They Bought the Last Affordable Home in Vancouver—and It Floats
Steve and Christine couldn’t afford Vancouver—so they did what any romantic pragmatists would: moved onto the water. Their 40-year-old float home is part renovation saga, part love story, all buoyed by stubborn optimism.
The City They Couldn't Afford—Until They Went Afloat
This might be the last affordable address in Vancouver. They grabbed it fast, knowing it needed work… a lot of work.
The marina is their sweet spot—half city slick, half sea breeze. Train to dinner, five-minute stroll to a beach, and front-row sunsets that clock in nightly like nature’s screensaver.
Her favorite quirk? Storms. When the waves slap and the house rocks, the whole place becomes a giant waterbed. It’s lullaby-level soothing.
The home’s a 40-something, roughly 1,100–1,200 square feet, and unmistakably homemade—patched, polished, and personalized by them.
They pay moorage—think rent for water parking—and it even covers their power. City convenience, maritime address.
Yes, they have all the normal things: hot water, an actual dishwasher, laundry, flushing toilets. It’s a real house; it just sways.
Heat is a tag-team effort: a propane fireplace plus plug-in electric heaters that work hard when the cold rolls off the bay.
By day, she’s an outreach nurse and part-time vintage toy sleuth; he’s a contractor-consultant who can look at a crooked wall and call it character.
They’d been in the Yukon for over a decade before returning to BC for aging parents and—surprise—sticker shock. Condos felt tiny and joyless. Water, however, felt right.
The Fixer-Upper That Fought Back
They studied float homes for eight or nine months, found a realtor who spoke “dock life,” and went all-in on this aging beauty with good bones and bad habits.
They stripped it to the subfloor, then the surprises started: pull a plank, find an ocean view where a floor should be; repair a wall, cue a leaky roof. Nothing like becoming your own disaster-mitigation team.
Big upgrades followed: a new bathroom, an entirely new kitchen, fresh floors, a few non-load-bearing walls retired, and extra flotation tucked underneath to help the house ride higher.
For the record, the place literally floats on giant Styrofoam blocks. Elegant? No. Effective? Absolutely.
Micro-Space, Max Clever
Step inside, and there’s no mudroom—just a mud “moment.” Sliding doors they built themselves turn tight corners into workable storage instead of bruised elbows.
The kitchen is compact, punchy, and gas-powered. Steve beams at the stove like it’s an old friend; Christine’s color palette does the heavy lifting on vibe.
The bathroom went from “hmm” to spa-minimalist with a gloriously oversized tub and a covertly waterproofed shell—you can splash with abandon.
The laundry closet is pure utility chic: packed, improvised, and hidden behind more DIY sliders because nothing here is standard size, including the doors.
The dining nook basks in sunshine. It’s also where a missing subfloor once revealed the sea below—an existential home-reno jump scare that they handled with a deep breath and new lumber.
Lozen the dog has a built-in kennel carved from found inches, because on a float home, every cubic foot needs a job.
The living room is cozy, with a couch made for sprawling and a propane fireplace that earns its keep. Parties are… measured. Twenty-five guests could make the whole house sit lower in the water, so invites are staggered.
They tore out dated tiles and found handsome cedar planks above, now stained and paired with glossy beams—an accidental design win courtesy of demolition.
Upstairs, the office is a split personality: her work-from-home zone meets his toy-museum-meets-arts-bench. Downsized, yes. Soulless, never.
The hall is another ode to storage alchemy. The bedroom doesn’t bother with a door—privacy between two people is mostly a technicality.
There’s a coffee maker in the bedroom because mornings are a delicate ecosystem. Step one: caffeine. Step two: world.
The skylight over the bed turns rain into music and summer into a breeze tunnel. From high tide, you see mountains; at low tide, not so much. The view shapeshifts on a schedule.
The ensuite? It exists. Sometimes the best compliment a tiny bathroom can earn is “does exactly what it should.”
Outside, the deck is the MVP—sun, chairs, umbrella, and a panorama that makes lunch al fresco feel like a lifestyle choice.
Storage box on the deck: camping gear bunker. Glamorous? No. Crucial? Oh yes.
Their marina is tiny—more like a cul-de-sac on water—but there’s another marina next door, a friendly cousin situation with waves and borrowed sugar vibes.
Life Between Tides
Moorage is month-to-month on a yearly contract, which is a gentle way of saying there’s no forever guarantee. It’s home, but it’s rented water under a borrowed dock.
Float homes don’t do straight lines. Things skew, shimmy, and occasionally thunk. Low tides can tip the house onto one corner, so you wake up sleeping at a jaunty angle like a cartoon pirate. You get used to it. Mostly.
It’s an adventure with fine print: glorious neighbors; oceanfront living without the land; a little extra sea in your daily life, whether you asked for it or not.
Propane is a workout plan. Every month-ish, they unhook, haul 40-pound tanks, refill, and lug them back across the dock like a very domestic strongman competition.
Winter means running taps so pipes don’t freeze—everything’s exposed out there—and cranking heaters to battle the water’s cold breath pushing up through the floor.
Summer has ocean breezes, sure, but zero shade. The deck turns into a solar panel; the house, a sun-drunk cat. The shoulder seasons? Perfection.
Was It Worth It? Ask Them at High Tide
Downsides exist—of course they do—but the math keeps balancing out. Every nuisance gets a counterweight: a calm rocking night, a community wave, a sunset cracking open like a citrus fruit.
Regrets? Only the normal kind that show up after any big purchase. Affordability in a brutal market, plus a life close to the water they love, has made the gamble feel right. They bet on tides—and won a home.
