What good are friends if you can’t take advantage? That was the axiom when Peter, the Talking Pirate, and I decided to buy a sailboat last year. A good friend had gone through a terrible divorce (what other kinds are there?), and one of the few things the wife got in the settlement was a 27-foot Catalina sailboat, which she hated. Seemed like it was part of the problem.

Like sharks smelling blood in the water, we approached the former Mrs. and made an insulting, degrading offer to take the boat off her muddy lawn. She jumped at it, if for nothing else, to get rid of the last trace of her ex.

We inherited much more boat than we could handle, with almost no knowledge of sailing, navigation and all that complicated stuff. The first full sailing season was declared a complete success: No one died.

It wasn’t like we didn’t try.

On the maiden voyage leaving Rockland Harbor, with Blue-Eyed Susan at the mooring line and me at the tiller and engine controls (there’s a scary thought), we cast off, heading for the North Haven shore. We got, oh, about 12 feet before the aforementioned mooring line wrapped itself around the propeller and left us crippled and swearing, in full view of the dock and prying public eyes.

I said it was all her fault. She just stared. I ate the lunch.

For reasons unexplained, I had remembered to bring the cell phone. I called for help to the harbor master, then the local diver. Needless to say, they are both on “speed dial” now. About 90 minutes and $60 later, we were free to continue the maiden voyage. We decided to stick to the friendly confines of Rockland Harbor.

Properly chastised, for the rest of the summer we clung to the coast and confined our trips to the Bayside-Rockland axis, with the Coast Guard radio in one hand and the GPS in the other, with one foot on the tiller and an anxious eye on the horizon looking for dark weather. We made a couple of shots for our most ambitious trek, the round-the-Vinalhaven tour, but never got there.

It seems that the No. 1 rule in sailing is that, no matter what the destination or the time, the wind and tide will always be running against you.

But we learned a little, and I stopped calling “mayday” every time the boat heeled a few degrees. We even spent an overnight about a quarter mile from the mooring after, naturally, the wind and tide roared against us for about four hours. The next morning brought small craft warnings and a quick return to the mooring. (The wind was with us, then.)

When the weather started turning cold, Peter, the Talking Pirate, and I reluctantly motored back to Rockland and Knight’s Marine, for winter storage in the lowest tide of the season. I swear to God we were in sight of the dock when we slammed into the huge, underwater granite block than anchors the harbor buoy. Both of us were knocked off our feet, once again in full sight of the ferry landing, the marina and God only knows who else.

What a season. Can’t wait to pull the tarps off and start again, searching for new disasters.

Hey. No one died.