I knew it was a mistake the minute I opened my mouth, but by then it was too late. "What do you want for Christmas?" my wife, Sue, had asked last fall.

Why she asks, I don't know, since my answer, without fail, is "A tractor."

Her response, without fail, is, "What are you going to do with a tractor?"

"Drive it. Plow the driveway. Plow the neighbor's driveway. Maybe dig some holes in the backyard."

"Holes?"

And on it goes on. Some people just don't understand the importance of being able to dig your own swimming pool should the need arise.

But this time around, I paused for a second, thought (a rarity) and replied: "Get me something I would never buy for myself." It was a flip response, and as soon as I heard the words, I knew I'd regret them. After all, there's lots of stuff I would never buy for myself. Garden gnomes, for example. I saw myself unwrapping a garden gnome with a bright red hat on Christmas Day and I shuddered.

Instead, I received a small package and a very expectant look from Sue. I ripped open the wrapping to reveal a tiny wooden sailboat about the size of a Matchbox car. I think it was a sloop. And it was a very pretty green. Attached to the little boat was a certificate for sailing lessons. Well, she'd certainly taken me at my word.

Now a little history. If you're a regular reader of this publication, you may recall the article I wrote several years ago describing an event that I've come to call "THE GREAT SINKING." If so, you can skip the next few paragraphs.

Many, many years ago, Sue and I bought a 17-foot O'Day Daysailer II. It was our first joint purchase as a couple. Neither of us had a clue how to sail, but we were completely charmed by the cute factor the first time we saw it sitting on the seller's lawn. It had great lines and a cozy little cuddy cabin.

Did I say we lacked experience? But we weren't worried. Sailing couldn't be that hard and besides, the boat came with an outboard. If worse came to worse we could chuck the sails and just putter around with the kicker. And if we got into real trouble, I could always fire off a flare.

Sailing, as it turned out, was harder than simply raising the mizzenmast past the yardarm on a following sea. For our maiden voyage we launched in the river (hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time) and after 90 minutes of shouting, near misses and incredible humiliation (we almost, but not quite, speared our neighbor's boat), we withdrew to reconsider our strategy.

I called upon Monte, a friend who claimed to be a whiz at the sport. Monte oozed confidence. "No problem," he told me as he related tales of his sailing adventures around the globe. And the first part of our lesson went well. By the time we were ready to return, I was tacking and jibing with confidence. Then a funny thing happened Ð we capsized. The look of complete amazement that crossed Monte's face as we slowly, but surely turned turtle will remain etched in my mind forever.

That and the sight of my flare gun sinking to the bottom of the bay.

It turned out I had forgotten a tiny detail when we'd launched the boat that day Ð the drain plug. As we pumped water from the remnants of the hull, I found the little piece of black plastic rolling around in the bottom of a locker. I quickly pocketed it and proceeded to complete the insurance claim.

The boat was repaired and we eventually got ourselves out on the water and for several years managed at least a half-dozen excursions a season. Every trip was an adventure, however. We never quite got the hang of how the sailing thing worked. Sue refused to learn the names of the lines. "RELEASE THE MAINSHEET!" I'd bellow in panic as the boat would start to heel. "What color is that?" Sue would respond.

And I was a complete weenie. An uptight weenie. I didn't feel comfortable with the boat's rhythms. I feared every puff of wind was going to send us over and repeat "THE GREAT SINKING." I compensated for my weenieness with lots of shouting. That didn't go over well, especially with my stepson, who to this day won't get in a boat with me. So we sold the boat, vowing someday to take some lessons and do it right.

Which is how I found myself this summer sitting behind a desk answering the question posed by one of our two instructors: "Why are you taking this course?"

There were lots of potential answers, many that sounded very legitimate. But I'm a lousy liar, so I came clean and delivered an abridged version of THE GREAT SINKING. The rest of the class smiled. The instructors exchanged knowing glances. I could read the unspoken message issued by the senior instructor to the junior: "He's yours."

As it turned out, I had learned more than I thought during those terror-filled journeys on the bay. I knew the theory. After a bit of prodding, I found I could still tie a bowline. Rules of the road were harder. I had always figured that my boat's sails, combined with my complete lack of knowledge, gave me the right of way anytime, anywhere.

Not entirely true, I was told. Ah, that would explain the horns we used to hear as we crossed the bow of the Scotia Prince ferry. I had always thought they were saying "hi."

And I was way weak on navigation. "On which side of the buoy should you pass?" I inquired one day as we plotted a course across the bay.

"You would need to look at the chart first," my instructor replied.

"Well, say you don't have a chart," I asked. "Or say, hypothetically, you left it at home in its nice waterproof case."

A pause and another one of those looks.

"Then you probably ought to stay on shore."

Despite this, the instructor let me on the boat and there I did surprisingly well. I felt comfortable. I didn't yell once. Neither did the instructor. We left and returned to the mooring without incident. Several times. At the conclusion of the class, I received a certificate indicating the successful completion of the basic sailing course.

All I need now is a boatÉ and a chart É and a flare gun.

John Gold is the Points East webmaster and technical consultant.

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