Luis Alvarez

The air feels heavier these days, and not just from the humidity that’s always clung to Panama. I’ve worked on the Panama Canal for over a decade now, starting when I was in my early twenties, and I’ve always taken pride in my job. There’s a rhythm to the work, the steady flow of ships from the Pacific to the Atlantic and back again. You feel connected to something global, something bigger than yourself. But lately, that rhythm has been off.

The droughts are getting worse. This year, fewer ships are passing through, and even the ones that do have to carry less cargo, their hulls sitting higher in the water. The rains we’ve always relied on, they aren’t coming like they used to. And the canal, for all its brilliance, runs on fresh water. No rain means no water for the locks. I never used to think about things like that — rain, water, the climate. It just happened. Life just happened.

But now, I’m 34, and I’m watching the canal, our lifeline, dry up bit by bit. I hear people talking—captains, workers, government officials. The $5 billion a year the canal brings in is at risk. Shipping companies are already looking for alternatives, even if these would involve higher costs.

I can’t help but think about the future more than I used to. When I started this job, I thought about my next paycheck, my family, maybe buying a little piece of land. Now, I think about what’s going to happen if the rain doesn’t come back, if the droughts get worse. The government talks about solutions, but there’s no guarantee. The canal has been the heart of Panama for so long, but what if that heart starts to fail?

It scares me, more than I want to admit. Not just for me, but for everyone here. For my kids, if I ever have them. This drought, it feels like the beginning of something. Something bigger than the canal, bigger than Panama. Something we can’t stop.