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The CO2 that is extracted from the water is run through a purification process that uses activated carbon in the form of charred coconut husks, and is then ready to be stored.
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In a scaled up system, it would be fed into geological CO2 storage. Before the water is released, its acidity is restored to normal levels, making it ready to absorb more carbon dioxide from the air.

“This discharged water that now has very low carbon concentrations needs to refill it, so it’s just trying to suck CO2 from anywhere, and it sucks it from the atmosphere,” says Halloran. “A simple analogy is that we’re squeezing out a sponge and putting it back.”

While more tests are needed to understand the full potential of the technology, Halloran admits that it doesn’t “blow direct air capture out the water in terms of the energy costs,” and there are other challenges such as having to remove impurities from the water before releasing it, as well as the potential impact on ecosystems. But, he adds, all carbon capture technologies incur high costs in building plants and infrastructure, and using seawater has one clear advantage: It has a much higher concentration of carbon than air does, “so you should be able to really reduce the capital costs involved in building the plants.”
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Mitigating impacts
One major concern with any system that captures carbon from seawater is the impact of the discharged water on marine ecosystems. Guy Hooper, a PhD researcher at the University of Exeter, who’s working on this issue at the SeaCURE site, says that low-carbon seawater is released in such small quantities that it is unlikely to have any effect on the marine environment, because it dilutes extremely quickly.

However, that doesn’t mean that SeaCURE is automatically safe. “To understand how a scaled-up version of SeaCURE might affect the marine environment, we have been conducting experiments to measure how marine organisms respond to low-carbon seawater,” he adds. “Initial results suggest that some marine organisms, such as plankton and mussels, may be affected when exposed to low-carbon seawater.”

To mitigate potential impacts, the seawater can be “pre-diluted” before releasing it into the marine environment, but Hooper warns that a SeaCURE system should not be deployed near any sensitive marine habitats.

There is rising interest in carbon capture from seawater — also known as Direct Ocean Capture or DOC — and several startups are operating in the field. Among them is Captura, a spin off from the California Institute of Technology that is working on a pilot project in Hawaii, and Amsterdam-based Brineworks, which says that its method is more cost-effective than air carbon capture.
According to Stuart Haszeldine, a professor of Carbon Capture and Storage at the University of Edinburgh, who’s not involved with SeaCURE, although the initiative appears to be more energy efficient than current air capture pilot tests, a full-scale system will require a supply of renewable energy and permanent storage of CO2 by compressing it to become a liquid and then injecting it into porous rocks deep underground.

He says the next challenge is for SeaCURE to scale up and “to operate for longer to prove it can capture millions of tons of CO2 each year.”

But he believes there is huge potential in recapturing carbon from ocean water. “Total carbon in seawater is about 50 times that in the atmosphere, and carbon can be resident in seawater for tens of thousands of years, causing acidification which damages the plankton and coral reef ecosystems. Removing carbon from the ocean is a giant task, but essential if the consequences of climate change are to be controlled,” he says.

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This company says its technology can help save the world. It’s now cutting 20% of its staff as Trump slashes climate funding
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Two huge plants in Iceland operate like giant vacuum cleaners, sucking in air and stripping out planet-heating carbon pollution. This much-hyped climate technology is called direct air capture, and the company behind these plants, Switzerland-based Climeworks, is perhaps its most high-profile proponent.

But a year after opening a huge new facility, Climeworks is straining against strong headwinds. The company announced this month it would lay off around 20% of its workforce, blaming economic uncertainties and shifting climate policy priorities.
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“We’ve always known this journey would be demanding. Today, we find ourselves navigating a challenging time,” Climeworks’ CEOs Christoph Gebald and Jan Wurzbacher said in a statement.

This is particularly true of its US ambitions. A new direct air capture plant planned for Louisiana, which received $50 million in funding from the Biden administration, hangs in the balance as President Donald Trump slashes climate funding.

Climeworks also faces mounting criticism for operating at only a fraction of its maximum capacity, and for failing to remove more climate pollution than it emits.

The company says these are teething pains inherent in setting up a new industry from scratch and that it has entered a new phase of global scale up. “The overall trajectory will be positive as we continue to define the technology,” said a Climeworks spokesperson.

For critics, however, these headwinds are evidence direct air capture is an expensive, shiny distraction from effective climate action.

These preppers have ‘go bags,’ guns and a fear of global disaster. They’re also left-wing
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The day after President Donald Trump was elected in 2016, Eric Shonkwiler looked at his hiking bag to figure out what supplies he had. “I began to look at that as a resource for escape, should that need to happen,” he said.

He didn’t have the terminology for it at the time, but this backpack was his “bug-out bag” — essential supplies for short-term survival. It marked the start of his journey into prepping. In his Ohio home, which he shares with his wife and a Pomeranian dog, Rosemary, he now has a six-month supply of food and water, a couple of firearms and a brood of chickens. “Resources to bridge the gap across a disaster,” he said.
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Margaret Killjoy’s entry point was a bleak warning in 2016 from a scientist friend, who told her climate change was pushing the global food system closer than ever to collapse. Killjoy started collecting food, water and generators. She bought a gun and learned how to use it. She started a prepping podcast, Live Like the World is Dying, and grew a community.

Prepping has long been dominated by those on the political right. The classic stereotype, albeit not always accurate, is of the lone wolf with a basement full of Spam, a wall full of guns, and a mind full of conspiracy theories.

Shonkwiler and Killjoy belong to a much smaller part of the subculture: They are left-wing preppers. This group is also preparing for a doom-filled future, and many also have guns, but they say their prepping emphasizes community and mutual aid over bunkers and isolationism.

In an era of barreling crises — from wars to climate change — some say prepping is becoming increasingly appealing to those on the left.
The roots of modern-day prepping in the United States go back to the 1950s, when fears of nuclear war reached a fever pitch.

The 1970s saw the emergence of the survivalist movement, which dwindled in the 1990s as it became increasingly associated with an extreme-right subculture steeped in racist ideology.

A third wave followed in the early 2000s, when the term “prepper” began to be adopted more widely, said Michael Mills, a social scientist at Anglia Ruskin University, who specializes in survivalism and doomsday prepping cultures. Numbers swelled following big disasters such as 9/11, Hurricane Katrina in 2005 and the 2008 financial crisis.

A watershed moment for right-wing preppers was the election of Barack Obama in 2008, Mills said. For those on the left, it was Trump’s 2016 election.

Preppers of all political stripes are usually motivated by a “foggy cloud of fear” rather than a belief in one specific doomsday scenario playing out, Mills said. Broad anxieties tend to swirl around the possibility of economic crises, pandemics, natural disasters, war and terrorism.

“We’ve hit every one of those” since the start of this century, said Anna Maria Bounds, a sociology professor at Queens College, who has written a book about New York’s prepper subculture. These events have solidified many preppers’ fears that, in times of crisis, the government would be “overwhelmed, under-prepared and unwilling to help,” she said.

Many left-wing preppers also have guns.
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Killjoy is open about the fact she owns firearms but calls it one of the least important aspects of her prepping. She lives in rural Appalachia and, as a transgender woman, says the way she’s treated has changed dramatically since Trump’s first election. For those on the left, guns are “for community and self-defense,” she said.

Left-wing preppers consistently say the biggest difference between them and their right-wing peers is the rejection of “bunker mentality” — the idea of filling a bunker with beans, rice, guns and ammo and expecting to be able to survive the apocalypse alone.

Shonkwiler gives an example of a right-wing guy with a rifle on his back, who falls down the stairs and breaks a leg. If he doesn’t have medical training and a community to help, “he’s going to die before he gets to enjoy all his freeze-dried food.”

“People are our greatest asset,” Killjoy said. When Hurricane Helene carved a path of destruction through Asheville, North Carolina in 2024, Killjoy, who used to live in the city, loaded her truck with food and generators and drove there to help.
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Inshirah Overton also subscribes to the idea of community. The attorney, who came to prepping after enduring Hurricane Irene in 2011, owns a half-acre plot of land in New Jersey where she grows food and has beehives.

She stores fruit, vegetables and honey but also gives them to friends and neighbors. “My plan is to create a community of people who have a vested interest in this garden,” she said.

At one point, Overton toyed with the idea of buying a “bug-out” property in Vermont, somewhere to escape to, but desire for community for her and her two daughters stopped her. In Vermont, “no one knows me and I’m just a random Black lady, and they’ll be like: ‘Oh, OK, right, sure. You live here? Sure. Here’s the barrel of my shotgun. Turn around.’”
This focus on community may stem in part from left-wing preppers’ growing fears around the climate crisis, predicted to usher in far-reaching ecological, social and economic breakdown. It cannot be escaped by retreating to a bunker for a few weeks.

As Trump guts weather agencies, pledges to unwind the Federal Emergency Management Administration and slashes climate funding — all while promising to unleash the fossil fuel industry — climate concerns are only coming into sharper focus.

They’re top of mind for Brekke Wagoner, the creator and host of the Sustainable Prepping YouTube channel, who lives in North Carolina with her four children. She fears increasingly deadly summer heat and the “once-in-a-lifetime” storms that keep coming. Climate change “is just undeniable,” she said.

Her prepping journey started during Trump’s first term. She was living in California and filled with fear that in the event of a big natural disaster, the federal government would simply not be there.

Her house now contains a week’s worth of water, long-term food supplies, flashlights, backup batteries and a solar generator. “My goal is for our family to have all of our needs cared for,” she said, so in an emergency, whatever help is available can go to others.

“You can have a preparedness plan that doesn’t involve a bunker and giving up on civilization,” she said.