Billions of potato-sized rocks are dispersed over a large underwater plateau called the Clarion Clipperton Zone, several kilometers below the Pacific Ocean‘s surface. They appear unremarkable. However, each one contains cobalt, nickel, manganese, and copper—the very elements that battery producers and manufacturers of electric vehicles are secretly clamoring for. A green future is what the world desires. One of the more practical ways to get there could be through these nodules. Additionally, a legal dispute over who gets to pick them up is currently developing covertly into something that has the potential to change international law.
It’s difficult to ignore how the timing seems almost too precise. The International Seabed Authority, a UN-backed organization tasked with regulating the deep seabed, has failed to finalize exploitation rules that were supposed to be ready years ago, while the global push toward electrification is accelerating and supply chains for vital minerals are under strain. Due to the delay, the industry as a whole has entered a sort of legal limbo, which Nauru Ocean Resources Inc., a Canadian-backed company, is now purposefully entering. NORI has declared that on June 27, 2025, it will submit an application to exploit manganese nodules from its licensed zone. There are currently no exploitation laws that it would have to abide by. The whole point of the game is that tension.
This legal architecture is both genuinely fascinating and genuinely complex. UNCLOS, which was signed in 1982, refers to the deep seabed as the “common heritage of mankind,” which sounds lovely until you realize that no one nation can own it and that anyone wishing to extract from it must get approval from a UN body. However, UNCLOS also contains a clause that states that if an application is pending and the ISA’s Council hasn’t completed the exploitation rules, it “shall nonetheless consider and provisionally approve” it. This clause is buried in the Implementation Agreement’s Annex. The word “shall” is important. The language is not optional. It implies that NORI might have more legal clout than most observers acknowledge.
Observing this from the outside gives the impression that the ISA is caught between two forces that it never fully anticipated when it was founded. A mining moratorium has been demanded by environmental organizations, a number of European states, and even some corporations, citing justifiable worries about disturbing hydrothermal vent ecosystems and species that science is still cataloging. At the same time, nations like China, Japan, India, and Nauru have been vigorously advocating for the advancement of commercial extraction. The ISA is positioned awkwardly in the middle, and its official delay since July 2023 has begun to resemble paralysis rather than caution.
A wave of lawsuits could now result from that paralysis. A formal letter hinting at damage claims was sent by a group of exploration contractors to the ISA in January 2025, indicating that patience is running low. The existence of legal remedies is a more complex issue than it first seems. Contractors and the ISA may submit disagreements to commercial arbitration in accordance with UNCLOS Article 188. Another option is investment arbitration, but it requires a contractor to prove that an investment was made in a sponsoring state’s territory. This definition quickly becomes ambiguous when your “territory” is actually the international ocean floor. Although it’s still unclear if investment law can adequately address this situation, attorneys seem eager to learn more.
The larger stakes in this situation go far beyond the financial success of any one business. The ensuing legal proceedings, whether before the Seabed Disputes Chamber or an arbitration tribunal, could establish precedents that control deep-sea resource rights for decades if NORI files its application in June and the ISA either rejects it or takes an indefinite amount of time to respond. A decision in NORI’s favor could potentially accelerate the industry as a whole in ways that worry environmentalists. A decision against them could discourage investment in an industry that some governments consider crucial to the energy transition. Neither result is tidy. Both have ramifications that extend well beyond the ocean floor, into legislatures, boardrooms, and ongoing treaty negotiations.
When I take a step back from the legal architecture, what most strikes me is how similar this situation is to the early days of Arctic shipping lane disputes or satellite orbit rights—times when technology outpaced governance and the courts had to do the work that political bodies couldn’t. In theory, the deep seabed has always been a commons. In practice, it’s turning into a contested resource. It was intended that the guidelines for handling that shift would be documented. They weren’t. The future of international resource law is now silently awaiting a decision somewhere in those icy, dark waters four kilometers below the surface.
