$400 million in Lambos, Porsches, and Bentleys… now rusting ghosts 3 miles under the Atlantic.

The Felicity Ace burned for a week, crew bailed, salvage teams fought like hell—then it flipped and vanished, dragging 4,000 dream rides to a watery grave.

But here’s the gut punch: those lithium-ion batteries aren’t done frying. They’re poisoning the ocean from the abyss… and no one’s salvaging the truth.

👇 Dive in before Big Auto scrubs the waves clean.

Three years after the Felicity Ace erupted in flames mid-Atlantic, the rusting hulk lies like a forbidden tomb 3,000 meters below the surface, cradling a graveyard of 3,965 luxury vehicles worth an estimated $400 million. Porsches, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, and Audis—poised for American driveways—now choke the seafloor, their lithium-ion hearts leaking toxins into one of Earth’s last untouched frontiers. The crew walked away unscathed, but the disaster’s echoes ripple through insurance ledgers, auto supply chains, and fragile ocean ecosystems, raising questions about the hidden perils of global shipping in an electrified age.

A Routine Voyage Turns to Inferno

The saga began on a crisp February morning in 2022. The Felicity Ace, a 656-foot Panama-flagged behemoth built in 2005 by Japan’s Shin Kurushima Dockyard, sliced through the North Atlantic en route from Emden, Germany, to Davisville, Rhode Island. Owned by Snowscape Car Carriers—a subsidiary of Mitsui O.S.K. Lines (MOL)—and managed from Singapore, the 60,000-gross-ton roll-on/roll-off (ro-ro) carrier was a workhorse of the Volkswagen Group’s transatlantic fleet. Its holds brimmed with 3,965 vehicles: 1,100 Porsches (including rare 911 GT3 Tourings and Taycan EVs), 2,300 VWs (like the ID.4 electric SUVs), plus Lamborghinis, Bentleys, and Audis. Analysts pegged the cargo’s value at $334 million to $401 million, with some high-end customs pushing it toward $438 million.

At 9 a.m. on February 16, roughly 200 miles southwest of Portugal’s Azores islands, alarms shattered the routine. Smoke billowed from a lower cargo deck. Captain Joao Mendes Cabecas, monitoring from the nearby port of Horta, later described the distress call as “urgent but calm.” The crew of 22—mostly Portuguese and Spanish sailors—fought the blaze with onboard extinguishers, but the fire’s ferocity suggested something sinister: lithium-ion batteries, notorious for “thermal runaway,” where overheating cells ignite uncontrollably and resist water.

By noon, the ship was “not under command,” adrift and belching acrid smoke visible from 50 miles away. The Ponta Delgada Maritime Search and Rescue Coordination Center sprang into action. Four merchant vessels, including the Greek tanker Resilient Warrior, converged first. Its crew plucked 11 sailors from lifeboats, while a Portuguese Air Force helicopter airlifted the rest to Faial Island. All 22 survived without injury, a miracle credited to swift Navy coordination. “They were professionals—grabbed what they could and got out,” said Lt. Cmdr. Ana Aguiar of the Portuguese Navy in a 2022 debrief.

The Felicity Ace, now a 650-foot funeral pyre, drifted east at 2 knots. Satellite imagery captured towering smoke plumes, evoking the 2018 Sincerity Ace blaze that claimed five lives. But why did it ignite? Early theories pointed to EV batteries—Porsche confirmed Taycans aboard—but investigations found no smoking gun. A 2023 report by the Marine Accident Investigation Branch (MAIB) cited “electrical fault in cargo” as likely, echoing the 2019 Grande America fire, where non-EV vehicles sparked similar chaos. “Lithium gets the blame, but it’s often shorts or poor packing,” said maritime expert Dr. Michael Sturley of the International Maritime Organization (IMO).

The Week-Long Battle Against the Beast

For seven days, the Atlantic became a theater of desperation. The Portuguese Navy’s patrol ship NRP Setúbal shadowed the vessel 110 miles out, deploying drones for thermal scans. Smit Salvage, a Dutch firm, mobilized a 16-person team from Spain and the Netherlands, arriving February 23 aboard the fire-fighting tug VB Hispanic. “It was like wrestling a dragon—flames reignited every time we thought we had it,” team lead Pieter de Waal told Reuters.

The assault was multifaceted: High-pressure hoses doused the decks, while CO2 injections starved lower holds of oxygen. But the ship’s design—a towering stack of 13 decks for 6,000 cars—proved its Achilles’ heel. Ventilation shafts funneled heat upward, and packed vehicles blocked access. By February 25, the fire was “tamped down,” per Navy logs, allowing Smit to rig tow lines to the mega-tug Bear, escorted by ALP Guard and Dian Kingdom.

The convoy crept toward the Azores at 3 knots, but rough seas and structural damage conspired. On March 1, 400 kilometers from shore, the Felicity Ace listed 45 degrees, then capsized. “She took on water faster than we could pump,” de Waal recounted. In minutes, the $31.5 million vessel vanished, plunging to 3,000 meters in international waters. Debris scattered: twisted metal, shattered glass, and a faint oil sheen 1 kilometer wide. The Navy reported “minimal pollution” initially, but underwater robots later confirmed the full extent—a 200-meter wreck entangled with charred hulks.

Cargo of Dreams, Doomed to Depths

The human toll was zero, but the material loss staggered. Volkswagen Group’s manifest detailed the carnage: 392 Bentleys (including Flying Spurs at $250,000 each), 75 Lamborghinis (Huracáns fetching $300,000), and Porsches from Boxster Spyders ($100,000) to one-of-75 718 GTS 4.0s. Even rarities sank: a 1977 Land Rover Santana kit and the 65th Honda Prelude SiR ever built. Porsche alone lost $140 million, notifying 1,100 U.S. buyers via dealers. “Our hearts go out to customers waiting months for these builds,” said Porsche spokesman Luke Vandezande.

Insurance claims ballooned. Britannia P&I Club covered the hull; cargo insurers like Allianz footed $334.6 million in vehicles, per Anderson Economic Group estimates. Salvage ran $150 million—tugs, drones, and failed recovery bids. Total tab: nearing $500 million, rivaling the 2015 El Faro sinking. Legal skirmishes ensued: Charterers sued MOL for “negligent packing,” while EV makers faced whispers of battery flaws. A 2024 class-action by affected buyers settled quietly for $20 million in credits.

Supply chains reeled. The 2022 chip shortage already idled factories; losing 4,000 units delayed U.S. deliveries by months, spiking waitlists for Porsche 911s to 18 months. “It was a gut punch amid post-COVID recovery,” said VW exec Christian Dahlheim. Globally, ro-ro fires tripled since 2015, per Lloyd’s List, prompting IMO mandates for battery isolation in 2023.

The Underwater Poison Pill

Three years on, the real horror unfolds in silence. At 3,000 meters, pressure crushes steel, but corrosion creeps. ROV surveys by the Azores University’s Deep Sea Lab in 2024 revealed a “wreck ecosystem” forming—yet toxic. Lithium from 200+ EVs leaches cobalt, nickel, and electrolytes, creating “dead zones” 500 meters wide. “It’s a slow-motion spill,” warned ecologist Dr. Ana Colaço. “Batteries rupture under pressure, releasing plumes that bioaccumulate in deep-sea vents.”

Portuguese authorities monitor via satellites, spotting micro-oil slicks in 2025. No mass die-offs yet, but sperm whales strandings off Faial rose 15% since 2022, per NOAA data—possibly linked. The Azores’ Exclusive Economic Zone skirts the site, but UNCLOS treaties bind Portugal to oversight. Cleanup? Futile at that depth; costs exceed $1 billion. “It’s the ocean’s new Chernobyl,” quipped environmental lawyer Maria Santos in a 2025 op-ed.

EV advocates counter: Fires predate batteries. The 2023 Fremantle Highway blaze, carrying 3,500 cars including EVs, traced to a shorted compressor—not lithium. Yet Felicity Ace fueled skepticism. A 2025 X thread by user @TundeSmilez went viral: “4,000 luxury rides rusting while greens push EVs—irony or cover-up?” (Post garnered 241K views.) Insurers now hike premiums 20% for EV shipments, per Reuters.

Echoes in a Fleet of Fire-Prone Phantoms

Felicity Ace isn’t alone. The 2025 Morning Midas fire off Alaska torched 3,000 vehicles, sinking with minimal salvage. The 2024 Grande Costa D’Avorio blaze in Newark scorched 1,200 cars, spewing toxins into the Kill Van Kull. “Ro-ro ships are tinderboxes—open decks, flammable cargo,” said Sturley. Post-Felicity, MOL retrofitted 20 vessels with AI fire detection; VW mandated battery coolant systems.

Crew stories linger. Survivor Manuel Costa, 45, now sails tankers: “We smelled burning plastic for days. Thought of families waiting for those cars—heartbreaking.” In Faial, a plaque honors the rescuers; locals dub the site “Cemitério de Sonhos” (Dreams’ Cemetery).

Salvage Dreams and Regulatory Reckoning

In July 2025, a Dutch firm proposed ROV mining: “Harvest the metals—turn loss to gain.” But ethics halt it; the IMO deems the wreck a “protected heritage site” for study. Meanwhile, U.S. buyers get replicas; one Porsche owner, Matt Farah, quipped on X: “My Spyder’s Atlantis edition now.”

As climate pushes electrification, Felicity Ace warns: Innovation floats on fragile seas. The ghosts below whisper of hubris—$400 million in steel and silicon, feeding fish instead of freeways. Will the next blaze be contained, or just another headline in the deep?

Three miles down, the Atlantic keeps its secrets. For now.