The first scientific illustration of prehistoric times was painted 2 centuries ago. This watercolor represents an aquarium-like view of an epic battle between different dinosaur-like marine species living 200 millions years ago. Looking at it gives you an impression that competition and Jurassic Park aesthetics are inherent features of planet Earth.

But dinosaurs were not the first creatures inhabiting our planet. Much earlier, there were cyanobacteria, the inventors of photosynthesis. They kick-started life on Earth and filled the atmosphere with oxygen, which led to the mass extinction of early life forms and paved the way to the evolution of future ones. What would a painting depicting life on Earth 3 billion years ago would look like?

The answer is quite straight forward. It would actually represent a large body of water covered with cyanobacterial blooms of blue green algae. It is a familiar view to those who have seen the ocean, sea or lake polluted with fertilizers during warm days. I saw that image this summer sailing with Godzilla through the Baltic Sea, from Visby to Stockholm. 

Hugged by the ring of an undisturbed horizon, it felt that our boat was stuck in one place and that only water with its rhythmic waves moved underneath. Stripes of tiny particles of blue green algae of various intensities resembled light green-yellowish glitter. Like tiny stars hanging throughout the volume of entire dark waters, at least as deep and far as I could see. I was staring at them and passing through their hypnotic patterns. They had a surprisingly strong and vivid presence: microscopic organisms counted in nautical miles.

It made me think of Solaris and the ocean depicted in this scifi book by Stanislaw Lem: a vast, sentient entity, covering most of that distant planet. It was confusing for result-driven astronauts and scientists: it was silent but active; it didn’t want to build cities or flying machines; it didn’t try to reduce distances, nor was it concerned with interplanetary conquest. It was only busy with being and transforming itself on and on. Humans tried desperately to communicate with it, without much success. The more they tried the more it revealed their own limitations, fears, regrets, and desires. It was a mirror, reflecting the internal landscapes of the humans who encountered it. The scientists were asking one another helplessly: “How do you expect to communicate with the ocean, when you can’t even understand one another?”

Maybe being a sailor doesn’t differ that much from being an astronaut. What do you see when you look in your own reflection in the fertilized-polluted waters covered with cyanobacteria? What if the overgrowth of these bacteria in the oceans, including Baltic Sea, is not a curse but a message?

I will delve deeper into that reflection in my upcoming work “Invisible Colonies”, a speculative documentary film that tells a new history of humanity from an astronomic and microscopic perspective. The premier is planned in late 2025 and it will include footage shot during my time aboard Godzilla.