The Irony of The Rich

My partner and I were in Spain this July for a medical surgery. An opportunity had come up, which meant we had to fly to Denia (Dénia). She’s healthy and will, thank you.

Denia is a little fishing town along the south-east coast, facing the Mediterranean, in the province of Valencia, about two hours from the city and an hour from the tourist hot spot of Benidorm. A former Roman port, Denia, with its history, culture, food and wine, will be another tourist destination in the next five to ten years.

If you walk along its coast, across the hot blistering sands, you’ll eventually come to the marina. Once a port for fisherman, sailors, and spice traders, it’s now miles of yachts.

Made up of clubs, restaurants, private docks, and shipyards, it’s a sea (ha!) of wealth under a blistering summer sky. The warm bobbing waves do little to cool and quench the stinging metal and glass in the heat.

At first, you’ll find the walk pleasant, maybe even aspirational. As far as you can see, you’ll find yachts with names in multiple languages and flapping flags denoting their owners; British, Dutch, French, German, Italians, and even some Spaniards, most likely escaping the mainland. Go further, and you’ll find more yachts. And then more. And more still.

You will find ships as big as houses. Near the end of the pier, passing a shipyard birthing vessels half the size of the warehouses, waiting in the sun as the plastic coverings are peeled off in the glare, we found yachts at least three decks high. Aboard were ten or so crewmates, all in white uniform, belonging to, going by the flag, a Swiss tycoon of some kind, presumably on his way for an afternoon spin across the murky blue.

At the far end you’ll find the lower-upper-classes, the admirably grounded single-digit millionaires, those who did, in fact, pull themselves up by their bootstraps (and appreciate the oxymoron). Interestingly, on the day we passed them, they were mostly German, swearing and joking with each other as they scraped barnacles from their beloveds. These were less yachts and more trawlers; vessels meant for people.

This was the truth of wealth on display. Miles of evidence, stretching the coast, of people with more money than sense. Each yacht, from the modest to the monstrous, marked a moment in someone’s life where they thought to themselves “you know what’ll make me stand out…a yacht!” A yacht left to rust and encrust from days, weeks, and months of disuse. A yacht so big you need others to man it, like a child needing a parent to drive the car. A yacht left to sit in a marina with thousands of others who had the same unique dream. A dream only possible because of how unlikely everyone is to use their yacht at the same time, like how gyms can only function because of how few people use them.

I have a great deal of respect for those who trade in the land for the sea and commit to scraping seagull shit, hardening their leathery tan, and rocking with the rhythm of the waters. They didn’t want a yacht; they wanted to enjoy life. But for the others, they have a yacht because it’s what you do. In having the money to buy a yacht, they have trapped themselves into not just owning it, but never having the time to enjoy it, constantly paying for fees and maintenance. Why have a boat so big you can’t sail it? But then again, these are the same people who have houses they can’t possibly clean themselves, cars they can’t service, and fortunes they can’t keep track of. For all those things, they need others.

The irony of being rich is in your insulation you have become more reliant. To have the “freedom” of the open sea, you need people. Wealth frees you at the cost of enmeshment.

#HI