This first-person narrative originates from an extended interview with Kaisu Koskela, a forty-eight-year-old postdoctoral researcher who focuses her academic and advisory work on the phenomenon of digital nomadism — the lifestyle of professionals who combine work and travel through location independence. The piece has been carefully edited to ensure clarity while maintaining the authenticity of her voice and reflections.
For the past fifteen years, I’ve lived and worked as a digital nomad, constantly moving between countries and adapting to new environments. During this time, Nomad Cruise repeatedly appeared in conversations among fellow travelers, occupying a near-mythic status in our remote-working circles. Initially conceived about a decade ago as a simple means of relocating remote employees between continents, the cruise has since transformed into an expansive, twice-yearly event that blends travel, networking, and education — essentially a floating conference dedicated to the global nomad community.
As someone who not only studies digital nomad culture but also advises policy on emerging mobility patterns, my curiosity about this unique maritime gathering had been simmering for years. After much discussion and logistical juggling, my partner and I finally decided to take the plunge and book the 27-day trans-Pacific voyage from Seattle to Sydney. Neither of us had ever experienced a cruise before, and the anticipation was mixed with the nervous excitement that always accompanies the unknown. Boarding felt like stepping into an entirely new dimension of travel — communal yet transient, structured yet liberating.
Once settled aboard, it didn’t take long for us to find our rhythm within the ship’s ever-changing atmosphere. There was a constant flow of activity: professional workshops discussing entrepreneurship, lifestyle optimization, and location-independent work; personal development sessions; creative meetups; and roundtable discussions that blurred the boundary between learning and leisure. And all of that was merely the curated nomad program. The ship itself layered on additional opportunities for engagement, including live cabaret performances, lectures about Pacific geography and history, and cultural showcases. On port days, we’d wake up to new worlds — Hawaii, Samoa, and other breathtaking stops inviting brief yet memorable encounters.
With the ship equipped with Starlink Wi-Fi, remaining connected to our digital workspaces was surprisingly effortless. I met people across diverse fields: artificial intelligence researchers, video producers, UX designers, and freelance writers, among others. Yet, despite this connectivity, productivity was not the primary concern. The long ocean stretches, some lasting more than two weeks without sight of land, naturally slowed our pace. I had intended to finish an academic article during the voyage but soon abandoned that plan — and, to my surprise, I didn’t feel guilty about it. The experience itself held more value than ticking items off a to-do list.
Among the roughly 230 participants, the diversity of backgrounds and ages reflected a cross-section of the modern nomad world. The youngest traveler was only twenty-three, while the oldest was in their sixties, with most hovering around their thirties — the demographic heart of the movement. The cruise operated as a peer-learning conference, built on the principle of mutual exchange. Attendees delivered talks, shared their expertise, and offered workshops free of charge. I contributed a presentation on digital nomad visas and later provided one-on-one consultations to fellow travelers eager to navigate the legal frameworks of remote work migration. In exchange, others shared their mastery: a performance coach guided me through pre-talk nerves, while a designer demystified the visual logic underlying one of my more confusing charts. The atmosphere encouraged everyone to both teach and learn — a living embodiment of skill-sharing economies.
To my surprise, a significant portion of attendees were not yet nomads at all. They had come seeking inspiration, perhaps chasing an unfulfilled dream of freedom. Many balanced precariously between corporate burnout and the yearning for autonomy. A recurring theme emerged in countless conversations: a collective recognition that staying tethered to an employer that erodes one’s energy and well-being is unsustainable. I witnessed moments of remarkable courage — individuals resigning from jobs mid-journey, finally deciding to forge their independent paths.
As the voyage unfolded, creativity blossomed spontaneously. Within days, a passenger organized a choir, and I eagerly joined. Our group began rehearsing during sea days, culminating in a full concert under professional lighting and sound. For me, singing had long been one of those passions sacrificed to a life of perpetual travel — an indulgence I rarely found space for. Rediscovering it onboard felt revitalizing, like reclaiming a missing piece of identity. Similarly, social meetups proliferated across the ship. One afternoon, I impulsively hosted a “speed puzzling” session and was astonished when a participant turned out to be a competitor in the World Puzzling Championship. What began as a lighthearted idea evolved into a mini masterclass, bridging fun and expertise. The community’s size and diversity ensured that no matter how niche an interest might be — from drone photography to marine sketching — someone else was eager to join.
Life onboard was exceptionally comfortable. The crew’s attentiveness and the ship’s friendly ambiance made the days glide smoothly. Yet, disembarking as a cruise tourist brought mixed feelings. Our final stop, Vanuatu, introduced me to an aspect of tourism I found unsettling. We were ferried to a pristine, uninhabited island that had been temporarily transformed with bars and food stalls built solely for passengers’ pleasure. Technically, I could now say I had “been to” Vanuatu, but I left without encountering any local community or culture — an absence that felt hollow. On most stops, the short time limits reinforced this sense of superficiality; we generally had to return by mid-afternoon, often before real immersion was possible. Early in the journey, in Maui, my partner and I rushed frenetically through sightseeing, only to realize it provided little more than cursory images — experiences that YouTube or a travel blog could easily replicate. By the time we reached Savusavu in Fiji, we had adjusted our approach, simply strolling through the local market without an agenda. That unstructured wandering, however modest, offered a more authentic glimpse of local life than any checklist-driven excursion.
The immensity of the Pacific Ocean left a deep impression on me. The vastness was surreal — a week from Seattle to Hawaii, then sixteen long, water-bound days to Samoa with no other ships in sight, only an infinite horizon broken occasionally by dolphins racing alongside. One of the voyage’s most memorable moments was the traditional Crossing the Line ceremony, held for those crossing the equator for the first time. Following maritime tradition, we kissed a symbolic fish, laughed collectively, and plunged into the pool amid cheers — a playful ritual marking passage between hemispheres.
The experience was far from inexpensive. The cruise cost €4,300, roughly $5,000 per person, a figure that made us deliberate before committing. We opted for a modest cabin with a small window — basic but comfortable — and dined splendidly, relishing generous meals that could rival fine restaurants. Alcohol was not included, though happy-hour pricing made indulgence affordable at around six dollars per glass of wine. Onboard purchases included an automatic 18% service charge, along with a daily crew appreciation fee of about $17. Despite these expenses, it struck me that arranging comparable travel independently — especially across so many distant islands — would have been far more expensive and logistically complex. Once aboard, money gradually ceased to occupy my thoughts; the sense of all-inclusiveness was liberating.
When the final day arrived and the month-long voyage concluded, stepping back into ordinary life felt strangely disorienting. The ship had become a self-contained microcosm — a temporary yet intense community. Departing that floating world meant leaving behind new friendships, shared rituals, and the mesmerizing simplicity of watching sunsets and seabirds over open water. I left with the quiet certainty that many of the connections forged there, whether professional or personal, would endure beyond the ocean horizon. The physical journey had ended, but the sense of belonging and inspiration we cultivated together continued to ripple forward, redefining what travel means in an age of boundless mobility.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/digital-nomad-cruise-seattle-to-sydney-pacific-hobbies-community-relationships-2025-12
