In 2024, my partner, Guy, and I had just landed back in our East Village apartment after a month in London when we asked each other, “Where to next?”
I was still unpacking my luggage when an idea struck me: “We should live on a boat.”
To most people, that sounds like a joke. For us, that was a perfectly reasonable idea. Guy was a lifelong sailor who had always dreamed of owning a boat, and to me, it sounded like an adventure I wanted to be part of.
We both worked full-time remote jobs, and Guy had a fairly successful startup that made it possible for us to afford the boat. A month later, we moved onto a 38-foot sailboat with our dog.
We imagined saving lots of money, seeing incredible sights, having complete freedom, and connecting with nature. Our ultimate goal was to cross the Pacific Ocean.
However, it didn’t take long for me to realize boat life was anything but the romanticized dream I had envisioned when I gave up my apartment.
Instead of chasing adventure, I spent my time and money on maintenance and repairs
Since we were downsizing from an apartment in one of the most expensive cities in the US, we thought we’d easily be saving money by living on a boat.
Although we no longer paying NYC rent, we still had tons of expenses. The guy who sold us the boat had joked that the letters in “boat” stand for “Bust Out Another Thousand.” Turns out he wasn’t really kidding.
Almost overnight, every day became overwhelmed by a list of things that needed fixing.
There was the $1,000 alternator, followed by a plumbing failure that left our toilet out of service. We spent two months trying to fix the problem ourselves before bringing in a professional.
When our autopilot broke, we couldn’t afford the roughly $3,000 replacement. One of us had to stay at the wheel when we sailed, which made balancing work and travel especially difficult.
Those repairs came on top of expenses like fuel and marina slips, which could run more than $100 a night. Every day seemed to bring another expense or something to add to the to-do list.
I didn’t mind having fewer possessions or living in a smaller space. What wore me down was the endless work and expense of keeping that space functioning.
I underestimated the stress of living on the water
I expected living so attuned to nature would bring me peace. Instead, I found it difficult to relax. Clocking out of my full-time job didn’t mean I could switch off. I was always “on” at sea.
We had to monitor forecasts, wind direction, and currents to decide when we could sail and where we could safely anchor. We took turns waking up every hour to check that our anchor was holding and we weren’t drifting.
Life at anchor was also surprisingly inactive. Sometimes bad weather kept us confined to our 38-foot boat for days.
The sailing community could feel frustratingly isolating, too. At marinas, people often seemed to defer to Guy for decisions, and he seemed to more easily garner respect, too.
Part of me felt like it was because he was a man. I was learning to be a boater, but I didn’t always feel accepted or treated as an equal.
The isolation also meant being far from family. When my family’s dog died, I was stuck in a mangrove forest in the Bahamas and couldn’t get home in time to say goodbye.
Although we had the freedom to reach remote places, there was a constant catch: I also worried about how easily we could leave them in case of an emergency.
I still love sailing, but I don’t love owning a boat
Despite the drawbacks, there were mornings that reminded me why I’d wanted this: We’d wake up before sunrise, coffees in hand, watching dolphins play at the bow.
I love the magic of sailing. There’s no roaring motor, just the wind in the sails and the creak of the ropes.
When the boat heels over and everything lines up, we hit that perfect speed and glide over the water. It’s euphoric. Nothing else comes close to that feeling. But I do not love being a boat owner.
After about a year aboard, we left the boat in the Bahamas and flew to Portugal to see family, then to Hawaii to see friends.
We’d planned to head to Panama and the Pacific afterward, but I was burned out. For the first time in my life, I wanted routine and stability.
So, we decided to just sail the boat back to New York City. Part of me still regrets not crossing the Pacific Ocean. If I get the opportunity, I’d like to make that crossing as part of someone else’s crew.
For now, though, I’m perfectly happy to have a home on land again.
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