He Bought a $5,000 Derelict Catamaran and Turned It Into a Fossil‑Fuel‑Free Home

Simon found a 1976 Wharram Oro 47 that hadn’t moved in 12 years and decided to make it his off‑grid life. The plan: no diesel, big solar, a lot of stubborn fix‑it energy.

The bit nobody imagines: sea otters in the dinghy

Mornings sometimes start with whiskers—sea otters curled in the dinghy, seals cruising by like nosy neighbors, and him slipping the little boat out to a reef for dinner. Kind of a ridiculous backyard, but that’s the point.

Meet Old Dog, the scrappy 47‑footer

Old Dog is a 47‑foot Polynesian canoe‑style catamaran, all plywood bones and big deck space, now running on sun instead of diesel. It’s home, workshop, and adventure HQ rolled into one floating stubborn idea.

The wild part is how it started. He bought it sight unseen, hopped on a motorcycle, and tore across the country to meet this waterlogged stranger.

First look? Rough. Paint chalking off, lines tired, the whole thing giving “ugly duckling with potential.” Still, the structure felt solid. That was enough.

This is where it gets ridiculous

He replaced keels, scraped hundreds of pounds of paint, rebuilt decks, and then rebuilt them again. Years of fixing, cursing, learning, and then doing it better.

The boat’s simple on purpose: marine plywood, fir and yellow cedar, skinned in epoxy and glass. If something breaks, you cut it out and put in a new sheet. It’s more carpentry than mystery.

Why ditch a working diesel?

The thing is, batteries got cheaper and panels got stronger. So Old Dog went fully electric: sixteen Canadian‑made panels on the roof, nearly 20 kWh of lithium below. It’s quiet power, and it’s enough to run real‑house stuff—induction cooktop, oven, washing machine, water maker.

All that juice feeds a compact drive system, backed by a battery bank that looks more lab than boat. It’s not a speed demon, but it’s legit.

The motor is a 12 kW unit—think seven or eight horses pushing her along. Comfortable at three‑and‑a‑half, maybe four knots without dumping battery. Not fast, but steady.

A quiet kind of power trip

Summers, the math gets fun. Panels alone can lift anchor at sunrise, carry him fifty kilometers across the Strait to the city, and pull in before dinner without touching the batteries. That’s the catamaran advantage—less drag, more roof.

Clouds happen—so wind joins the team

Rain means low solar, sure, but around here rain usually brings wind. He’s planning wind turbines to match the solar watt‑for‑watt, so one fills in when the other disappears. Belt, suspenders, and a spare belt.

The kitchen basically takes over the boat

He built the boat around cooking. The galley sprawls in the middle like a boss—big counters, real appliances, storage you can actually use. Everything else tucks around it.

Sleeping happens in snug little berths—private nooks you crawl into and crash. Cockpits are coming later; priorities are clearly food first, lounging second.

Why Gabriola Island won’t let him leave (in a good way)

Gabriola is a gentle place to get good at boats—protected channels, tricky currents, storm lessons that don’t feel like punishment. It’s Canada’s version of tropical, which makes the winter gray almost charming. Almost.

Old Dog sits on a mooring ball with a monster concrete block and heavy chain. It’s solid. The real worry is other boats coming loose and playing bumper cars in a blow.

Heat, water, and the not‑sexy logistics

He welded a stainless wood stove to keep the chill off but wants to switch to an electric heat pump for the set‑and‑forget convenience. Winter light up here is stingy—wind will have to carry the load when the sun taps out.

Fresh water isn’t a problem anymore. Power on, water maker hums, tanks fill, and showers stop being a math problem.

The unexpected college of one floating campus

This boat teaches. Sailmaking lessons, TIG welding, machining, fiberglass, engine work—the whole vocational sampler. When there’s no shop to drop your problems at, you either learn or float in circles. He learned.

How far could this thing actually go?

Nothing’s fully battle‑tested yet, so the first big hop might be small—more Gulf Islands, more data. Worst case, he’s “stuck” in a gorgeous maze of anchorages. Best case, the numbers on paper become miles under the hull.

On paper, Old Dog is lighter, better powered, higher bridgedeck, lower cabin top than some half‑million‑dollar cats. The scrappy build doesn’t look fancy, but the geometry is doing real work.

The budget that makes boat people blink

No massive nest egg here. He paid five grand for a derelict and kept buying broken things to fix himself. By the finish line, he’ll be in around $45,000 CAD and just shy of five years—tuition included.

The day job is a patchwork: shipyard work, food bank shifts, dive gigs, welding, solar installs on other boats, and yep, sharing the whole saga online. It’s humble, busy, and somehow adds up.

The part that’s not glamorous (and kind of zen)

Living on a mooring turns errands into mini‑expeditions. Beach landings, dock runs, dinghy rides, and the classic “forgot the wallet” lap of shame. It’s funny until you’re rowing into a headwind.