There is something almost surreal about being on a ship like this in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Everywhere I turn there is abundance.

Endless buffets. Perfect pastries. Towers of shrimp. Plates cleared half full. Fresh towels magically appear. Beds get made while we are at breakfast. Music plays. Wine flows. People stroll from one indulgence to another, discussing whether they are hungry enough for lunch after a late breakfast.

And honestly? It is, as I said last week - a lot. I am grateful for the opportunity to experience it.

But I would also be lying if I said I haven’t seen tray after tray of barely touched food disappear into the back kitchen and wondered about the contrast between abundance and need.

Because abundance, by itself, does not guarantee care.

Money moves around the world in astonishing amounts. Americans spend billions traveling abroad every year. Entire economies depend on tourism, hospitality, and global commerce. In many ways, that spending does help people. Jobs matter. Opportunity matters. Dignity matters.

But there is also a difference between abundance flowing toward comfort and abundance intentionally directed toward need.

One buys another dessert because it looks good.

The other makes sure a child eats dinner.

One upgrades a vacation package.

The other funds clean water, vaccines, disaster relief, or literacy programs.

Neither makes someone a bad person. Most of us live somewhere in between. I certainly do. I am on this ship, after all, enjoying the very abundance I am reflecting on.

But maybe that is exactly why the contrast feels so visible out here.

When you watch enough excess, you begin to realize something important: scarcity is not the problem. Distribution is.

There is enough food on this ship each day to feed staggering numbers of people. Yet somewhere tonight, people will still go hungry. Not because humanity lacks resources, but because resources do not naturally flow toward fairness on their own.

That takes intention.

And perhaps that is where organizations like Rotary matter most.

Rotary cannot solve every global problem. We cannot feed every hungry child or rebuild every community after disaster strikes. But Rotary represents something deeply important: people choosing to direct some portion of their abundance toward someone else’s need.

Not because it benefits us directly.

Not because it is efficient.

Not because it earns us anything.

But because somewhere along the way we decided that service and financial aide matters.

As I have wandered this floating city in the middle of the ocean, I keep thinking about how easy it is for all of us — myself included — to slowly normalize excess. To stop noticing. To stop questioning. To stop seeing what gets discarded while others still lack the basics.

Maybe the challenge is not to feel guilty for abundance.

Maybe the challenge is simply not to become numb to it.

And maybe that is one of the quiet purposes of service: to keep our hearts awake in a world that constantly teaches us to look away.