My first overnight passage across the Gulf of Maine took place in September 2002, when my husband, Phil, and I decided to head to Roque Island from our home in Georgetown, Maine, aboard our 34-foot Crealock, Coorie Doon.

Phil and I are fairly new to sailing, and very self-conscious about our inexperience, especially around those sailors who were seemingly born at the helm of a boat. We had been pretty successful in our sailing careers so far, but had also made some embarrassing and very public mistakes. We learned from those early mishaps, however, and had begun to voyage farther afield.

One of our dreams was to sail Downeast, allowing the prevailing southwesterlies to push us downwind to the farthest reaches of the Maine coast. I pictured our boat riding gently on following seas, the wind vane barely needing adjustment as I basked in the glorious late summer sun. As usually happens when sailing, however, things didn’t quite work out as planned.

We left on a sunny but windy Saturday morning, and traveled down the Sheepscot River on the outgoing tide. Every sailing trip we’ve ever taken has started with the wind from the opposite direction of what was expected, and this cruise was no exception. The 25-knot gusts were on our nose not our beam, and the seas were steep, cresting to 8 feet or so. We pounded our way out between Damariscove and Fisherman’s islands and finally reached a point where we could set sail. Although we weren’t able to head directly for Roque, the wind had finally died down and it was pleasant just to sail peacefully without the din of the engine.

By time we reached Muscongus Bay, it was late afternoon and reckoning time: If we were going to make it to Roque, it would have to be under power, something I dreaded. Coorie Doon has a wind vane but no automatic pilot and in the absence of wind we would have to hand-steer her all night. Traveling under power in the middle of the night, responsible for the boat while Phil slept, created huge emotional swings for me. I went from extreme boredom as I alternately stared at the compass and into the blackness to utter terror as the sudden appearance of a set of lights convinced me that a fishing boat or cargo ship was bearing down rapidly upon us.

Determined to make the best of it, I made a quick dinner, put some soup in a thermos for Phil, then crawled into my berth to sleep before my 10 p.m. watch. Listening to the splash of the water against the hull and the throb of the engine, I felt cozy tucked into the protection of the lee cloth and promptly fell asleep.

I awoke with a start 15 minutes before my watch and crawled out of the warm berth into the cold, damp cabin to prepare to go on deck. Although it was still summer, as everyone knows Maine nights on the water are cold, so I had to dress appropriately: silk long underwear, fleece pants, wool socks, polypropylene shirts in various weights, a wool sweater and foul weather gear consisting of overalls and a jacket. I was starting to sweat, not to mention get nauseous.

Next came the safety gear. Going on deck at night is a serious affair, and on Coorie Doon, Capt. Phil’s safety precautions are legion: two flashlights with red lenses; strobe lights, manual and water-activated, to lash onto my arm and hang around my neck; safety harness with straps of different lengths and attachment points; three kinds of whistles; a serrated-edged knife. I couldn’t take it anymore — I was hot, I was sick. All I wanted to do was grab a soda and my gear and get up on deck. Fast.

I was starting up the companionway ladder with my harness, hat and gloves clutched against my side, when the can of soda suddenly slipped from my hand and landed with a thump — right on top of the EPIRB. Lights immediately started flashing. My heart stopped, then began beating wildly. I broke into a cold sweat. I was in deep trouble. Any minute the Coast Guard was going to arrive, their helicopter hovering overhead with rescue divers descending on ropes to our deck. I was going to get yelled at, big time.

Frantically I tried to turn off the switch, but couldn’t seem to work it. The strobe kept flashing in my eyes, blinding me. Precious seconds ticked off as the signal went out into the ether, signaling my stupidity to the world. Finally I knew I had to face the music.

"Phil, Phil, oh NO!" I yelled up the hatch. "I set off the EPIRB!"

"You did WHAT?" His face went white. "Take the wheel! Take the wheel!" I climbed into the cockpit, strapped in and starting chanting quietly to myself, "Please let him fix it, oh no, please let him fix it, oh no…."

The minutes ticked by. In the dark I couldn’t tell what was happening below. The EPIRB still flashed. I saw Phil’s red headlamp bobbing up and down and could faintly make out his voice on the radio. All I could do was keep the course and keep up my mantra.

Finally, Phil came up the ladder. "It’s all right," he announced. "I told the Coast Guard it was just a mistake."

I immediately burst into tears.

After my watch, I climbed into bed and woke with the morning sun streaming into the cabin. Off our bow was land, the bulk of Cadillac Mountain gleaming blue in the morning light. During the night Phil had decided Roque was too far to go, so he set a course for Northeast Harbor. I was still spooked from the night before, but as we headed into the harbor I finally started feeling happy — everything was going to be OK and, best of all, no one would ever have to know what I had done.

But as we made our way through the mooring field a woman called from the deck of beautiful Hinckley, "Are you folks OK?" A man rowing a skiff cried out "Rough night?" I couldn’t believe it. My gaff had been broadcast in all its glory over the very public VHF, and my first overnight trip across the Gulf had been immortalized.

The Malcolms live and sail in Georgetown, Maine.

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