Port Austin — The Neverlanding rests just above the frozen edge of Lake Huron, its blue flotation barrels pressed into the sand and long wooden frame exposed to wind. In summer, this shoreline is full of motion—boats coming and going, people lingering, noise carrying across the water. In winter, it becomes a place for things that arrived too late to leave.
The Neverlanding is a homemade houseboat built by Steve Mylrea, a Canadian who set out to move through the Great Lakes on his own terms. It didn’t come from a factory or a marina. It was assembled practically: barrels for flotation, lumber for structure, and everything else added to solve a problem.
The finished boat doesn’t look fast or sleek. It’s long, rectangular, and unmistakably handbuilt. More floating structure than vessel. More cabin than cruiser. The beams are exposed. The bracing is obvious. Nothing hidden behind fiberglass or polish.
It doesn’t try to impress. It tries to work.
And for most of its journey, it did.
Photos from earlier in the journey show a jet ski strapped to the deck, a practical choice for short trips, scouting ahead, and shallow water. Other images show something even more revealing: a small airplane, owned and flown by Steve, appearing alongside the boat during the trip.
This craft wasn’t about novelty or attention. It was about autonomy. Different machines for different distances. Different tools for different terrain. The Neverlanding wasn’t the whole plan—it was the center of it.
There’s a couch, a table, a full-size refrigerator, a stove and oven, even a dishwasher. Cabinets line the walls. A flat-screen TV hangs where a porthole might be on a normal boat. Windows run the length of the structure, letting in light and lake views even when the weather turns gray.
The layout is narrow and linear—more hallway than cabin—but complete.
A wood-fired sauna heater sits stacked with stones. A hot tub is built directly into the structure. In one photo, Steve sits submerged in it, calm and comfortable, steam rising around him. This wasn’t a warm-weather experiment that got out of hand. The cold was part of the plan.
Steve launched the Neverlanding on Lake Erie and began moving north, and it didn’t take long for people to notice.
You don’t see many floating houses with jet skis strapped to the deck and a small airplane occasionally floating nearby. Photos spread quickly. People started asking questions. Before long, the Neverlanding wasn’t just a boat traveling through the lakes—it was a shared experience unfolding in real time.
A Facebook group formed to track the journey. It grew steadily, then rapidly, eventually surpassing 18,000 members. People posted sightings, shared photos from shore, speculated about design choices, and followed the boat’s progress town by town. The tone wasn’t cynical. It was curious. Supportive. Rooting for the thing to make it.
The Neverlanding became a moving landmark. If you missed it in one place, someone else would catch it in the next. If conditions were rough, people worried. When it moved again, they celebrated.
As fall deepened, Lake Huron stopped cooperating. The margin for error narrowed. This was no longer a question of preparation or confidence: It was a question of weather, and the lake answered first.
With conditions worsening and winter closing in, continuing north stopped being reasonable. Steve brought the Neverlanding into Port Austin, where it was pulled up onto the beach to protect it from storms and ice.
Once the Neverlanding came ashore, the questions followed—not out of hostility, but out of necessity.
Is it a boat or is it a house? Is it registered? How long can it stay? Does it pay taxes? Who’s responsible for it now? These aren’t accusatory questions. They’re civic ones. They’re the kinds of things small towns ask when something unprecedented arrives and doesn’t fit neatly into existing categories.
And to Port Austin’s credit, the response hasn’t been defensive. The boat wasn’t treated like a nuisance or a threat. It was pulled up to keep it safe. Space was made. Time was granted. The assumption wasn’t wrongdoing—it was good faith.
But accommodation still requires clarity.
The Neverlanding isn’t abandoned. It isn’t derelict. It isn’t a commercial vessel or a rental. It’s someone’s home, temporarily resting on public sand, because the lake said it was no longer welcome. That puts it in a gray area that no ordinance was written for.
So far, Port Austin has answered that question with patience.
When I went to see it, the beach was empty. Winter had done its work. The wind came straight off Lake Huron, sharp and uninterrupted. From the wooden walkway, the Neverlanding looked bigger than it does in photos.
I didn’t know if Steve would be there. I wasn’t expecting him. At this point, the boat had become the story. Still, I waved and yelled “ahoy matey!” because it felt wrong not to acknowledge it.
It was built to handle hardship, but not arrogance. Winter on Lake Huron isn’t something you out-engineer. You respect it or you lose.
So the boat sits on the beach in Port Austin, becoming a landmark by accident. A reminder that not every journey ends in failure—some just pause when the conditions change.
Landen Taylor is a musician and explorer living in Bay City. Follow him on Instagram @landoisliving.
