Off my local beach, a string of five turbines sprout from the horizon, extending outwards from the port of Blyth – historically a major point for coal export, and more recently a base for the testing and construction of offshore wind.
I find them comforting: a sign of the potential for a sea change in the technologies that underpin our civilization. They are also a reminder of the energy transition that is creaking into existence, too slowly, its shape still ripe for contestation.
‘Offshore’. It’s a word that conjures images of the high seas, open water and the lawlessness of pirates and tax havens: the cut-throat world of shipping under flags of convenience, the financial cowboys and money laundering of ‘low tax jurisdictions’ like Cyprus and the Cayman Islands.
It’s also associated with the jargon of the offshore wind sector’s older relative, the oil and gas industry, as well as evoking images of virgin, bleak wilderness – out of sight and out of mind. A place for things that might be unwanted on land: creating conflicts with Indigenous groups or local communities glibly cast as ‘NIMBYs’ when they oppose changes to their environment in the service of profits that are invariably siphoned elsewhere.1
The potential for placing turbines on the seabed, generating power amid the waves, offers a convenience for politicians and corporations. This has been seen clearly in the UK, where an at-least-implicit pact between
