Sometimes sea swells lap the granite boulders as gently as a mother cat stroking her kittens. Sometimes not. Like today, when I'm working my way towards Cutler Harbor in Maine with friend John Stevenson. Today, they're hissing mad. Homicidal. Hell-bent, it seems on sending my boat into the rocks and us to Mother Carey's kitchen.

It's cold. Very cold, even though we're as layered as a wedding cake. The right side of my face is dripping wet. I can't see out of my right eye Ð that's were the wind's coming from Ð no matter how many times I wipe the red lens of ski goggles that offer some protection to the stinging pinpoints of mist. Nice though. Rose colored glasses and all that. I haven't seen John for awhile, but I know he's still on board because I hear him.

This is sailing. This is June in Downeast Maine.

I've been sailing the coast of Maine for five summers. That makes me equal to a kid who is about to enter the first grade. I've met sailors who, with weathered brows of wrinkled, brown skin, have sailed this coast for a lifetime. Even just parts of this coast. One fellow told me that he wouldn't sail to Portland even if his life depended on it. Wouldn't go beyond the Kennebec River, which he called the beginning of the tourist trap. "Down here," he told me, "we set out lobster traps. Those folks over there," he pointed westward, "hang out a sign. Want no part of it." I can't disagree with the man, although I've certainly enjoyed some good "upwest" sailing. That said, though, I much prefer dodging lobster pots than oversized motor yachts that harbor generators capable of powering a modest-sized hospital.

I didn't mention that I have radar on board. On the screen I can see the rocky shore as a menacing black line. In front, there's a black orb, somewhat the shape of a wide-open eye. It's the buoy marking the entrance to Cutler Harbor. At least I hope it is. I'm guessing it's the buoy because, though quite practiced with the radar, I'm always a little skeptical of anything that can see things I can't.

When I first got this electronic wonder, I couldn't tell what was what, so I asked a fellow for help. A retired pilot. World War II, that is. He told me that when radar first came out the planes were faster than the radar, "Like when a speeding car outruns the headlights," is the way he explained it. "If you saw it, you probably were going to hit it," he warned. Not very comforting.

Anyway, he tutored me on how to set the gain, sea clutter, alarms and all that. When all was said and done, I was still as confused as a puppy taken to the back door. So I asked him, "If there is one thing that I need to know about using radar, what would that be?" His advice:

"Don't hit the black dots." Best advice I ever had.

Well, there it is. The buoy we're aiming for. John's got it nailed on the chart. Missed it by a foot or more, he tells me. One black dot less to worry about. Now to find where to put the anchor.

Writer Richard Probert lives in Albany, N.Y.

Published January, 2002

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