EAST GREENWICH -- There must be an easier way to get your adult children to leave the nest, but selling the house certainly works. Especially if you move into a boat.

Diane and Gary O'Rourke are living proof. When their son hit 30 and Diane was still doing his laundry, she figured the time had come.

So the couple sold their Cape with the two-car garage and bought a 44-foot Atlantic Motor Yacht. They named it "Mid Life Crisis."

It wasn't until their son came to check out his parents' new home that he realized what was going on.

"He said, 'I don't think it's big enough for all of us,' " recalls Diane. "I said, 'That's exactly the point!' "

Seven years later, Diane and Gary O'Rourke have joined the ranks of sea lovers who call themselves "live aboards."

The couple, who own a boat maintenance company, Dockside Maid Service, keep their motor yacht docked just a few yards from their shop, at Norton Shipyard & Marina. Their boat is one of about 10 at the shipyard owned by people -- couples, families and single men -- who live year-round on their boats, said the shipyard's owner, Pat Norton.

No doubt, some will wonder about people who choose to live on a boat year-round, especially if their boat is docked. Diane did. "I thought it was pathetic, poor people who lived on boats."

She says she doesn't think that now. Diane is 57, spunky, suntanned, with a mop of bleached-blond hair and a raspy voice from chain-smoking Pall Mall cigarettes.

Gary, 58, is suntanned and trim, with wire-rim glasses and hands thick from cutting canvas.

Gary and Diane know most of the other year-round boat dwellers ("We all take care of each other," says Diane), many on a first-name only basis. There's Tommy, a retired head of maintenance at Brown University who works as a diver; Rick, who runs an automotive/electronics business in Worcester; Ron, the guy down at the marina; and Alan, who owns a boat named "The Psyche."

"I think he's a psychiatrist," says Gary.

One hot July morning, Gary helped a customer pick out canvas for his boat and Diane showed a reporter the way to the dock where their boat is tied up. The first clue that theirs is more than a pleasure craft is at the dock walkway, which is decorated with Dollar Store plastic potted plants ("Now the salt water won't kill 'em!") and plastic lawn furniture. There's a table with a straw-covered umbrella that looks like something you might find at a cheap island resort, and a pole with a satellite dish.

The walkway ends, abruptly, at the boat's entrance. (If you don't watch your step, you can easily fall into the Bay.)

"This is the sunroom," Diana says, stepping into the canvas-enclosed stern. The interior is decorated with soft couches, fake palm trees, more plastic potted plants and a gas stove with fake logs.

Down three carpeted stairs, Diane pushes open another door and cold air rushes out, followed by a yapping Shih Tzu dog.

"Nemo, get down!"

A second, lighter pup sleeps in the corner. "That's Toto."

"This," she says, gesturing to the room, "is the salon." The TV is running. "It's their company."

In winter, the O'Rourkes plug in their oil radiator for heat. For insulation, they shrink-wrap the boat, cutting holes for windows.

"When the sun comes out during the day," Diane says, "it's 80 degrees. It's like a greenhouse." At night, they turn on the radiators, she says, and it rarely gets below 68 degrees.

Off the "salon" is a galley kitchen and a small clothes dryer, which they rarely use because it costs so much to run. Space is at a premium; every nook and cranny is crammed with stuff, including three TVs and a wide collection of videos and DVDs, among them a two-box set of The Sopranos.

If they head out for a weekend jaunt to Block Island, they have to remember to lay down the floor lamps, otherwise they'll wind up with glass everywhere.

"She has so many knickknacks," Gary says, "that by the time we get to Block Island everything's on the floor."

The boat has two bedrooms -- one in the stern, where Diane and Gary sleep, and a "guestroom" in the bow's V-berth that serves as storage -- and two bathrooms. In the summer, they hook up to a freshwater line on the dock so they have unlimited water to shower, wash and flush. In winter, they fill their water tanks once a week at the dock. Electrical plug-ins at the dock power their lights and gadgets.

Electricty rates, which are metered, in winter run about $80 to $100 per month. (The shipyard pays commercial rates, which tend to be higher.) But live-aboards pay no property taxes. And gas usage is limited -- unless, of course, they leave the dock.

And that's one of the ironies of their decision to live onboard: they are more apt to stay put. Gary, who is a boat captain, makes several trips a year transporting boats to customers down South, to the Carolinas or Florida. But Diane stays back at the marina to take care of their customers.

Before they lived on board, they spent almost every weekend of the boating season on their 30-foot sport fisher. They'd load up the boat on a Friday, and two days later they'd be hauling all their stuff back off again and washing down the boat. "You hated to leave," Diane says, "but the kids were younger and didn't want to leave their friends."

They longed for a life where they weren't tied to the land-- where they were untethered to responsibilities, a life unmoored.

After they bought the Atlantic Motor Yacht, they planned to sell the business and motor south, to Florida. But the buyer backed out, and they held onto the business.

Now, the kids are off on their own: their son is living with a woman and her children; their daughter recently married and she and her new husband are house-hunting.

And mom and dad are still dreaming of that boat trip to Florida.

"As long as we have this business," Gary says, "we can't get out that much."

Still, they have no regrets about trading their house for a boat. "Me and the sea, we're together," Diane says.

"I walk to work," Gary says, with a sly smile. "It's just a different way of life."

larditi@projo.com / (401) 277-7335