I was a liveaboard. And I might be again.

I spent four wonderful years living on my boat, Camelot, on Lake Union. I miss it and I don’t. I loved living aboard, but it’s a lifestyle that demands sacrifices of space, comfort and convenience.

It’s been five years since I moved off the boat, but last night I was reminded about the fun and challenge of living aboard, thanks to sailor and author Migael Scherer. Migael—who wrote what I consider the best cruising guide to Puget Sound—was at the Seattle Boat Show to lead a seminar she called “The romance and reality of living aboard.”

Migael and her husband lived aboard their homemade, 48-foot sailboat for the better part of 30 years. She shared her insights and experiences to a crowd of about 40 people who filled most of the seats at the boat show’s green stage.

Living aboard has its moments

Migael was an engaging speaker. And she obviously knew her audience, which consisted of a few veteran liveaboards and a lot of people toying with the dream. She didn’t need to sell them on the romance, so she spent most of her time covering the realities.

Mold and mildew. Cramped hanging lockers. Misguided marina managers. Tripped circuit breakers. Bad lighting. Broken water pumps. And a thousand other little things that never cross your mind in the warm, comfy embrace of a modern home.

“Think of yourself as floating trailer trash and you’ll be fine,” she joked.

And although Migael and her husband are transitioning to life on land these days, I don’t think she would trade those years living on board a boat. Neither would I.

I bought Camelot kind of by accident. In fact, it was my parents who where shopping for a boat in the spring of 1999, when I casually said, “If you happen to find a good liveaboard, let me know.”

They never found their boat, but they did find one for me. A broker pointed them to a lovely Islander 38C that just came on the market after a boat show buyer’s financing fell through. I hustled down to take a look, and with a little financial help from my dad, I signed the papers the next week.

I made the transition to living aboard fairly easily. I was single. I didn’t have much in the way of furniture. And I was already fairly obsessive about keeping my living space clean and tidy.

The boat was perfect for me. It was lightly used, with headroom enough to do jumping jacks and huge windows that let in ample light. The queen-sized Pullman birth was roomy and comfortable.

Best of all, I found a fantastic little marina between the Fremont and Aurora bridges in Seattle and managed to charm the owner into letting me and my boat call it home. It had parking spaces, laundry and a shoreside shower that grossed out my future wife, but worked well enough for me.

I spent winters curled up on the settee with good books and the soft glow of the drip-diesel fireplace. I would mark the coming of spring by watching the buds sprout into leaves on the trees overhanging the water. I lounged in the cockpit on wonderful summer evenings, watching the setting sun paint the soaring Aurora Bridge in fantastic reds. And during fall windstorms, I slept soundly in the sheltered lee of Queen Anne Hill.

I also got to know my boat better than I could have imagined. Every sound, every motion, every smell became as familiar as family. To this day, I have an almost preternatural sense when something on board is wrong.

Some folks thought I was a bit strange when they learned I lived aboard. Others were jealous. And all of them were curious.

How do you cook? Where do you sleep? How do you shower? Do the waves bother you?

My answers never quite satisfied. But when they eventually saw the clean, cozy, teak-lined interior, marveled at the clever gimbaled stove and fold-away table and gazed at the neat lines of books on the shelves, they usually fell in love with my floating home—or at least had an inkling of why I lived where I lived.

Of course, I didn’t mention the occasional battles with mildew, the drips from leaky hatches, the cold walks every morning to the shower or the fact that something expensive was always broken.

I just let them soak up the romance. Because I knew that despite all of the problems, the reality of living aboard was, in the end, a very small price to pay.