The Day I Discovered People Live on Sailboats

Act I: Entombed

Of course not… What was I thinking?

That was never going to be my life.

Looking back, I can pinpoint the exact afternoon I made that decision.

I was in my early twenties, living in a working-class neighborhood in Quebec City and starting my career as a chef. Like most people in the culinary world, I worked when everyone else was off. Nights. Weekends. Holidays. #IYKYK

I loved it. The pace, the pressure, the creativity, and the feeling of being part of something alive.

The work could be grueling, but it was mine, and I was passionate about it. Deeply passionate.

Which is fortunate because passion was one of the few things I could afford at the time.

I would often ride my bike to get some exercise. On one of my days off, I rode my bike down along the St-Charles river to the Old Port. The farmer’s market was right there. I remember locking my bike and wandering toward the nearby marina before heading to the market as I would normally do.

It was a gorgeous day. Warm without being hot. Bright without being harsh. And a slight breeze to balance it all out. The kind of perfect summer day that makes you be more present without much effort. I stood along the marina, looking out over the water.

There was something about sailboats that had always pulled at me. Not travel and not adventure. At least not yet. There was wonder and curiosity. I had been on canoes and kayaks, pontoons and ski boats. What would it be like to be on one of those boats? A real boat.

I walked slowly along the docks, looking at the different boats. Then I noticed one nearby with a satellite dish mounted on the dock with a cable running from it into the cabin. This was the early 2000s. We weren’t streaming back then. ”That’s a hell of a set up.”, I thought. That wasn’t something you saw every day. I remember staring at it for a moment. Then the realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

Wait

People live on boats!?

Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they?

The idea arrived all at once. Not as a thought but as a feeling. A smaller space with fewer possessions. A connection to water and nature. A place away from the noise of the world and a retreat when life becomes overwhelming. A place to breathe.

Life felt loud back then. Busy. Demanding. There always seemed to be something pulling my attention somewhere else.

The possibility of living on a sailboat felt like discovering a hidden door in a familiar room. An entirely different life had become visible.

That was exciting.

I felt awe, curiosity and possibility. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The feeling stayed with me all the way to the farmer’s market. I wandered through the stalls with my mind somewhere else entirely.

“People live on boats…”

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Meanwhile, I was walking around the farmer’s market trying to buy vegetables. What vegetables? One bunch of carrots.

That’s it.

One bunch.

Looking back, it’s funny that one of the most important afternoons of my life involved absolutely no plan beyond buying a bunch of carrots.

Then the spell broke. Other thoughts started rushing in. I questioned whether it was possible for me. Who was I to think this dream was for me? I could never afford that. That was laughable. The problem was that the dream belonged to someone I didn’t believe I could become.

I was barely making more than minimum wage. I was awkward socially and absolutely hopeless with women. Most of my confidence came from being good at my job. The moment I stepped outside the kitchen, it disappeared. If I had value, it was because I could cook. That was the story I carried about myself. So the dream never had a chance.

Within an hour, I had already convinced myself it wasn’t for me. It was ridiculous. Completely unrealistic. Frankly irresponsible. People like me didn’t get to have lives like that. I remember no dramatic heartbreak. No tears, no sense of loss, just resignation. A quiet acceptance. The kind that settles so deeply it feels like the unquestionable truth.

Of course not.

That was never going to be my life.

I rode the twenty-five minutes back home, carrots in hand.

I went back to work the next day.

The dream disappeared.

Not into memory.

Into a tomb built from doubt, limitation, and a belief so deeply rooted I couldn’t even see it.