George Valdes usually rises near dawn, while the air is cool and moist off the water. He then heads above deck, sips his coffee and reads his paper as the tide gently rocks and the tankers and the tugs steam past in the river. On agreeable evenings, he will turn on some classical music, light the oil lamps and relax contentedly under the stars with a good cigar and a tumbler of Sambuca.

Valdes has tanned skin and white whiskers. He smiles and squints when he talks and looks a lot like Ernest Hemingway. He lives a life many dream about. The 59-year-old retired computer systems engineer is one of about two dozen "live-aboards" who dock their homes in the Pier 5 Marina, which is nestled behind the waterside condo developments just south of the Ben Franklin Bridge and known in the local nautical community as "Houseboat Row." It is a liberating and romantic lifestyle. It is his Key West. "If a woman friend calls and says she wants to go for a boat ride," he says, "well, then we check the tides and go for a boat ride."

Sometime in the next few weeks, Valdes will winterize his boat. He will break out the storm windows and two propane heaters, which will allow him three more months to lounge above deck. After that, he will spend most of the rest of his winter huddled below deck.

"Of course I don't like January and February, when it's 12 degrees and windy and you never see the sun," he says. "But besides that, living like this is as close to perfection as possible."

It costs Valdes about $4,000 a year to dock his boat. There are also electric and telephone costs and additional maintenance fees. Water is included. The houseboat in the slip across from Valdes is for sale. It is white and blue and seems in good shape. The asking price is $5,000.

"Buy it," says Valdes.

Valdes is no old salt, being drawn to the sea late in life. He was married for a time but that went up in flames. He loved his Old City bachelor pad but hated rent. A seagoing friend in Washington, D.C., recommended a houseboat. A few months later the Boat Show came to Philly. The yachts teased of new beginnings, a simpler life. So he bought one: a 40-foot motor yacht that fit right in with the houseboats, sailboats and other yachts at the pier. He packed up some clothes and valued possessions — a throw rug he purchased in Greece, a set of gold lamps that belonged to his grandmother — and ditched everything else.

"I gave most of it to good friends," he says. "So when I visit them I can still see my old pictures and whatever else."

He has lived on the water for five years now. Things got off to a somewhat rocky start.

"A boat makes noises," he says, remembering his first restless nights on the boat. "There's always something floating and bumping into the hull. The lines creak and squawk. And when the wind blows heavy you get all kinds of different noises. It takes some getting used to."

But now Valdes drifts off to the changing tides and has a hard time sleeping on dry land.

His boat is brown and white and a bit weathered. It is cramped but comfortable. There is the bridge, where he sits and watches the ships pass, and the main saloon down below, which has curved couches and a window with a view of the water. There is a small kitchen, an office and a head. He sleeps in the stateroom where a plaque reading "Captain's Quarters" hangs above the king-sized bed. Women are drawn to men with boats, he says.

His boat is named After You.

"When I meet a woman in a bar," he explains, "and she asks what the name of my boat is, I can tell her, 'Well darling, I named it After You.'"

When the weather is nice, Valdes wanders into the city on a daily basis. He buys dinner meat at Reading Terminal, sweatshirts at I. Goldberg and enjoys a drink or two at the Moshulu. "But when I come home and walk through the harbor gates," he says, "the sounds of the city drown out and I feel like I am walking into a sanctuary."

The pier has a neighborhood feel. There are cocktail parties and leisurely boat rides and summer fireworks and the Penn's Landing music and cultural festivals. In the springtime, after the harsh winter months have passed, baby ducks will squawk along the pier, the catfish will jump and a turtle will perch upon the rail tie that washed up a few years back.

On this afternoon, winds blow hard off the river. The tide is seven knots. The boat rocks. The air is chilly. Valdes reclines in his chair, his hands folded contently in his lap, his brown eyes settled on the horizon toward the Camden waterfront.

"The peace, the tranquility, watching the water, watching the ships," he says. "I'll never leave this. I'll be dead in my boat."