When someone says, "The ship is unbreakable" — especially in the context of a supposed "Titanic 2.0, now with more Wi-Fi" — it's almost impossible not to hear the echo of history rumbling beneath the words. There’s something deeply human, almost tragically poetic, about the belief that we can finally outwit nature, that our technology has reached such a height that calamity can be politely asked to wait outside. It's the same confidence that surrounded the original Titanic, when it was declared "unsinkable," a claim that lived in newspapers, dinner parties, and the imaginations of the wealthy and the hopeful alike — right up until the icy waters of the North Atlantic offered a brutal correction. So to claim that Titanic 2.0 is "unbreakable," merely updated with stronger materials and, curiously emphasized, "more Wi-Fi," feels like an invitation to fate to test us again. It's the hubris of progress, but wrapped this time in the language of convenience and connectivity. As if signal strength could somehow hold the ocean at bay, or a streaming movie could drown out the ancient forces that have always, and will always, outlast human pride. What makes this even more fascinating is how deeply it speaks to our modern psyche. Today, we view advancement primarily through the lens of comfort and speed. It’s not enough to say the ship is safer; it’s more meaningful, apparently, to say it has better Wi-Fi. That subtle shift reveals something almost tender about where we are as a species: desperate not only to conquer the elements, but to stay plugged into the grid while doing it. To remain reachable, to keep sharing, scrolling, posting — even as we sail across the same unforgiving waters that once swallowed our dreams whole. There's an aching kind of irony here, one that could have been penned by a novelist rather than conjured up by an ad agency or a shipbuilder. Because to loudly announce that a ship is "unbreakable" is to ignore the truth that has always been at the heart of seafaring: that the ocean, with its endless depths and sudden storms, never listens to our declarations. It has its own rules, and it does not negotiate. No ship, no matter how many satellites beam Wi-Fi into its decks, no matter how reinforced the hull, is above the fundamental vulnerability that comes with being human. We build, we boast, we sail — and somewhere, in the cold and indifferent waters, the ocean waits, patient as ever. Perhaps, deep down, we know this. Perhaps that's why we keep building Titanics, over and over again, outfitted with whatever the latest generation values most. Once it was first-class ballrooms and telegraphs; now it’s Wi-Fi and streaming services. Either way, it’s the same old story, the same stubborn hope that this time — this time — we’ll beat the odds. And maybe that's what makes it beautiful too. This persistent, almost childlike insistence that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. That with enough innovation, we can rewrite the laws of nature. That we can outsmart the iceberg not by avoiding it, but by buffering a Netflix movie as we collide. It’s madness, sure. But it’s also so deeply, irresistibly human.