The fourth island nobody asked for

A floating beach club does not sound like a policy problem, that is, until it parks itself in the middle of a public seascape and starts charging admission for what was previously shared.

Marketed in Malta as Noma Island, the venue is a 1,750m2 platform embellished with a bar, restaurant, sunbeds and a pool. This ‘island’, however, did not arrive without controversy. Under its previous name, Canua Island, the project became a flashpoint on France’s Côte D’Azur, described by critics as a visual intrusion, an ecological risk and an unfair form of competition for land-based operators. 

In France, the backlash towards this privatised lido was shaped by regulatory resistance, citizen upheaval and permit refusal, ultimately leading to the sale of the floating venue to a Maltese company. Its promoters have since framed Malta as a “more favourable environment” in which to operate.

This phrase should sting because it points towards failure rather than virtue. A more favourable environment can imply easier access to permits, weaker enforcement or a political willingness to treat marine spaces as monetisable experiences. At a more foundational level, Noma Island raises uncomfortable questions: Who gets to occupy the sea, sell access to it and under what terms can a public marine commons be converted into a private revenue-generating venue?

Malta, like other EU countries, is not short on regulations, agencies or processes capable of shaping what happens on its waters. The uncomfortable variable, however, is political: Are tools being exploited to protect public interest or are they used to normalise privatisation, leading to a scenario where the sea remains public in theory but becomes pay-to-enter in practice?

Projects like this do not materialise out of thin air. They rely on a chain of approvals around mooring, commercial operations, health and safety and environmental scrutiny. This chain is relevant as it is where safeguards are supposed to reside.

What conditions, if any, were imposed? Are there limits on noise, lighting and waste? How will ecological disturbances be prevented? Who is responsible for monitoring compliance?

From an environmental risk assessment perspective, the core issue is evidence: Was the platform’s impact on the sea and marine biodiversity assessed a priori and, if so, can the public see the findings?

A floating venue is not environmentally neutral. It can create multiple stressors at once: seabed disturbances, habitat alterations, light and noise impacts and the risk profile that comes with handling waste.

What really matters, ecologically, is exposure: Where will it be docked? For how long? In what season? And, in the presence of what habitats and species?

If an operator claims “low impact”, this should be demonstrable.

This is especially urgent as parts of Malta’s and Gozo’s coastline are already described as vulnerable. Rizzo et al.’s (2020) research identifies coastal areas east of Marsalforn Bay, including Ramla Bay and the western side of Daħlet Qorrot Bay, as highly vulnerable due to a combination of physical vulnerability and high social vulnerability.

Marketed in Malta as Noma Island, the venue is a 1,750m2 platform embellished with a bar, restaurant, sunbeds and a pool- Kristina Christensen

Other nearby coastal areas show medium vulnerability. The practical implications of this are straightforward; in places where ecological sensitivity and human pressure are already stacked together, one additional attraction is not trivial. It can mirror the incremental push that tips the system from stressed to degraded.

Marine pollution is not an abstract concern. The Environmental Resources Authority (2020) reported that floating marine litter densities are higher within harbours and bays than offshore waters. At the same time, growing concerns around microplastics have increased due to their ubiquity across marine habitats (The Environmental Resources Authority, 2020). In other words, Malta’s waters are not pristine. They are already subject to mass coastal use. Adding a new floating venue, particularly one that concentrates people, raises the obvious question: Are we reducing pressure on marine biodiversity or building new business models that depend on ignoring them?

Just as important to address is the precedent this lido sets. Once one of these floating beach clubs is allowed to operate, it becomes proof-of-concept for the next operator who wants to enjoy the same privilege. Over time, exception turns into normal practice. In a country where land is scarce, contested and highly overdeveloped, the temptation for capitalists is obvious: when the coast is saturated, the sea is an expandable frontier.

The risk is a slow transition from tourism on the waterfront to tourism as waterfront, where marine spaces are treated as spare real estate and the public commons is given away not in one dramatic decision but through fragmented, repeated approvals that gradually change what the coastline is for and who it is for.

This issue is not only an environmental question; it is a moral one. The sea is not an ‘empty lot’. It is a living system and a shared inheritance. If Malta wants to call itself a serious steward of marine biodiversity, the bare minimum is transparency: publish the conditions, the monitoring practices and the environmental impact of this lido.

Without that, a “more favourable environment” is a euphemism for something else. A governance gap large enough to anchor a business in the commons and invoice the public for the privilege of being near it. 

Kristina Christensen, a Maltese citizen based in Denmark, is a postdoctoral researcher in agroecology.