All sailors love to read stories about great sailing adventures, circumnavigations and perilous storms. But for some of us just getting off the mooring is adventure enough.

I had just had a summer of sailing frustration. I work full time, which interferes with my boat time, plus I had company all summer. On the few weekends I managed to get away down to my little 23-foot San Juan, Charm, at Dolphin Marina in Harpswell, Maine, the wind was either too strong, too weak, or I was too chicken.

	Photo courtesy Char Montz
	Char Montz away from the mooring on Charm after a little self-motivation.

I admit it Ð I hadn't soloed yet. This was my second summer with my little sailboat and though I had had two other small sailboats, I sailed them up at Cobbeessee Lake. I have sailed with other folks, have taken every boating or sailing class available, and feel very capable. I just hadn't worked up the nerve to go alone.

The first Sunday after the terrible events of Sept. 11, I pulled myself up by my bra straps, and said, "Damn it, I am either going to learn to sail this boat by myself or sell the damn thing." I was feeling pretty angry. Angry that some group could hate us all collectively enough to want to destroy our way of life; angry that I didn't have a sailing partner I could call on to go sailing whenever I had the chance; and angry that a little 23-foot boat had the best of me. Well, damn it, it was time to just do it.

On the drive to Harpswell I went over in my head how to set the sails, check the engine, get off the mooring, go through the islands, muck around in Broad Sound and come back again. If I had the time I would practice coming up to the mooring and everything would be fine. I had a good radio, a good engine (the good engine is a story for another time) and a good boat.

At Dolphin Marina, I carried my stuff down to the dinghy, rowed out to Charm (I swear they put me out in the north 40 to diminish my chances of running into anyone), climbed aboard my little boat, gave her a pat, and said, "OK, girl, today is the day we do it or die."

I was so nervous. I opened up the cabin, checked everything, turned on the power, turned on the radio, lowered the outboard and started her up (a new engine that starts right away is a beautiful thing Ð oh yeah, that's another story) and let her run a bit. I popped open the forward hatch and pushed the jib out onto the deck, hanked it on, shackled the jib sheets and ran them back to the cockpit. I took the cover off the main then sat down in the cockpit, took the lashing off the tiller, and just enjoyed the sensation of being on MY boat.

Then I just did it.

Getting off the mooring turned out to be the easy part. As I worked my way back from the foredeck, she kind of just sat there, knowing she was free to go but like a cat waking up, taking her time, stretching a bit. I tightened the main sheet, got under way, trimmed the jib, and I was sailing.

Alone.

It was glorious. The day was sunny, with just enough wind to keep me going, and there were not a lot of other boats around. I did a few tacks in the harbor, swung her around to go out of the bay by running close to the Thrumcap, put my eye on the red bell, and off I went.

There is a way of getting out of Pott's Harbor that I have learned by watching other, more experienced sailors. They sail towards South Harpswell, then come around, just skim by Thrumcap, and if the wind is right, head toward the bell and have a pretty good chance of not having to tack in the channel between Horse and Flag islands, which is a good trick while you are trying to dodge the lobster buoys that seem more condensed there than anywhere else.

I have often thought and said that time on my boat is better for my soul than any other activity I can think of. It was good to be aboard; life is good, I thought.

After a few hours it was time to head back in, and with the wind behind me it was a nice run. But now the hard part Ð getting her back on the mooring. On the first try I missed Ð I wasn't close enough and the wind pushed me away. Second try got the centerboard hung up on a lobster pot (why do they put lobster lines in an anchoring area?) I finally got her loose, came up to the mooring, and grabbed the lines on my dinghy with the boat hook.

Now, my boat seems to have a larger than normal freeboard, and not having the experience that I hope to have some day, I must have come in with the wind on the wrong side or something, but that boat was not about to stop, and I was not about to let go. I physically hauled enough line up to the boat while I was crawling alongside the cabin, got the mooring line around the stays without falling into the bay, and, out of desperation, wrapped the line around the main sheet winch.

Well, she was at least stopped and attached to something solid. I doused the sails and collapsed in the cockpit. To say it had been ugly would be an understatement. Then I glanced over, and there was my boat hook slowly floating toward shore. If I'd needed it again, I would have really been in a fix.

But hey, I would have dealt with it, even with all those other boaters watching from the dock. Like all of us who sail or motor, when something unexpected happens, we deal with it. If nothing else, we learn to improvise.

I have considered asking Dolphin Marina to let me moor there for free. I'm sure I offer up much delightful entertainment to their restaurant guests.

In retrospect, that was the best sail I had ever had. This year, I hope to get out more often. With friends would be great, but alone will also be good. Now that I know I can do it, my next step will be a real sail by myself to somewhere I have not gone before.

For me, that means somewhere outside Pott's Harbor.

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