Leo Goolden lives on a sailboat. While his abode is unusual the story of how he got there is even more so. This is the story of how Leo, 26, went from sleeping under a friend’s stairs and eating out of bins to captaining the luxury sailing yacht of a millionaire. Along the way he discusses the everyday trails and joys of a life at sea. (Photos are taken by Leo)



I first started living on a boat about five years ago. It was a houseboat on the Bristol docks. I was (unofficially) apprenticing as a boatbuilder and was earning only twenty pounds a week, so I had to find a way to live cheaply. I had been staying under a friend’s staircase in St.Pauls but the house was a horrible den of iniquity and it wasn’t really a satisfactory existence.

I spent a couple of days wandering around the docks, speaking to boat-owners and generally nosing around. Eventually somebody put me in touch with the owner of a 1930s ‘gentleman’s river launch’ that had been left unattended in the marina. The boat was full to the gunwales with boxes of newspapers and everything was unbelievable filthy. The deal was, if I made the boat habitable and pleasant, and did a little upkeep, then I could stay in it for free until it sold.

It took a couple of weeks of cleaning, dumping, and a little woodwork (the boat had very few floorboards), but finally I had a wonderful, cosy home to myself. I painted everything white, got some potted plants, and bodged the woodburner back together.

Leo working hard on making his first boat livable The view from the fron of the boat The slightly raggedy outside of Leos first boat The view of Leo’s sleeping quarters Kitchenette featuring stylish porthole The main living space looking into the galley Sanding floorboards The main living space looking aft

It was a great place to live. There is something really wonderful about sleeping on the water. But it was pretty basic. There was no loo or shower, but luckily these things were available in the marina. I had one gas hob that worked, but no fridge or TV. At this time I got a lot of food out of supermarket skips, and I remember trying to fry a pizza that I had found, because the oven didn’t work. It was horrible. In the winter it got really freezing, and wet. The deck leaked everywhere. It was impossible to keep anything dry, and I didn’t have time, between working and busking, to fix it.

But it was worth it. The summer was glorious. I had the use of a small sailing dinghy, and would sail from my home up and down the docks, sometimes alighting at the Arnolfini or the Nova Scotia for a quick pint. I hosted a lot of Couchsurfers and travellers, and they always loved the novelty and beauty of the boat. I could cycle or sail into work every day, and the woodburner kept me cosy most of the time. Some mornings a swan would poke its head into the porthole next to my bed, out of curiosity.

I have lived on several different boats since, but the most notable one is Lorema, a tiny Swedish Folkboat (built in the 1940s) that I bought in Cornwall. Shortly after I moved on board, I was sailing in a strong breeze, and the mast snapped. The wire that holds the mast upright is fastened into the planks of the hull, but the hull was far more rotten than I had realized and so the wire popped out and the whole rig came down over the side of the boat into the water. With a bit of luck and determination, my friend and I managed to get the boat to the nearest boatyard, which was a little place called Gweek – at the top of the river Helford, near Falmouth.

I spent ten months rebuilding Lorema there. It was one of the most challenging and satisfying periods of my life, but it was also very frustrating and miserable at times. I worked long hours, boatbuilding as a job for the boatyard from eight am until lunch, and then doing another eight or so hours of work on my own boat. I lived on fig rolls and pasties, and usually ate supper in the dead of night, just before bed. I stayed in various other unoccupied boats in the boatyard while my own boat was a building site. They all leaked. Again, the winter was awful, but the summer was inspiring.

Boatyards are interesting places to live. They are full of real characters, some passing through, some well established, but almost all unusual in their way of life. They tend to be places where community is important, where people look out for each other, and accept their bizarre neighbours without question. For many residents, escape and adventure is only just around the corner… but it has been for twenty or thirty years – just as soon as this or that bit of their boat is fixed.

Eventually, I re-launched my boat and spent a wonderful summer sailing it in the Scilly Isles and in the South West of Ireland. I anchored off lonely and beautiful islands, and met wonderful people. I was often accompanied by pods of dolphins while sailing, and I fished for fresh mackerel, which would always go straight into the frying pan. I cooked with paraffin, and had lamps and candles for light. My woodburner kept me warm, and my guitar brought me company, and supplied me with endless free pints of Guiness when in the pub. And the best bit – my deck didn’t leak! …well, not much, anyway.

Living on a wooden boat is constant work, of course, but good, satisfying work. My boat has no engine and very few electrics, so everything has to be done manually – hoisting the anchor and the sails, and even maneuvering the boat with a large ‘sculling oar’ when becalmed or in tight spaces. There is also constant maintenance and repair to be done when not actually sailing, so there is never a chance to be bored. Everything is extremely basic – the loo (the heads, in boat talk) is a good old-fashioned bucket, and the kitchen (galley) is just another bucket – very clearly labeled, of course! The bath is all around the boat, all the time, and also works as a wine cooler.

After my summer in Ireland and another grueling, muddy winter in the UK, I bid farewell to rainy Falmouth (Cornwall), and set off South. I ditched my electronic navigation equipment in Spain, and learned use the sun and the stars to guide me. Ten months later, I arrived in the other ‘Falmouth’ harbor (in Antigua, Caribbean), having had an amazing adventure.

When I was in Antigua, I took part in the ‘Antigua Classics 2015’, which is a gathering of classic boats for a week of racing. Lorema was the smallest boat, and I think people appreciated the spirit of the trip from the UK – a young guy sailing on a budget in an old and pretty boat. We got a bit of attention from that, and subsequently I got offered a job being the captain of a 96’ classic wooden ketch. I took the boat from the Caribbean up to Greenland for a month of cruising there, and then to Italy. It was a fantastic adventure, and a new experience for me – I found being in charge of a large crew challenging, of course, but extremely rewarding. It’s a completely different experience to sailing on your own, with its own very different problems. Actually, I really enjoyed it, even if I didn’t get that much sleep! Now I’m having a little time ashore over Christmas, but will be setting sail again in the new year…

My favourite thing about living on a boat is the freedom. You can take your home to any country in the world (provided it has a coastline) using just the power of the wind and a little knowledge of how to use it. There are no borders, no queues, no waiting for the bus, no jetlag, and no shipping costs… There is little paperwork or bureaucracy, and visa requirements are often more relaxed when you turn up on a ‘yacht’.

A boat, especially an old wooden one, is an object with soul and character, which you learn to live in and to navigate over time. When you are sailing, you can hear and feel the movement of the boat as it flexes and strains with the wind and the waves. You come to know when it is happy or when it is struggling or needs attention. The sailor and his boat put their lives in the hands of the sea, and have to look after each other to survive. This leads to an extremely strong connection between human and home.

A lot of things have changed for me since my first leaky home in the Bristol Docks, but being on the water has been a constant source of enjoyment and wonder. As a lifestyle, it does have its hardships, but I’d say its well worth it for the adventure and the challenge.

Leo is currently up for an award, Yachtsman of the Year as nominated by Classic Boat Magazine. If you think his story is epic enough then head over and give him a vote in their online poll (his name is at the bottom – you don’t have to vote in all categories). Also follow his excellent blog where he charts his seafaring adventures – bonus points if you can spot me amongst his crew of seadogs! Next week – an interview with Lloyd Kahn.