We all have dreams. Years ago, mine was to sail. Not to be a round-the-world sailor, a famous racer, or even a long-distance voyager but to start simply by sailing the small yet exceptionally beautiful ponds and lakes of inland Maine. Later, I would work my way up to coastal adventures along our rugged coastline.

This is the story of how a dreamer with limited resources became a Downeast cruiser. Sure, there were the usual obstacles of time and money, but in hindsight the biggest obstacle was the courage to try something unfamiliar. A professional forester, I had spent my entire life attached to the land.

My earliest sailing experience was on a Sunfish belonging to my wife's cousin. But it was the day with my brother, sailing his 26-foot Pearson on Long Island Sound, that sealed my fate. It was an absolutely perfect day spent in good company; the dream of having my own boat was firmly cemented in my mind.

Suddenly, the opportunity was staring me in the face and daring me to be bold — an advertisement for a small day sailor for an even smaller price. I'm not sure that my wife was completely convinced that a 12-foot, sloop-rigged, extremely tired and neglected boat, purchased literally off the rocks for $250, was such a great idea. She showed amazing patience in merely asking what in the world I was going to do with it.

Her question was answered a few days later when she returned from the grocery store to find my little dream sitting upside down on sawhorses at the end of the driveway, still-warm Sabre saw in my hand, and a gaping hole where the badly damaged bow had been.

"What have you done!" She seemed to harbor some doubt over my ability to repair the battered bow, but her patience was rewarded when my first fiberglass reconstruction job actually worked. Not beautiful, but certainly functional.

I was ready for the launch on a small, circular Maine pond, where even the wind traveled in circles as it bounced off the surrounding hills. Things went well until I needed to tack. The boom would not come over, and the little boat began to lie on its side. It felt like the world was in slow motion as I helplessly watched my precious toy lay down like a demoralized fighter just one minute into the first round.

What had I done wrong, I wondered, as I slid into the water for the first of several dunkings this boat would serve up. I learned that it's difficult to release the sheet when my big foot is on it! I've suffered from the jokes for the last 20 years, but the lessons this tender little boat provided were priceless.

After several years of practice, I could keep this extremely tender boat upright. Then we moved to western Maine, with its large and deep mountain lakes, and it became clear that the abilities of the sailor had outgrown the abilities of the boat; it was time for something bigger.

I greeted the summer of 1985 with the launch of my brand-new 15-foot sloop-rigged Mutineer, built by Gloucester Yachts from a mold acquired from Chrysler. The little daysailer had a huge, forgiving heart, which was good since I quickly realized that her abilities were far greater than my own. The learning process shifted into high gear.

I knew I was ready for the next step the day I was sitting on a beach on a very big lake six miles from the public launch ramp. The wind suddenly started shifting directions and rapidly increased in strength. By the time I finished lunch it was blowing directly into the small cove and the lake was white with foam. Two people who were repairing a camp next to the beach walked over, looked at the boat, looked at the lake, turned to me and asked where I had come from. When I said, "from the public launch," they said "Uh-oh!"

"No problem," I assured them as I silently wondered how on earth I would even get off the beach with the wind blowing so hard. The thought of leaving the boat there and calling my wife to pick me up crossed my mind only briefly. Wait a minute, I thought, I have been building my skills for years. This situation was challenging, but I was prepared for this next step.

With no reefing points, I elected to sail on jib only and carefully tied up the main. Previous outings had demonstrated that this boat would point fairly well on jib alone. After thinking through all the things that might be required once on the water, I launched into the surf. It took 10 minutes and numerous short tacks to clear the cove. Finally, I was clear for a run out into the main body of the lake, where winds were around 25 knots and all the other boats were gone. The entire lake was mine!

That six-mile trip remains as one of my best experiences. The boat was beautiful as it beat through whitecap after whitecap like a hot knife through butter. We sailed as close-hauled as jib only would allow all the way, with water flying off the hull in a nearly steady stream. She handled like a sophisticated sports car. I could swear I saw her white deck break into a big smile.

After this trip, I began to think how much fun it would be to stay overnight on the water and to explore the Maine coast. I loved gunkholing and exploring new places, so I knew a centerboard, trailerable craft was the boat for me. The dreams grew.

A friend told me about a boat he had acquired as part of a real estate transaction. The boat had been sitting unused in his barn for two years. It had a cabin and it was on a trailer. He thought it was a 22-footer but wasn't sure because he knew nothing about sailboats.

The 22-footer turned out to be a 1976, 18-foot Windrose, by Laguna Yachts. It had not seen water for 10 years, according to the last registration, but the hull and deck were in excellent condition and all the parts were there.

I decided to prepare myself for coastal sailing with some formal training in navigation. Confused by the manner in which this Windrose was rigged, I sought the opinions of my instructor. He told me that it was rigged for single-handed racing and based on its paperwork had been raced in Long Island Sound before finding its way to a barn in Maine. It had been dismasted at some point, causing damage to the cabin top, but that had been repaired skillfully.

It was a nice little pocket cruiser with a centerboard that formed a shoal keel when raised. Soon she was in my yard for the winter while I worked to refit her. My wife observed that with two boats and two canoes we were beginning to look like a marina.

The summer launch and test sails took place on a modest-size lake, and my first impressions were not good. The boat handled horribly, clearly out of balance. But gradually I began to find the best settings for various conditions. As performance improved, my hopes grew for a coastal voyage.

But a boat on the ocean needs a name. Oh, the horrors of picking a name! I never named either of my first two boats. The name CGEM fit neatly on the small stern and honors our two Beagles, my son and my wife by using the first letter of each of their names. My wife keeps asking why the dog names came first and seems to doubt that I just couldn't make any other combination sound right.

Tinkering with CGEM continued and my experience continued to grow. The toy list also continued to grow, to the great pleasure of a nearby marina. VHF in the cabin with RAM mike in the cockpit; radar reflector; fixed compass; hand-bearing compass; searchlight; dual batteries; dual anchors; a mountain of anchor rode; plotting instruments; tide and current charts; GPS; guide books; gas grill for cooking or fixing that hot cup of tea at night.

Some will make the usual jokes about a boat being a hole into which to throw money, but I've found each stage of my growth in sailing to be a tremendously rewarding experience. No matter what your stage of development, there is always more to learn. That is part of the excitement and joy.

CGEM proved to be a very comfortable, well-behaved pocket cruiser that thrives on the fresh breezes in the bays of Maine. With a kayak in tow, the exploration opportunities are endless and the nights on the water are pure joy. However, it was time to move on because CGEM was a little small for the longer voyages I dreamed of taking.

CGEM will continue to sail the Penobscot Bay area with her new owner. It was difficult to part with her, but Sea Horse now carries me to new adventures.

Sea Horse is a 23-foot, 1976 Paceship (PY23) that has spent many years cruising the Maine and Nova Scotia coasts. Her performance was superb during the three times I had her on Penobscot Bay before winter overtook us, so I have been eager for another season.

See you on the water, unless that Maine fog settles in. Then I'll just hear you.



Duane Nadeau is a forest consultant who sails Sea Horse primarily on Penobscot and Casco bays. Favorite places include North Haven, the Stonington area archipelago, and the coastline between the two bays. This is his first attempt at writing about his experiences.