarily to the communities that live there. International partnerships can exist, but they should be partnerships, not takeovers.
Marine protection should be co designed with those communities. Fishing restrictions should come with real alternatives and real compensation. Access should not be determined by who can pay the most.
Content creators and brands also have a role. Geotagging, constant promotion, and turning every reef into a destination carry consequences. Sometimes the most responsible choice is to not share everything.
Ultimately, the ocean does not need to be owned to be protected. It needs to be respected. That respect must extend not only to coral and fish, but to the people who have lived with them for generations.
The new colonialism underwater is quiet. It does not arrive with ships and flags. It arrives with cameras, credit cards, and booking platforms. Recognizing it is the first step toward building something better.
The New Colonialism Underwater
Author: Olivia Moller
For most of human history, coastal waters were not commodities. They were commons, shared by fishing families, small ports, and island communities who depended on them for food, trade, and cultural identity. Access was governed by tradition, not by price. What changed was not the sea itself, but the way outsiders began to look at it.
Over the last three decades, freediving, scuba tourism, and adventure travel have transformed large areas of the tropical ocean into an economic landscape. Reefs that once supported subsistence fishing now support dive schools. Drop offs that once held nets and traps now hold descent lines and underwater photographers. Beaches that once launched small wooden boats now launch RIBs carrying paying guests. None of this is illegal. Most of it is even encouraged by local governments looking for foreign currency and international visibility. But it has created a new kind of ownership that is not written in law but enforced by money, branding, and influence.
In many parts of Southeast Asia, the Caribbean, and the Indian Ocean, dive tourism now generates more income than traditional fishing. That sounds like progress. Yet the benefits are not distributed evenly. The companies that control boats, marketing channels, booking platforms, and social media reach are rarely local. They are usually based in Europe, North America, or Australia. The reefs may be in the Philippines or Indonesia, but the profits are booked in London, Berlin, or California.
This is how the modern ocean becomes real estate. Not through fences or deeds, but through logos, online reviews, and global travel networks. A reef with good visibility and photogenic coral becomes valuable. A reef without an Instagram presence remains invisible. Slowly, what can be marketed becomes what is protected and what is used, while everything else is left behind.
Local people find themselves in a paradox. Their waters are suddenly famous, yet their control over them is reduced. They work as boat crew, instructors, or guides, but rarely as owners. They follow rules written by international agencies and insurance companies. They watch their fishing grounds turned into no take zones not always for conservation, but for tourism.
This is not colonialism in the old sense of flags and armies. It is colonialism through economics, attention, and access.
Who Gets to Use the Reef
Marine parks and protected areas are often presented as a victory for conservation. In many cases they are. Fish populations recover. Coral reefs stabilize. Biodiversity increases. But protection does not automatically mean justice. The question is not only whether a reef is protected, but who is protected from whom.
In several popular dive destinations, local fishers have been banned from traditional fishing grounds to create marine reserves. At the same time, dive boats, liveaboards, and training schools continue to operate in those same waters. The fish cannot be taken, but they can be photographed, marketed, and sold as part of a tourism experience. This creates a system where the reef is protected for visitors, not for the people who have lived alongside it for generations.
The language used to justify this is often environmental. Locals are described as unsustainable or destructive, while tourists are framed as gentle observers. Yet the ecological footprint of dive tourism is rarely small. Boats burn fuel. Anchors damage coral. Thousands of fin kicks disturb sediment and marine life. Waste, sewage, and plastic follow every operation. The difference is not impact, but perception.
A fisherman taking a few reef fish to feed a family looks like extraction. A tourist paying for a guided dive looks like conservation. In reality, both are forms of use. One is simply more profitable to the global economy.
This imbalance becomes more visible when conflicts arise. In parts of the Philippines, Indonesia, and East Africa, there have been disputes between dive operators and local fishers over access to reefs. Fishing nets are removed. Lines are cut. Boats are chased away. The justification is always the same. The reef must be protected for tourism. The reef must remain pristine for visitors.
The result is a quiet transfer of rights. Local communities lose access to resources that sustained them. Foreign operators gain exclusive use of those same spaces. The reef does not belong to everyone anymore. It belongs to those who can monetize it.
The Price of Being a Guide in Your Own Home
Dive tourism creates jobs. That is often presented as its greatest benefit. Local people become instructors, divemasters, boat crew, and safety divers. They gain skills and income. In many places, it is better than fishing or farming. But it is also a form of dependency.
Most dive professionals in tropical destinations work for foreign-owned schools or international franchises. The branding, the pricing, and the marketing are controlled elsewhere. A local instructor may guide dozens of divers a week, yet see only a small fraction of the revenue. Tips become essential. Contracts are seasonal. Health insurance and long term security are rare.
This changes the social structure of coastal communities. Young people stop learning traditional fishing or boat building. They train instead for dive certifications that are valid only as long as the tourism economy holds. When political instability, pandemics, or climate events disrupt travel, those jobs disappear overnight. The reef remains, but the livelihoods built around it collapse.
There is also a cultural cost. Local knowledge of tides, fish behavior, and seasonal patterns is often replaced by standardized training manuals written for a global audience. The sea becomes something you manage through checklists rather than something you know through lived experience.
In some areas, locals are even required to pay to access their own waters. Marine park fees, permit systems, and tourism taxes are structured around foreign visitors, but locals are not always exempt. The ocean becomes something you need permission to enter, even if your family has lived there for centuries.
This is what economic colonization looks like in practice. You are allowed to stay, as long as you work within a system designed by others.
When Conservation Serves the Camera
The modern dive industry runs on images. Reefs, sharks, turtles, and deep blue drop offs are content. They are posted, shared, and monetized. What gets photographed gets protected. What does not fit the visual narrative is ignored.
This creates a dangerous feedback loop. Reefs that are easy to access, well lit, and visually striking become overused. They are promoted by influencers, dive schools, and tourism boards. Boat traffic increases. Human presence becomes constant. Meanwhile, less photogenic or more remote areas receive little attention and little protection.
Local communities quickly learn this logic. To attract investment, they must make their reefs visible to the global audience. That often means allowing more boats, more divers, and more filming. The ecosystem becomes a stage set for international consumption.
Even conservation projects are shaped by this economy. Funding flows toward charismatic species and beautiful locations. Slow, complex work like sewage management, fishing reform, or coastal development control receives far less attention.
In this way, the camera becomes a tool of power. It decides which parts of the ocean matter and which do not. Those who control the narrative also control the flow of money and influence.
For locals, this can feel like being trapped inside someone else’s story. Their home becomes a backdrop. Their reef becomes a brand. Their role is to smile, guide, and stay out of the frame.
What a Fair Ocean Would Look Like
There is nothing wrong with diving. There is nothing wrong with travel. The problem is not people wanting to experience the ocean. The problem is who benefits when they do.
A fairer system would start with local ownership. Dive schools, boats, and tourism infrastructure should belong primarily to the communities that live there. International partnerships can exist, but they should be partnerships, not takeovers.
Marine protection should be co designed with those communities. Fishing restrictions should come with real alternatives and real compensation. Access should not be determined by who can pay the most.
Content creators and brands also have a role. Geotagging, constant promotion, and turning every reef into a destination carry consequences. Sometimes the most responsible choice is to not share everything.
Ultimately, the ocean does not need to be owned to be protected. It needs to be respected. That respect must extend not only to coral and fish, but to the people who have lived with them for generations.
The new colonialism underwater is quiet. It does not arrive with ships and flags. It arrives with cameras, credit cards, and booking platforms. Recognizing it is the first step toward building something better.