Sometimes, when the Wi-Fi is down at a seaside resort, and the coffee tastes suspiciously like punishment, I stare at the ocean and wonder if there’s more beneath the surface, and oddly enough, my thoughts sail straight to shipwrecks.

Yes, shipwrecks.

Not the ones caused by WhatsApp groups or political manifestos—though both leave their own trail of destruction—but actual ships, lying quietly at the bottom of the ocean.

Ghosts of ambition. Dreams now rusting in peace.

Did you know the United Nations estimates there are three million such wrecks scattered across the ocean floor? That’s right. While we argue on land over petrol prices and cricket team selections, three million vessels lie beneath, most of them unexplored, untouched, and—here comes the haunting bit—unmourned.

Some were ancient merchants, bravely ferrying spices and silk. Others were pirate ships filled with gold and bad intentions. And of course, there’s the Titanic, whose legacy is now a movie and an old hymn. But whether they set sail with a prayer or a war cry, most ended up in the same place—forgotten, sunken, and silent.

And you know what I find fascinating? The ocean remembers better than we do. In those icy depths, there is no media coverage, no likes or retweets. Just cold, deep silence—and the memory of what once was.

Which brings me, quite naturally, to billionaires and politicians.

Because if anyone needs a good underwater reality check, it’s those guys. The ones who strut around with borrowed power and bloated bank balances, who speak like emperors but act like pirates. The ones whose ambitions bulldoze the lives of opponents, flatten villages, and occasionally democracy.

Maybe we should gift them a one-way submarine ticket.

Let them drift slowly past those sunken ships. Let them see broken hulls that once carried dreams of empires. Rusted bolts that once secured the fortunes of the mighty. Skeletons of grand intentions, now serving as coral condominiums for fish.

Because down there, ambition doesn’t wear a Rolex. Down there, nobody asks for your net worth. Down there, what matters is what floated.

And what floats, my dear readers, is not power or position—but goodness. The kind word. The helping hand. The leader who paused to listen. The billionaire who remembered to give. Because while ambition can rise like a ship, it can also sink just as spectacularly.

Goodness, however? It floats.

It doesn’t rust. It’s remembered long after the yachts have sunk and billionaire lists faded.

So yes, I do hope we invent technology that helps us explore every wreck. But more importantly, I hope we invent the wisdom to learn from them. To remind ourselves that our success isn’t measured by how high we sailed—but by what remains after the storm.

Because in the end, wrecks go down.
But good?
Good stays afloat. Forever…!

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