Boat Storage

The Art of Owning Less (And Still Finding Nothing)

Back when we were landlubbers, January was my sacred month of The Great Reset. I’d clean out cupboards, drawers, closets, the garage, and the kids’ rooms—especially the kids’ rooms, which were basically crime scenes with sock evidence.

The kids were never—and I mean never—keen to clean. It took creative leverage (also known as bribery) to get a semi-willing helper to excavate the messes shoved under beds, in closets, and into those fabric storage cubes that eventually couldn’t even be removed from the shelf because something mysterious seeped through the bottom and fused it in place like a science experiment.

And, of course, I had to wage war with the rest of the household over a concept I firmly believe should be taught in schools: things have to get worse before they get better. Which meant the upstairs hallway and loft would become a temporary landfill of bedroom contents so I could wipe walls, evict dust bunnies, and discover carpet stains that had been quietly building a legacy for years. Then—once the room was a blank slate—everything would get put back neatly. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Chaos restored. Then I’d move on to the next project: the walk-in pantry, the laundry room, the closet under the stairs—whatever storage area needed to be humbled.

I always did it at the beginning of the year. A time for renewal. A time to prepare for a busy year ahead. I never waited for spring because honestly… who can keep things organized long enough to make it to spring? My annual reset was always done with the wildly optimistic belief that I would maintain tidiness all year.

And for the most part, I did.

But fast forward to 2026, and I have officially given up on the annual clean out.

Not because I’ve grown. Not because I’ve found inner peace.

Because boat life means I have to massively clean out almost weekly.

Living on a boat does not allow for procrastination. There is no “I’ll deal with it later” when “it” is a cupboard that won’t close, a bin that won’t slide back in, or a container avalanche waiting for its moment.

Take the storage-container cupboard. I organize it, and a family member comes along and selects the container farthest back—the furthest back—to save two bites of leftovers. Which is another issue entirely: leftovers. We are not wasteful people, especially now that groceries feel like luxury purchases.

A peek inside

Recently, I spent the better part of a day cleaning and detailing the refrigerator. I removed all the compartments and glass shelves. I wiped, sanitized, scrubbed, and basically performed a spa day for our fridge. I was wet from the whole kafuffle, grimy, and walking around with a layer of mystery food-fume smells living in my nostrils.

Two weeks later? The leftovers outnumber the fresh food again, and the container cupboard has returned to its natural state: random lids and containers that don’t go together, like a support group for separated Tupperware.

Then there’s the cupboard by our banquette—what I lovingly call our mini pantry. It’s supposed to be quick-access staples: baking ingredients, cooking go-tos, the things you want without climbing into a compartment like you’re entering a submarine hatch.

This cupboard is deep. The staples get shoved to the back. The front becomes… junk. Yes, the snicky-snacks. The grab-and-go chaos. This has never been an organized situation. Never. Every day I attempt to create order, and every day someone comes along and treats it like a game of cupboard Jenga.

The "mini pantry"

I open it and my backup coconut oil is sitting there like an innocent bystander while a bag of roasted peanuts springs out at me, threatening to spill everywhere because someone didn’t replace the bag clip properly. The hinge gives up the ghost, the plastic bag starts to tear, and I bumble around in slow motion trying to stop the inevitable.

Bag of peanuts: 1. Me: 0.

Then I spend fifteen minutes retrieving every stray peanut because if I don’t, the dog—who has no discernment—will eat every last one, get sick (she’s old, small, and absolutely cannot handle a honey roasted peanut), and then reject it on our area rug… which I just replaced.

Again.

I used to be so organized. I used to decant snacks into containers. I transferred flour, sugar, and oils into beautiful glass jars like I was running a coastal-themed apothecary. Now, when I go shopping, it’s a miracle if everything gets put away in any logical order at all. I appreciate the help from family members—truly I do—but sometimes help means sacrificing the food-storage system entirely.

Sure, I could fix it later. But later never seems to come.

And then when the next food catastrophe hits, I chastise myself for not asserting authority over my domain and delegating the “put-away process” to someone who shares my passion for matching lids to containers. (Still searching for that person. If you find them, send them to our slip.)

Moving on from the galley, we have the other common spaces: the saloon and the aft deck. Both are the hub of our home and therefore… the Bermuda Triangle of everyone else’s belongings.

Someone comes home and starts on the deck: shoes kicked off into the shoe pile, a water bottle abandoned, a wet towel dropped, a little trail of sand marking their return like a marine version of breadcrumbs.

The trail continues into the saloon—where items are discarded on ledges, counters, and floors in little heaps. If questioned, a snappy response usually indicates their plan to handle it later, which in my world translates to: when the cleaning fairy (me) decides it has been long enough or the

items have accumulated a visible layer of dust.

And then there’s our aft cabin.

We have a lovely walk-around queen bed flanked by built-in drawers, cupboards, and nightstands. It looks like a lot of storage, but it’s not enough for two adults to share if one of them (me) likes things folded neatly and easy to find.

So I reorganize our clothing cupboard regularly. And by regularly, I mean weekly. Sometimes daily.

We live in a hot, humid climate, so we mostly wear shorts and t-shirts. I like dresses, which I hang. But the folded-clothes cupboard is deep, so things get shoved, wrinkled, and lost. Which means we dig things out, refold, re-stack, and eventually I bought an iron because we cannot show up to meet a client looking like we just rolled out of a hammock.

If you thought you were going to get brilliant storage tips from reading this article, I hate to disappoint. I’m always seeking better ideas and smarter ways to manage our space allocation—and to satisfy my need for things to be orderly and, frankly, findable.

But I have learned a few things.

First: be realistic about what actually works in a small, humid, salty environment. Plastic isn’t my favorite, but on a boat it’s often the best option. Wicker baskets look cute, but in humidity they can retain moisture. Fabric bins? Same issue unless they’re in a reliably dry space. Metal is an even worse idea—salt air rusts everything unless it’s marine-rated. Wood can work if properly treated. And cardboard? We almost never use it. Cardboard + humidity = rot. Quickly.

Outside compartments do best with plastic containers. Inside the boat, I use a mix depending on the space. The dollar store has surprisingly good shallow vented trays for organizing cleaning supplies—especially because bottles love to tip and create messes. Those open trays keep everything upright and contained.

Shoebox-style containers with lids are also gold. They’re versatile and can hold just about anything. When I’m feeling extra, I print labels for stackable boxes—because labels are the closest thing to therapy I can afford.

Some of my favorites, though, are the bins that aren’t fully rigid: firm bottoms with flexible sides. They fit into weird cupboards and funky compartments without fighting you. I’ve found them at HomeGoods and Aldi (in the fun aisle, which is both delightful and dangerous).

Most importantly, living on a boat has made us more mindful about what we bring home. We actually ask ourselves, “Do we need this?” And sometimes I’ll take it further: “If I buy this, what am I willing to get rid of?”

That usually stops the purchase dead in its tracks.

Or I’ll do the grown-up version of compromise: bring the new item onboard, and donate the thing it replaces. Item in, item out. Whether it’s socks or a new pillow for the sofa, it keeps the accumulation in check—and reminds us that we don’t need to collect things just because we can.

Ultimately, the best way to stay organized and retain a semblance of sanity is to be realistic about the space you have… and remember it’s just stuff.

And the last thing this family needs is more stuff.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to clean out another cupboard. Again.