The change came suddenly, and with it, a profound sadness settled over our tight-knit neighborhood. For generations, we had enjoyed an unofficial easement, a narrow, sandy path that wound between two older, modest beach cottages. It wasn’t just a shortcut; it was a lifeline, halving the distance to the nearest public beach access and serving as a cherished gathering spot. Our crew would meet there at dusk, watching the waves crash, sharing stories, and forging bonds as resilient as the sea itself. It was a place where children learned to skimboard, where teenagers shared their first secrets, and where elders found solace in the rhythmic roar of the ocean. This path, though technically private property, had been a de facto public good for as long as anyone could remember, a silent agreement woven into the fabric of our coastal community.
Then, the cottages flanking our beloved path were sold. Not to families looking for a summer escape, but to a faceless corporation, a holding company for an ultra-wealthy individual whose name, if we even knew it, would likely mean nothing to us. Almost overnight, a towering, impenetrable fence sprang up, adorned with ‘No Trespassing’ signs that felt less like warnings and more like a cruel declaration of war on our way of life. The path was gone. Our shortcut, our gathering place, our communal window to the vast expanse of the sea, was abruptly sealed off, replaced by an imposing barrier that seemed to mock our memories.
This wasn’t just an isolated incident; it was a microcosm of a much larger, more insidious trend sweeping across coastal communities worldwide. We call them ‘absent squatters’ – not in the traditional sense of occupying land without permission, but in a far more troubling way. These are the billionaires, the global elite, who purchase vast swathes of prime coastal real estate, often for investment, speculation, or as rarely-used trophy properties. They don’t live there. They don’t contribute to the local economy in any meaningful way beyond the initial purchase. Yet, their ownership effectively ‘squats’ on public access, on community heritage, and on the very spirit of our shared natural resources.
The impact of these absent squatters extends far beyond a lost shortcut. It’s an erosion of public space, a slow but relentless privatization of what should be a universal right: access to our beaches, our oceans, our natural heritage. When a billionaire buys a beachfront property, they don’t just acquire a parcel of land; they often acquire control over crucial access points, viewsheds, and even the very character of a coastal town. Properties sit vacant for months, sometimes years, becoming ghost mansions that cast long shadows over vibrant communities. Lights remain dark, gardens unkempt, and the once-bustling sounds of a lived-in neighborhood are replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the distant hum of the ocean.
The economic consequences are equally devastating. Local businesses, from surf shops and ice cream parlors to family-run restaurants, thrive on foot traffic and community engagement. When traditional access points are blocked, when the sense of shared ownership diminishes, and when the demographic shifts from year-round residents and regular visitors to transient, ultra-wealthy owners, these businesses suffer. The vibrant pulse of a tourist town can be replaced by a sterile, exclusive enclave, catering only to the whims of the few. Property taxes, while higher on these luxury estates, often don’t fully offset the loss of community vitality, the strain on infrastructure from sporadic high-demand events, or the fundamental change in the town’s identity.
Moreover, the environmental stewardship of these properties often falls by the wayside. An absentee owner, disconnected from the local ecosystem and community, may be less inclined to maintain dunes, protect fragile habitats, or engage in sustainable practices. Development pressures intensify, pushing for larger, more imposing structures that further privatize views and disrupt natural coastal processes. The delicate balance between human enjoyment and ecological preservation is tipped precariously, often with irreversible consequences for the very natural beauty that drew people to these shores in the first place.
The legal battles are endless and often frustrating for local communities. The concept of ‘prescriptive easements’ – the right to use another’s land for a specific purpose, acquired by continuous, open, and notorious use for a statutory period – is a complex and expensive legal fight. Property rights are fiercely protected, and the resources of a single community or a group of concerned citizens are often dwarfed by the legal might of a billionaire or a corporate entity. The burden of proof falls on the community, requiring extensive documentation, historical testimony, and significant legal fees, making the pursuit of justice an uphill battle against seemingly insurmountable odds.
This phenomenon isn’t just about losing a path; it’s about losing a sense of belonging, a piece of our collective soul. It’s about the widening chasm between the ultra-rich and everyday citizens, where natural resources, once considered common heritage, are increasingly becoming commodities for the privileged few. It’s a stark reminder that wealth, when unchecked and devoid of community responsibility, can erect invisible walls that are far more damaging than any physical fence.
What can be done to reclaim our coasts from these absent squatters? The answer lies in a multi-pronged approach that combines legal advocacy, community organizing, and policy reform. Local governments must be empowered to enact stronger zoning laws that protect public access and limit the scale of development. Legislation can be introduced to mandate public access easements on new coastal developments or to create incentives for existing landowners to maintain historical access points. Public trust doctrines, which assert that certain natural resources are held in trust by the government for the benefit of all citizens, need to be vigorously defended and expanded.
Community groups must continue to organize, raise awareness, and apply pressure on local authorities. Documenting historical access, sharing personal stories, and engaging in peaceful protests can highlight the human cost of privatization. Legal aid societies and environmental advocacy groups can provide crucial support in challenging unlawful closures and defending existing public rights. Furthermore, fostering a culture of responsible land ownership, perhaps through educational campaigns or even social shaming of egregious offenders, can play a role in shifting public perception.
Ultimately, the fight against absent squatters is a fight for the soul of our coastal communities and for the fundamental principle that our natural wonders belong to everyone, not just those with the deepest pockets. It’s a call to action to dismantle the invisible walls, to tear down the metaphorical fences, and to ensure that the beauty and bounty of our beaches remain accessible to all, for generations to come. Our children and grandchildren deserve to experience the same joy of a shortcut to the beach, the same solace of watching the waves, and the same sense of belonging that we once cherished. It’s time to reclaim our shores.