Everyone who finds out I live on a boat has the same reaction. Their eyes light up. They say something like “that’s so cool” or “I’ve always wanted to do that.” And it is cool. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.
But there’s a version of boat life that exists on social media — linen shirts, sunrise coffee on the top deck, perfectly made beds with ocean views — and then there’s the version where you’re on your hands and knees in the bilge at low tide cleaning seaweed out of a strainer so your AC works again.
Both are real. Here’s the honest version of both.
THE PROS
You wake up on the water every single day
I know I just said I wasn’t going to be sentimental but I’m going to be briefly sentimental: waking up and looking out your window at the ocean never gets old. There’s an osprey nest across the marina from my slip. I’ve watched that nest all season. That’s not something I had in any apartment I’ve ever lived in.
The community is genuinely exceptional
I did not expect this. I moved onto a boat knowing almost nobody at the marina and within weeks I had people checking on me, helping me figure out my electrical panel, teaching me about my engines, offering to help me refinish the wood. The boating community has a culture of looking out for each other that I haven’t found anywhere else. People who have been doing this for decades genuinely want to bring new people into it.
You have your own space
No roommates. No landlord. No one else’s name on it. After years of seasonal housing situations — back rooms, shared houses, sleeping arrangements that were fine but not really mine — having a space that belongs entirely to me has been worth more than I can quantify.
Zero commute
I bartend at the marina. I walk off my boat and I’m at work. I walk back and I’m home. That’s it.
It opened doors I didn’t expect
I now have my boating license. I’m learning to drive the boat this summer. I know how to clean a bilge, start engines properly, identify electrical problems, and navigate a marina community as a solo woman. None of that was on my radar two years ago. The learning curve was real but what’s on the other side of it is a genuinely expanded version of myself.
The cost makes sense
I’ve run the numbers on this extensively and written about them in detail if you want to go deep on it. The short version: my all-in seasonal cost runs about $6,700 for six months, which works out to $1,100–$1,200 a month for a space I own. That beats most of my alternatives in this market.
THE CONS
It’s small. Really small.
My boat is 34 feet. That sounds like a reasonable amount of space until you’re actually living in it. My kitchen sink is roughly the size of a salad bowl. Washing a pot requires strategy. Cooking a full meal means planning the cleanup before you start cooking because there is nowhere to put anything.
You adapt. But you should go in knowing that small means small.
Storage is a constant puzzle
I spent my first month with my clothes in a Rubbermaid tote next to my bed. I’ve slowly figured out a system — under-bed storage, an ottoman that opens up, ruthless editing of what I actually need on the boat versus what stays at my parents’ house. But it’s an ongoing project and if you are someone who owns a lot of stuff, boat life will require a serious reckoning with that.
Laundry
There is no laundry on the boat. My marina doesn’t have machines. I drive fifteen minutes to a laundromat, do three hours of laundry, drive back. It’s not the end of the world but it is a three hour commitment every time and it adds up over a season.
The bathroom logistics
I use the marina locker room instead of my onboard toilet. It works for me and my marina has good facilities. But it does mean that at 2am when you get home from a bartending shift, you’re walking down the dock to the locker room. You get used to it. It’s still a thing.
The AC situation
My air conditioning is tide-dependent. When the water is low and murky at the marina, seaweed clogs the strainer that feeds the AC system and the AC cuts off. On hot days at low tide I’m either cleaning the strainer or I’m hot. There’s no third option.
Humidity
Everything on a boat is slightly damp all the time. I run a dehumidifier constantly. I use a waterless diffuser instead of a regular one. Anything that can absorb moisture will absorb moisture. This is manageable but it’s real and it affects how you store things, what you bring on the boat, and how you think about maintenance.
Weekend noise
My marina is at a shore town. Friday and Saturday nights there are people partying on their boats. It’s never gotten out of hand and nobody has ever crossed a line with me personally — but it is loud and it is a different vibe than the weekday peace I love. If you’re a light sleeper and you’re considering a marina in a tourist town, factor this in.
Marina maintenance timelines
Things break. That’s boats. The part that’s different from an apartment is that when something needs to be fixed at the marina level — a power connection, a dock issue, a facilities problem — the timeline is not always predictable. You learn patience. You learn to have backup plans. You learn to ask nicely and follow up.
SO SHOULD YOU DO IT?
Here’s the thing about pros and cons lists: they can’t actually answer the question for you because the answer depends entirely on who you are.
If you need a lot of space, a lot of stuff, consistent AC, and easy bathroom access — this is probably not your move.
If you’re okay with small, you’re good at problem solving, you find satisfaction in learning how things work, and you want your own space in a market that makes owning your own space feel impossible — it might be exactly your move.
I did this with no boat experience, no partner, and no real plan beyond running the numbers and deciding they made sense. What I found on the other side was a community I didn’t expect, skills I didn’t know I wanted, and a life that feels genuinely mine in a way that a back room in someone else’s house never did.
The sunrise coffee on the top deck is real, by the way. It’s just that most mornings I’m too tired from bartending to climb up there, so I have it on the futon looking out the window instead.
That’s real too. And it’s enough.
Want the full financial breakdown? Read: Why I Bought a Boat Instead of Paying Rent (And the Numbers Behind It)
Want the practical details on actually living aboard? Read: Living on a Boat as a Solo Woman — What Nobody Tells You