Boat Life: Less “Castaway,” More “Floating Condo”

Living on a Boat: It’s a Choice (and a Pretty Great One)

Five years ago, we made a monumental decision: leave everything we knew, move to a state we knew nothing about, and chase a dream that would absolutely—definitely—take us straight into the unknown.

We’ve been living on a yacht for four years now, and looking back on the wins, the facepalms, and all the “well, that’s not what we expected” moments, I can honestly say it’s been a huge adventure… and also, somehow, just regular life. Bills still exist. Laundry still multiplies. Kids still ask what’s for dinner five minutes after they’ve eaten.

But what’s been most interesting is how people’s reactions to our living situation have changed over time.

When we sold our house in the mountains and moved three thousand miles to coastal Florida, it wasn’t because we had to—it was because we chose to. We listed our home in early 2021 and sold it by mid-year, with an extended closing as a courtesy to our buyers. By the time we officially shut the door on our mountain chapter, much of the country was still under lockdown.

Then we did what any calm, reasonable family would do: loaded up two cars (one topped with not one but two roof boxes), hitched a tent trailer, packed three kids, a dog, and whatever essential belongings could survive the Tetris challenge—and set off.

After plenty of zigging and zagging across Florida, we finally landed in a coastal town in a lovely townhouse overlooking Sarasota Bay. We quickly realized we weren’t going to find our dream boat on the timeline we’d imagined. So we did something wild: we relaxed. We gave ourselves time. We let the plan unfold the way it was meant to, instead of white-knuckling it into existence.

Fast forward to the search for Schatzy.

At first, we were determined to find the right catamaran. After an exhaustive search (and by “exhaustive,” I mean the kind of searching that makes you question every choice you’ve ever made), we eventually acquiesced. Then—at the advice of a broker who was showing us yet another vessel that didn’t fit our needs—we shifted our sights to motoryachts.

Cue more zigging and zagging, except this time it involved touring overpriced floating rust buckets that would’ve taken months (and months… and months) to bring up to snuff. And that old acronym started ringing in our ears: B.O.A.T. — Bring On Another Thousand.

We were weary. We were close to giving up. And then we stumbled onto Schatzy.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Now, after living aboard for years, I’ve learned there are a few misconceptions about boat life that pop up so often that if I got a dollar for each one, I could treat the whole family to lobster and tomahawk steaks—twice. Many are confused by the phrase, “we live on a boat.”

The biggest misconception? That we’re living some kind of janky survivalist existence on a leaky, drafty vessel with a camp stove, a cooler full of melting ice, a porta potty situation, showers that involve a garden sprayer (possibly on the deck), and hammocks strung up for the kids like we’re raising pirates. (Well, our oldest thinks she’s a pirate, but that’s another story entirely.)

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Well… okay. We’ve had a few leaks here and there. And yes, it can get drafty on those rare Florida cold days, which are basically a local holiday. And older motoryachts aren’t exactly famous for insulation, so our air conditioning bill gets a little… ambitious during peak heat months. But overall? We’re comfortable.

Also, our bathrooms are not wet heads. We have proper showers, and our heads are electric—which means no pumping to flush and no horrific-smelling additives that make you question your entire life while you’re holding your breath.

Our kitchen situation is also not the sad little camp stove people imagine. We have a full-sized stainless steel French door refrigerator with a pull-out freezer drawer and an ice maker. (Honestly, that ice maker is living its best life.) We used to have a full-size stove and oven too, but recently removed it in favor of something less bulky and less energy-sucking. We’ve got a stainless sink, lots of storage, and a banquette we’ve managed to squeeze six people around—because if there’s one thing boat life teaches you, it’s how to become extremely good at making spaces work. Our aft deck is everything though. The family dinners, the work sessions, and the regular gatherings with friends is what this whole life is about.

We have sleeping arrangements for all of us, and we can even manage a guest on the sofa. Is it mansion-level spacious? No. Is it cozy in a way that makes you actually talk to your family? Yes. (Sometimes against your will, but still.)

And then there are the perks.

We have 360 degrees of water views. We can anchor out and be on vacation instantly. And if the zombies ever show up—well, they don’t swim, so we basically have an instant getaway vehicle. Practical planning. Very responsible.

But the best part, truly, is the abundance of wildlife around us—and the community. The people we live among have become part of what makes this life so rich. It’s not just the scenery. It’s the friendships, the marina kindness, the “hey, we’ve got an extra—do you need it?” kind of living.

So yes, aspects of our life could be considered a little janky. Boat life will humble you. It will surprise you. It will occasionally make you crawl into strange compartments with a flashlight and a suspicious attitude.

But the simplicity, the enrichment, the views, the community… it’s not for everyone.

For us?

This is home.