Infinity Pools: Beauty, Risk, and Lessons from the Edge

I’m Nathanael Greene, a pool expert with over 15 years of experience in designing, building, and maintaining pools, now sharing my know-how as a blog writer for Beatbot. My love for pools kicked off as a kid cannonballing into my granddad’s backyard oasis, and it’s grown into a career of keeping swims dreamy.

Last week, I read a headline that made my stomach drop: an infinity pool at the Sandals Royal Curaçao hotel collapsed, injuring a dozen people, including a honeymooning couple swept out to sea. Jelizaveta and Gavin Jones, just 24 hours into their dream vacation, were chatting in the pool when a glass panel gave way, unleashing chaos. “I couldn’t breathe,” Jelizaveta told reporters, her words echoing the terror of being trapped underwater. As someone who’s spent years crafting infinity pools—those jaw-dropping marvels where water meets sky—I’ve seen the allure and the risks up close. This wasn’t just news; it was a wake-up call. Here’s what I’ve learned from my own builds, with hard-earned tips to keep your infinity pool from turning into a nightmare.

I’ll never forget my first infinity pool job in 2012—a cliffside beauty in Santa Barbara. The client, a tech exec named Claire, wanted a glass edge overlooking the Pacific. “I want it to feel like I’m swimming into the horizon,” she said, eyes gleaming. Standing there, watching the water spill over into a catch basin, I got it—the magic of infinity pools is unmatched. Over the years, I’ve built them on rooftops, hillsides, even a penthouse in Miami, each one a dance between engineering and art. But the Curaçao collapse reminded me: that beauty comes with a razor’s edge.

Jelizaveta’s story—swept 30 yards down a beach—hit me like a rogue wave. I’ve tested pools post-build, wading in to feel the flow, but never faced a wall caving in. Curaçao police blamed overcrowding, and I can see it: too many bodies, too much pressure. It’s a scenario I’ve wrestled with on every project, because infinity pools aren’t just pools—they’re structural beasts.

Take a job from 2016 in Asheville, North Carolina. A resort owner wanted a bi-level infinity pool, glass panels framing a mountain view. We were midway through when I caught a flaw—the architect’s load specs didn’t account for a full house of guests. “It’ll hold,” he shrugged. I didn’t buy it. I’ve seen glass flex under weight; it’s eerie, like a creaking floorboard. We ran new calculations—water pressure, wind, 50 people jumping around—and added steel cross-bracing. Months later, a wild party tested it. “Held like a champ,” the owner texted me. That’s stuck with me: overbuild, or regret it.

Then there was Miami, 2019. A rooftop infinity pool for a condo developer—sleek, modern, all glass. During install, I noticed the concrete base had micro-cracks from rushed curing. “Looks fine,” the contractor said. I pushed back—water finds weaknesses like a bloodhound. We tore it out, redid it right. A year on, a hurricane hit; the pool didn’t flinch. Curaçao’s collapse feels like those near-misses magnified—design or build skimped somewhere, and it cost Jelizaveta her honeymoon glow.

Infinity pools are a high-wire act. That edge—whether glass, acrylic, or tile—bears the brunt of water weight, wind, and human chaos. Glass panels, my go-to for drama, are tempered to shatter safely, but they’re only as strong as their frames. I’ve hoisted 10-foot panels with cranes, feeling their heft, knowing a bad anchor spells disaster. Curaçao’s “party overload” theory tracks with my experience—crowds amplify stress exponentially. Add sea-facing exposure, like at Sandals, and you’re begging for trouble if the math’s off.

I’ve walked away from jobs where clients wanted thin glass or shallow footings to cut costs. “It’s just aesthetics,” one said. Nope—it’s physics. Water doesn’t care about your budget. The Whampoa collapse a few years back—glass walls buckling on a rooftop—proved that. Officials pegged it to design flaws, and I’d bet Curaçao’s probe lands there too. My rule: if it can’t hold double the max load, I’m not signing off.

So, how do you stop your dream pool from becoming a headline? Here’s my playbook, forged from years of sweat and second-guessing:

• Over-Engineer the Edge : I spec glass thicker than code requires—half-inch minimum, often three-quarters—and bolt it into steel or reinforced concrete. Test it for twice the expected weight—think packed party, not just a lone swimmer. Claire’s Santa Barbara pool? We built it for 100 people, though she swore she’d never host that many. Better safe than sorry.
• Crowd Control Is King : Curaçao’s lesson is loud—limit bodies in the pool. I’ve installed signs for clients: “Max 20 swimmers.” Sounds bossy, but it’s a lifeline. Tell your guests the edge isn’t a dance floor; spread the load.
• Inspect Like Your Life Depends On It : Every six months, I’d check those panels—cracks, seal wear, frame rust. After Asheville, I started using a torque wrench on bolts myself; no trusting a rushed crew. If it’s a seafront pool, double that—salt air’s a silent killer.
• Build for the Worst : Wind, quakes, storms—I factor them in. Miami’s hurricane-proof base wasn’t luck; it was planning. Know your site—coastal Curaçao needed wave-resistant anchoring. I’ve added overflow buffers on windy builds; they’re ugly but effective.
• Maintenance  Isn’t Optional : Clients hate hearing this, but infinity pools aren’t set-it-and-forget-it. Clean the catch basin—debris jams crank up pressure. Test water levels; too high, and you’re stressing the edge. I’ve seen neglect turn small flaws into big fails.

Infinity pools are my love letter to swimming—pure freedom, edge-of-the-world vibes. But Jelizaveta’s “horrific injuries” remind me: they’re only as good as the care behind them. I’ve spent my career chasing that perfect balance—stunning yet bulletproof. Curaçao’s collapse wasn’t inevitable; it was a missed step. Build smart, watch close, and cap the chaos—that’s my gospel. Your pool should lift your soul, not break your heart. Let’s keep it that way.