End of September in Blind River, when the harbour takes its season apart — and for a liveaboard, haul-out isn’t a goodbye. It’s a change of address.
The other ritual
Every sailor knows fitting out in spring: the rush, the lists, the panic to be in the water. Nobody writes about the mirror — taking the season apart with the same care, in the same harbour, with the first frost warnings creeping in.
But here on the North Channel, end of September is haul-out, and this year is no different. And for a liveaboard, it works differently than it does for the boats that are only there to sleep. Which brings me to the rule nobody outside this yard knows.
The relocation
In Blind River, you cannot live on a boat while it’s in the water over winter. So haul-out, for me, isn’t leaving the boat — it’s relocating her.
The marina doesn’t have the equipment, so that job goes to the boatworks, who use a cradle thing with straps — not a crane — to take the Santana out of the water and set her down on my yard trailer. Then my Dad hooks her up to his truck and pulls her up to her spot: a part of the yard deliberately further away from the rest of the boats that are only there to be stored. He has an apartment in town, so he’s close if I ever need him — and I think I’ve finally managed to iron out the wrinkles in this annual ballet.
Before any of that, the trailer gets its own checklist. Tire condition, air, the condition of the cradle on said trailer. And making sure no one has stolen my license plate off the trailer — again. I wish I were joking. The plate has opinions about leaving.
Building the winter address
Once she’s parked, the construction project starts: the gantry and stairs go up to the cockpit and enclosure, and the boat gets skirted — a sheathing wrapped around the hull that protects it from wind, snow, and debris. Mostly wind. And crucially, it adds an insulation layer that mimics being still in the water, insulation-wise, for warmth.
Because otherwise? It gets REALLY cold in there. Technical term.
Then there’s the mast, which comes through the coachhouse roof because it’s keel-mounted. Aluminum conducts, which makes an un-wrapped mast an aluminum heat sink allowing cold directly into my home. So it gets wrapped too. The cubic mini comes out of storage and gets mounted back on the wall, and the whole boat slowly transforms from a summer machine into a very small winter residence.
The tanks, the throne, and the honest bit
The tanks get drained and cleaned out to winterize properly. Which brings me, delicately, to the bathroom situation.
I have a separating composting toilet — a good one. The, ahem, overflow for #1 normally went to a tank, to save having to empty it frequently. In winter, I switch over to the self-contained tank in the toilet itself rather than the extended tank. It’s smaller, yes. But it’s also self-contained — I touch nothing I do not want to touch — and it gets emptied just like the #2’s compost cannister does. There is no romantic version of this paragraph. This is the paragraph where the reader learns exactly what a liveaboard’s autumn smells like.
The freshwater tank, meanwhile, gets bought at the grocery store, because it’s functionally just an office water bottle that goes on those water dispenser things. Smaller tank, smaller logistics, and nobody has to haul winterized plumbing.
Systems checked, techs walking in
The diesel Espar-style forced air heater gets checked to make sure it’s operational and nothing is leaking — an exhaust leak here is genuinely dangerous — and the same inspection goes for the propane cooktop. I do this every six months anyway, because insurance likes it.
But there’s a second reason for the post-haul-out timing: once I’m locked in with snow, it’s harder to get servicing done. So the easy move is to have it done just after haul-out, when the service techs can simply walk in instead of navigating a February snowbank.
The list: how this boat is winter ready
So here it is — how a liveaboard spends the winter, technically on land:
1 — Insulation, upgraded. New portlights and hatches that are double-paned where they could be, inserts where I couldn’t. The cockpit is enclosed like a greenhouse, so the entry companionway and hatch are protected against wind and weather — which also creates a porch, where I take my wet and snowy outerwear off. It’s not heated per se, but it’s warm enough even in -20°C weather that I’m comfortable.
2 — Skirting. The mentioned sheathing, mimicking the insulating effect of the water the hull isn’t in anymore.
3 — Solar. All it’s for are lights, occasionally charging a phone, the cat’s USB-powered water fountain — yes, the cat has infrastructure — and the compressor-driven cooler for my food. The on-demand hot water and the watermaker are turned off for winter, since those require being in the water to work. A second panel trickle-charges the engine and nav batteries so they never go head-on me.
4 — An air gap under everything. Mildew is the silent enemy of a boat that sits still all winter, so the floors get those vinyl outdoor tiles — the kind some use on balconies — with yoga mats under the mattresses and cushions, and indoor/outdoor carpeting where you actually walk. Airflow under everything, dampness defence everywhere.
The paperwork nobody romanticizes
And the footer of the liveaboard life, because it’s not all charm: I had to invest in an AirBNB license with the town. It wasn’t nearly as expensive as I’d feared, but it keeps things legal. And I had to make sure my insurance covers me even in the winter months, not just the summer.
That makes it more expensive, yes. But better to be insured than not — especially when everything I own is in that boat.
Is it perfect? No. Is it liveable? Yes.
That’s the honest summary, and I’ll stand behind it.
One footnote, in the interest of full disclosure: I tend to run hot anyway. Even when I lived in a house, my thermostat sat at 20°C in winter, sometimes 18 or 19 at night — because I like lots and lots of blankets, and anything higher than that would be too warm. The Santana’s winter climate control suits me fine.
So she stands there now, skirted and sealed, cubic mini on the wall, mast wrapped, tanks sorted, plate still attached — the neatest package in the yard’s far corner. The porch is ready for the first frosted boot. The cat’s fountain is plugged in.
Haul-out, in reverse, complete. Winter quarters next.