I Got a Boat. It Feels Like a Mistake
Closing day on a used sailboat isn't what you'd expect. No boardroom, no keys, no instant gratification. Just a 50-page survey report, 108 items to address, a 60-day deadline to leave New Zealand.
Last night I had a dream — a nightmare, really. I was on the boat, right at the bottom of the mast, in this particular slip. A very high tide was coming in, one we hadn't planned for. The lines were too short. Water rose over the dock, over the deck, and the boat just sank — right there in the marina, without ever leaving land.
I woke up this morning as the new owner of this boat.
Today is closing day, March 25th, 2026. And I have to admit I dragged my feet getting here. I talked to the broker longer than necessary, visited contractors, had a latte, then another latte. Eventually I ran out of excuses and couldn't justify another coffee. So here I am, at the chart table.
Closing day didn't happen the way I expected. It's nothing like buying a house — no boardroom, no stack of papers, no keys. The bill of sale wasn't even ready. The paperwork will sort itself out over the coming days.
What I could feel was relief — but not my own. The broker was relieved. The previous owner, who is in England, was clearly relieved. You could sense it from everyone involved: they were so glad to have handed their problem to somebody else. And there I was, wondering what exactly I had been thinking. Why had I spent so much money just to inherit someone else's problem?
That's what closing day actually means. They're not handing you the keys — there aren't even keys to hand over. They're handing you the bills. The boat is now my problem, and everybody else is very happy about that.
I've received a lot of congratulations. There's that saying: the two best days in a boat owner's life are the day he buys a boat and the day he sells it. I'm starting to question the first one. People seem to imagine it like buying a new car — paperwork, a loan, and then you're driving off into the sunset in something that smells new and will be trouble-free for years. Buying a used boat is nothing like that. You don't get to drive off anywhere. You've simply earned the right to start working on it.
The boat is in good condition — that's why I went all the way to New Zealand to buy it. But there is quite a bit of work ahead. The feeling is not I'm so excited, I am sailing my best life. It's more of an "oh shit" moment.
As part of the purchase process, there was a survey — an extensive inspection by a professional. He came back with 108 points that need to be addressed. The report runs to 50 pages. The insurance company has already made clear that unless I can document that all 108 points have been addressed, there is no coverage. All high-priority items need to be resolved before we go anywhere. The rest have a more discretionary timeline, but they all need attention.
There's also a hard deadline. Because I don't reside in New Zealand, I purchased the boat without GST — but I have 60 days to leave the country, or the sales tax may be due. Long list, short time.
The interior of the boat is very much a work in progress — pretty much in the same state as when we did the survey a month ago. Upholstery everywhere, benches not reassembled, compartments opened up to inspect the fuel systems. There's a bathroom that smells bad because the toilet needs work. A second head that's more bearable. A nice galley, a fridge, two aft cabins.
There's a lot of uncertainty right now: about the paperwork, about the timeline, about all the small details that need to be right before we can leave. And that's what the dream was really about, I think. Those small things — individually manageable, collectively overwhelming — can have serious consequences once you're offshore and away from the marina.
The boat still needs to earn my trust. We're not there yet.
It reminds me a little bit of the emotions of having a first child. A delivery is very emotional and very messy. When this baby comes in this world, you're stepping into something for which you don't have a user manual. All sorts details can have very dramatic consequences. And so the burden of the responsibility is probably, at least for me, was what was dominating that particular day. I think the joy came later. Down the road as you start seeing that you did a few things right, the baby is growing, and and somehow you figured out your way as you were moving forward without a validated playbook.
The expedition is starting today. Not in a glamorous way — no sunshine, no champagne, no fanfare. Just crappy weather, a very long to-do list, and a stack of bills.