My first sailing lesson was on a small Iowa lake near my home in Iowa City. My best friend was a Maine girl, displaced in Iowa by her spouse's schooling. From a J.C. Penney's catalog, Mardi and I bought a Sea Snark, a Styrofoam surfboard with a keel and a nylon sail.

Our spouses looked at it, and us, in disbelief, and we were the objects of some jokes. Undaunted, we christened her The Uppity Woman and sailed what pass for lakes in Iowa. As Mardi taught me the basics of wind and sail, we enjoyed some of our best times on the water, away from the pressures of our jobs and children. We talked and shared a little afternoon wine, always more than a little wet when we returned to shore.

It wasn't long before we graduated to a Butterfly, a 12-foot racing boat with an 18-foot mast. I thought we finally had a "real" sailboat, because it had a trailer. Before long, Mardi moved, displaced again by her spouse's job, to Los Angeles. I bought her out and was a 100 percent sailboat owner. But the demands of small children made it harder to find time for sailing, and I sold Uppity Woman 2 to other Iowans with dreams of water.

After visiting Mardi in Los Angeles a few times, we lost touch; letters were returned unopened, and we stayed disconnected for 12 years. A former foster daughter of Mardi's wandered into my family therapy office one day and asked if I was the same Beth Walsh who was a friend of Mardi's. It was exciting to learn she was back in Maine.

After reconnecting by phone, Mardi came to Iowa for a visit. She brought with her a book of used boat listings that we paged through together. She ended up buying a 28-foot Pacific Seacraft that was built in 1982. Over the next four years, I would "fold up" my office for two or three weeks every summer to crew for Mardi aboard Ruthie T.

Mardi's brother, Tyler Hunt Thompson, often cruised with us in Another Day, a new Pacific Seacraft that was "Tigger's" 36-foot home. He summered in Maine and then headed south to warmer weather with the Seven Seas Cruising Association. But he was always with us when we cruised Downeast, helping us out of many difficulties now chronicled in limericks in Ruthie T's logbook.

What I love about sailing are the beautiful diamonds on the water on a sunny day. I love the quiet tinkling sound of the boat under sail as it cuts through the water. I love the sense of cooperation and vulnerability as Mother Nature constantly throws challenges my way in the form of wind, tides and sometimes "confused" seas.

I love discovering beautiful anchorages in which we always encounter people from many walks of life and from many countries. I love sitting back after a hard day at sea, sipping wine or martinis as we chronicle each day's events. I love the cozy teak cabin when we light the lamp and concoct sumptuous meals far away from anywhere. I love the sway of the boat as I crawl into the V-berth, where I sleep with one ear to sound of the anchor's pull.

The highlights of my sailing so far include crossing Halifax Bay between two nuclear submarines, one waiting to come out, the other waiting to come in. As we were under sail, helicopters overhead watched our progress. When I spotted the conning tower of the one coming in, I felt quite small and insignificant.

That same day, a minke whale, thinking we were a playmate, surfaced six feet from our boat and disappeared quickly in surprise. We then passed a navigational marker that wasn't on our charts. Soon realizing this was where the airliner came down near Peggy's Cove, we had a moment of silence for all lost. All this in one day.

The next evening we set out to cross the Bay of Fundy, a 20-hour passage that would bring us back to our home mooring at Sorrento, on Frenchman Bay. I started my watch at midnight. With our automatic helm broken, I followed Another Day. The full moon was so bright that Mardi, who was below napping, jumped up and shouted, mistaking the moon at my back for the light of a huge, approaching ship. By the time we entered the Gulf of Maine, we were in pea-soup fog. Sorrento never looked so good.

These experiences left me depressed when one winter day Mardi announced she needed cash for other adventures and was selling Ruthie T. After moping around the house for weeks, and without consulting my spouse, I impulsively went to the phone, called Mardi, and offered to buy a half-interest in the boat, a transaction that provided her with enough cash to meet her other needs. She was delighted. To my surprise, my husband Tom was, too.

All my friends in Iowa thought I had lost my mind as they watched me pore over navigational manuals and saw my anxiety rise as I took the plunge of being a "skipper." Tigger, a paragon of patience, took on the task of teaching me the ropes, continuing still to be an insightful mentor. My anxiety is diminishing gradually, as first-time, white-knuckle experiences become second and third experiences.

Last summer, we took a short cruise with Tigger and his partner, Paula. My 20-year-old son served as bosun, fixing whatever needed fixing. Husband Tom, who once worked as a ship's cook on a tall ship as it crossed the North Atlantic, provided elegant meals and fine wines nightly. My German "sister" Annette, an exchange student in high school and a master sailor who has braved the Baltic, was my first mate, providing encouragement and confidence as she double-checked my navigation and sail handling.

I wouldn't trade my times as an anxious rookie skipper, nor my years of crewing, for anything. I'm now counting the days until August. At age 52, I'm also counting the years, eagerly awaiting retirement, when whole summers will bring the challenges of sea and sail.