Picture this.
You’re alone on a boat in the middle of the night. The weather is turning, and the power’s out. The GPS flickers once, then dies. The VHF goes quiet. You catch the sharp, chemical scent of smoke rising from the engine room. The bilge pump is silent, and water is coming in. There are no lights on the horizon, and no help on the radio. You’re drifting in the dark, with no idea if anyone’s even looking for you.
That’s what a cascading infrastructure failure feels like: not one boat, not one harbor, but the whole coastline, the entire grid, possibly the entire country—and no harbor in sight.
It’s not a sudden event. Most collapses don’t occur with a bang; they creep. One system fails, then pulls the others down like dominoes. Power grids fail, water stops flowing, cell towers drop, gas stations run dry, food stops moving, hospitals become overrun, and roads become clogged. People panic.
And here’s the thing: there’s a decent chance, say one in five, you’ll see something like this in your lifetime. It could be a cyberattack, a hurricane, an earthquake, a massive wildfire, or perhaps just our ancient, overworked, and neglected infrastructure finally giving out under its own weight. The cause matters less than the effect. What counts is how you recognize it, how you react, and whether you make it through.
Some kid steals a sailboat to get away from zombies
A good example of this kind of thinking comes from an unlikely place: a college campus in Florida. Years ago, the University of Florida’s emergency management team developed a mock disaster plan centered around a zombie apocalypse. No joke. It was an actual campus exercise, complete with stages of infection, resource shortages, and public panic. They mapped out how to maintain power, water, medical care, and security during a complete breakdown scenario.
They didn’t believe that zombies were coming up the St. Johns River. The plan was a creative way to encourage people to consider cascading failures, supply chain collapse, public unrest, and infrastructure stress in a manner that felt low-stakes and even somewhat humorous. However, beneath the surface, it was deadly serious.
That zombie plan addressed the same issues as a real disaster would. Loss of power, communications failures, breakdowns in transportation, overwhelmed hospitals, and people becoming desperate. It made people stop and realize how tightly strung our systems are, how quickly they unravel, and how little most people understand about what keeps the lights on and the water flowing.
They eventually pulled the document down after it made national news. Some people thought it trivialized disaster planning. But it did exactly what it was meant to do. It made people look past their assumptions, see the fragility in the system, and consider what they would actually do when things went wrong. Because whether it’s zombies, a hurricane, or a supply chain collapse, the symptoms look the same.
As sailors, we already embody this mindset. We prepare for what might break. We think ahead for lengthy passages and secure anchorages. That same kind of clear-eyed, quietly serious preparation will be essential if things fall apart onshore as well. Furthermore, we don’t need a zombie plan to remind us.
We had a taste of systemic failure for cruisers
We don’t need to guess what this looks like. Just ask the cruising community in the Caribbean during the early COVID-19 lockdowns.
When the world shut down in 2020, sailors found themselves in a difficult situation. Borders closed overnight. Ports of entry stopped accepting vessels. Anchorages that had been open and friendly for decades suddenly became hostile or cautious. It didn’t matter if you’d been offshore for three weeks with only your own family aboard; you were treated like a floating biohazard.
Some boats were refused entry outright. Others were told to anchor out and not come ashore. Supplies became scarce. Water was not easy to find in places where you normally filled tanks at the fuel dock. Fuel itself became problematic on certain islands. Garbage piled up on decks. Spare parts for critical systems? Forget it. And with each island setting its own rules, you couldn’t simply pick up anchor and head for the next safe harbor. There wasn’t one.
People found themselves as stranded couples, solo sailors, or families with children. Some lived at anchor for months, carefully managing their water and food supplies as if they were under a wartime blockade. Others exhausted their funds because banks and ATMs were inoperative, and Western Union didn’t wire money to a dinghy at anchor.
But here’s the thing: cruisers adapted. They formed radio nets, organized supply runs via VHF, and established private delivery arrangements with local farmers and fishermen. They kept one another informed about changing rules, which islands still allowed boats in, and where to find water or a few gallons of diesel. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked because they had no choice.
That whole episode served as a real-world reminder of how quickly systems can fail, how rapidly you can go from living the dream to rationing rice and fixing a bilge pump with parts scavenged from a wreck. For those paying attention, it proved that self-reliance and community matter more than convenience and optimism when things go sideways.
Those were merely lockdowns. No storm, no war, no cyberattack. Yet, people nearly ran out of fuel, food, water, and money. Reflect on what occurs when the breakdown runs deeper.
You wouldn’t want to be the boat that came in empty-handed then, and you sure won’t want to be that boat next time either.
The Slow Creep of Collapse
At first, most folks won’t notice. Maybe a display malfunctions for a second. The radio cuts out for an afternoon. Power is out for a day, no big deal. But it’s like rust on your keel bolts. A little flake here and there is no problem. Let it go long enough, and you will be swimming in the drink.
Modern society relies on a web of invisible systems, especially regarding boats. Power, clean water, roads, logistics networks, and healthcare finance are all intricately connected. Pull one thread too hard, and the entire system unravels. Most people remain unaware of its fragility because, when it operates smoothly, it goes unseen.
But when one piece breaks, as it inevitably does, it drags the others down with it. The power goes out. So do the water pumps. So do the gas station pumps. Cell towers go dark. Grocery store freezers warm up. Traffic lights blink out. The longer this lasts, the more threads snap. Before long, you’re not facing an inconvenience; you’re confronting a system-wide failure.
Why most people sink with the ship
If you’ve ever seen someone freeze up on a boat when the engine dies or a squall hits, you know what follows. Fear takes over. They stop thinking. The same thing happens on land when systems fail. Most people lack a plan and don’t even know where to start. They wait for the government, utility companies, or police to fix things. And while they wait, the situation worsens. People believe they will survive, but they never plan for it. They never take that extra step to actually think through what will happen. I see the same thing with people who sail over the horizon and encounter their first big issue.
Here’s the straightforward truth:
We are overly dependent.
Many people do not comprehend how things work.
Almost nobody truly understands how dependent they are on others.
They flip a switch, and the lights come on. Turn a tap, and water flows. Open an app, and dinner shows up at the front door. It feels like magic because it has always worked. When something works consistently, people stop thinking about it.
Nobody has paid attention to how fragile those systems are. Not really.
Take power. The grid isn’t some rugged, bulletproof system. It’s a patchwork of old wires, overloaded substations, and aging power plants held together by hope and duct tape. A few big storms, a well-placed cyberattack, or just bad luck can knock out entire regions. And when the grid goes down, everything connected to it follows.
Water? Same story. Most city water systems were built decades ago. The pipes are corroded, valves seize up, and treatment plants run on electricity. No power means no pumps. No pumps mean no water pressure. And if they can’t treat what’s coming in, they will just shut it off.
Food is worse. Grocery stores lack warehouses in the back. They have maybe three days’ worth of stock. After that, there are empty shelves. Trucks can’t run without fuel. Fuel doesn’t move without power. You see how this goes.
Cell towers require power. Banks depend on networks. Hospitals need supplies. The system is interconnected, as tight as a ship’s rigging, and it takes little for one snapped line to begin bringing down the rest.
And the average person? They’ve never grown a tomato, never used a map without GPS, never fixed a car, patched a roof, or filtered their own water. They don’t have a clue what to do if those comforts stop. Worse, they don’t believe it ever could.
That’s the real danger: not only that we rely on fragile systems, but also that we’ve built a culture convinced these systems are invincible.
They aren’t.
A flashlight, a couple of AA batteries, and three bottles of water won’t suffice if the grid is down for weeks. In fact, that won’t even last you through the first three days. When you live on a boat, where your life already depends on the systems you maintain and the supplies you carry, you should know better.
Most cruisers like to imagine they’re self-reliant. And to a point, they are. But even among sailors, many folks haven’t truly stress-tested their setups. They have a ditch bag tucked away under the nav seat, a couple of old cans of beans, and a half-charged handheld VHF. When the wind picks up and the autopilot fails, or the inverter dies halfway through a stormy night, you quickly learn what you actually need and what you don’t have.
Now imagine that scenario, but onshore: no power, no stores open, no fuel at the docks, no working ATMs, no cell signal, and no Coast Guard on channel 16. Just you and what you have in your lockers.
Examine your supplies closely right now. Not just the snacks and rum, but the essentials. How long could you actually feed your crew if the marina shut down? What if the grocery store shelves remained bare for a month? Could you create potable water without running your electric pump or topping off at a dock? Could you treat a serious gash if no one answered the radio? Could you stay warm without shore power, or keep cool when the wind dies and the sun beats down?
Most people ashore and a fair number afloat think disasters are like they show in movies. The cavalry shows up. Helicopters drop supplies. Some radio call to FEMA gets the water and food moving. The truth is, in a real breakdown, nobody’s coming fast. When the grid’s down and systems fail, you’re on your own. For days. Maybe weeks. Maybe longer.
The average land-based “emergency kit” is a bad joke. A dented can of soup, a dead flashlight, and a radio with corroded batteries. There’s no water filter, no backup fuel, no way to cook without power, no means to catch water, or trade for what’s needed. No workable plan.
It’s easy to wave this off and tell yourself you’ll figure it out. But sailors know better. You don’t “figure out” how to reef in 35 knots at 2 a.m. You don’t “figure out” how to fix a seized bilge pump with water coming in. You either prepared, or you didn’t. And you survive, or you don’t, based on that.
You don’t rise to the occasion; you fall to your level of preparation. And for most people, that level is dangerously low.
Being prepared involves more than just a flashlight and a bottle of water. It requires having the tools, supplies, and skills needed to navigate storms you didn’t see coming. It signifies redundancy. It involves drills. It entails a practical plan that you’ve actually tested. For cruisers, it should become second nature.
If you wouldn’t cast off the dock lines with a rotted mainsheet and no spare water, don’t live on land or at anchor like the world won’t go sideways.
Because one day, it will.
We’re Broke
Many people are just one missed paycheck away from trouble. On land, most individuals don’t keep much cash around. They rely on plastic cards, apps, and direct deposit. When the systems fail, so does the money. ATMs deplete quickly. Debit cards are merely pieces of plastic without a functioning network. You can’t Venmo your way through a grid failure.
Now consider this from a cruiser’s perspective.
Out here, you already know what it’s like to be your own bank. There’s no ATM floating in the anchorage. If you didn’t grab enough cash before leaving the last port, you might not see another working machine for weeks. And it’s not just money: diesel, fresh water, propane, and parts are all currency when you’re on the hook for long stretches. You learn quickly what’s valuable and what isn’t when the dock is a hundred miles away.
The same applies on land when systems collapse. Those living paycheck to paycheck, with no savings and no cash on hand, will be the first to hit the wall. When grocery stores stop accepting cards and gas station pumps won’t operate, desperation spreads. People begin selling what little they have for fuel, food, and medicine.
And don’t think you’ll be immune to it. Even cruisers who believe they’re independent rely on land-based systems more than they admit. That spare part you ordered online? Not coming. That propane refill you counted on in town? Closed. Those provisioning runs? Shelves stripped bare. If you haven’t planned for long stretches without resupply and without spending a dime, you’re going to feel it.
This isn’t about hoarding gold or burying cash in the bilge. It’s about understanding that when systems fail, money loses its meaning quickly. Trade, barter, and relationships take its place. Fuel becomes more valuable than paper bills. Clean water is worth more than a pocketful of credit cards. A jar of peanut butter or a can of propane will get you further than a stack of twenties.
You’ll need a mix of things: cash, while it still works; trade goods, tools, extra fuel, fishing tackle, canned food, medicine, and hardware. Most importantly, skills. If you can fix a water pump, sew a sail, or run a net for fish, you’re worth more to your neighbors than any wallet full of cards.
You wouldn’t leave the dock without spare parts, extra water, and a way to patch your rig. Don’t live on land like a fool without a plan for when the cash machines go dark.
Because when the economy stalls, and it always does eventually, the broke and the unprepared go under first. Sailors should know better.
We’ll Turn on Each Other
Panic spreads quickly. Desperate people commit desperate, ugly acts. On land, it happens swiftly. You’ve witnessed it during hurricanes, blackouts, and fuel shortages. Looting. Fights over bottled water. Gas station brawls. People aren’t as civilized as they pretend to be when the lights are on and the fridge is full.
At sea or in anchorages when systems fail, it looks different. It’s quieter, slower, but it’s still there.
Cruisers like to believe in the brotherhood of the sea. That we all help each other out, because we’re all out here living the same risky, beautiful life. And for the most part, that’s true .right up until it isn’t. The reality is this: when someone’s kid is sick, when their water tanks run dry, when their anchor rode parts in a squall and they can’t get a tow, the lines between neighborly and needy get blurry fast.
You might not face roving mobs offshore. But you will face quiet, desperate knocks on the hull at midnight. You’ll deal with lies, half-truths, and folks who “just need a little fuel,” or “just one gallon of water.” And what happens when you don’t have enough to go around? Or when giving to one person means your family comes up short?
Out here, word travels fast. If you’re the boat with extra water, fuel, working comms, or medical supplies, people will know. Not everyone handles desperation the same way. Most will be honest about it; some won’t. Theft happens in anchorages—always has, always will. A dinghy vanishes in the night, a jerry can disappears off a rail, and a lazarette latch mysteriously works itself open.
Now imagine a prolonged collapse. No supply boats are coming. No marinas are open. No parts shipments are on the way. Everyone is stuck in place, living off what they have or what they can scavenge. Tension builds. Trust frays. The cruisers you knew as good people can start to act like anyone else when their kids are hungry and their tanks are dry.
And then there’s shore. If you’re within reach of a town or desperate mainlanders, things get worse. Small boats head out to anchored vessels under the cover of darkness. Not waving hello. Not asking permission. They’re not interested in friendship; they’re interested in what’s in your lockers.
Getting ahead of it is the smart move.
Supplies Dry Up
On land, when systems fail, the shelves empty in hours, not days. No trucks, no groceries. No insulin. No fuel. People stand in line for bottled water and canned beans, and by the time you get there, they’re gone. It happens quickly, because most modern supply chains don’t carry much slack.
Out here, it’s even worse. Cruisers already live on the thin edge of resupply. You can’t run down to the corner store when you forget something. If the supply boat doesn’t show, the dock remains empty. If the town’s out of fuel, your jerry cans stay dry. In a prolonged collapse, those boats stop coming altogether.
You know how it works. A bad storm or mechanical problem keeps a mail boat from the islands for a week, and suddenly there’s no milk, no bread, no fresh produce. That’s during normal times. Now imagine the entire system locked up. Fuel deliveries stop. Cargo ships sit in port or never leave. Customs offices shutter. Airports close. No parts. No food. No propane. No ice. No rum. Nothing.
If you didn’t bring it, catch it, grow it, or trade for it, you won’t have it.
And this isn’t just about luxuries. It’s about the essentials:
Water filters and water maker parts. Break one, and there’s no replacement.
Spare parts and consumable supplies. A snapped belt or clogged fuel filter means a dead engine, and nobody’s overnighting you a new one.
Medicine and surgical tools. Whatever’s in your kit is all you’ll get.
Fishing gear. Lose a lure or snap a rod? Hope you have spares.
Fuel. When the last jerry can runs dry, your options shrink fast.
Even in places known for their cruiser camaraderie, there’s a limit. If nobody has spare propane, no one is giving you theirs. People will trade, sure: a tin of coffee for a bag of rice, a solar light for a gallon of water, but only while there’s extra to go around. When the resupply chain dies, generosity fades.
The smart cruisers already know this. They stock deeply. Not just more food and water, but doubles and triples of critical parts. Two filters instead of one. An extra impeller. Spare oil. Rope. Hose clamps. Tools. Items you can jury-rig with. And they plan for weeks, not days, between restocks.
Water is the most critical element. Forget canned goods; you can survive without food for a long time, but without fresh water, you’re finished. If you don’t have a reliable method to catch, create, or store water, you’re taking a risk. Rain barrels, watermakers, gravity filters—it doesn’t matter how, but you’d better have a plan that works without power or outside assistance.
When the supply lines dry up, it won’t feel like a disaster movie; it’ll feel like waiting. You’ll wake up, check the horizon, and see nothing, day after day. No mail boat, no fuel barge, no fresh food on shore, and no parts order waiting at the dockmaster’s office.
And every day that passes, what you have on board matters more than what is left behind.
Don’t Wait for Rescue
You wouldn’t head offshore with a rotten rudder, a dead backup compass, and a half-empty water tank, hoping that some stranger will come bail you out. You wouldn’t bet your life on luck and a prayer. And you sure as hell wouldn’t sail into a storm thinking that someone will probably show up if it gets bad enough.
So don’t live like that on shore, at anchor, or anywhere else.
When the systems start to wobble, and they always do eventually, you won’t get much warning. A few rolling blackouts, a storm that takes out the radio tower, and empty shelves where fuel used to be. It won’t feel like collapse at first; it’ll feel like an inconvenience. But the smart ones, the sailors of the world, know better.
Because here’s the thing that no one mentions in those prepping shows and end-of-the-world novels: you’re already halfway there.
If you live on a boat or know how to sail one, you already know what it’s like to live without constant backup. You plan ahead, fix things when they break, carry spares, and store extra water. You think about weather, currents, and escape routes. You understand that your neighbors matter. You already get it.
And when things go wrong, you won’t need to panic. You’ll tighten your rig, check your water tanks, take stock of your supplies, and look out for your people. You’ll ride it out, just like you always do.
This isn’t about being afraid. It’s about being ready. It’s about building a life where you don’t have to gamble on whether help arrives in time. It’s about knowing that if the grid goes down, the water stops flowing, and the town shuts down, you have what you need and know how to use it.
And it doesn’t have to be grim. Cruisers know better than most; some of the best memories happen when the plan falls apart. When you fix the engine with an old hose clamp. When you catch dinner with a handline. When you share stories over rum by lantern light because the power’s out and nobody cares.
That isn’t survival; that’s living.
So pay attention. Keep your gear tight, your supplies stocked, your skills sharp, and your people close. Not because you’re scared of what’s coming, but because you’re smart enough to respect the sea and the world ashore for what it is.
Nobody’s coming fast when things go sideways. And that’s fine.
Because you don’t need rescuing.
