You want to own a boat, don’t you? Even though it has been the worst spring since the beginning of time (except for those occasional lava flows), you are still thinking about getting out on the water.

I have some advice: Forget it.

Every time you think about buying a boat, walk to the nearest window. Open the window and screen and throw $100 outside. Go back to the La-Z-Boy and watch the latest rerun of “Baywatch.” You are better off.

This year’s sailing fiasco started last week when Daybreak was dipped in the water (a day late) of Rockland Harbor and I (solo) tried to start up the aging diesel. No luck. The crew from the boatyard stood on the dock and looked down at the Catalina 27 like mourners look down at a grave. Finally the boat coughed, sputtered and came to life.

I have never backed up a tractor-trailer. But I imagine it must be something like backing a sailboat out of a dock with $300,000 sailboats on one side and a behemoth Maine State Ferry boat looming on the other. When backing up a boat, everything is reversed and you end up going just the opposite way you might suspect. Sweating blood, I managed to avoid a collision on either side.

There is a small problem with Daybreak that I had forgotten ( I usually leave the launching duties to my mechanically superior boat partner). When you shift from reverse to forward, the throttle sticks and jams wide open. Think of backing the family Buick into a parking space. Think about shifting into Drive and having the accelerator jam wide open – with no brakes!

That’s pretty much what happened after the boat shook off its winter rust and headed for the dock with all the horsepower it had. On the dock was Blue Eyes with her blue eyes getting wider and wider as I headed for her at full, suicidal speed. I jammed the boat back into reverse just as the bow bounced off the dock.

I didn’t look to see if the crowd aboard the ferryboat was watching.

One of the owners of the $300,000 sailboats sprinted down the dock to avert tragedy and defend his craft. Blue Eyes grabbed the bow and smartly stepped aboard with a line to the Zodiac and we were off to the mooring. I was already bathed in a cold sweat and the sailing season was 10 minutes old.

Should be a memorable season.

Halfway through Rockland Harbor, I noticed that a huge tugboat towing an even larger cement barge was sitting at an odd angle. It appeared (in retrospect) that the captain had shoved off just as we came around the corner. I believe that some swears were involved, but it was hard to hear them over the blasting of his warning whistle.

The mooring area in Owls Head came into view and I breathed a (premature) sigh of relief. Once we tied up, this shakedown cruise would be over, I thought.

I thought wrong. The mooring was nowhere to be found.

We grabbed the first sturdy-looking mooring, then called the diver, then the Owls Head harbormaster. They reported that the winter ice took at least six moorings out to sea, including mine. Harbormaster Walter Wotton, a part-time saint, suggested that we take one of his moorings until all of this could be straightened out, and a new, presumably expensive mooring could be installed.

Small problem.

At this point, the boat would not start. It wouldn’t even turn over.

The new, safe mooring was only about 200 feet away. I suggested that I get in the Zodiac and “tow” the sailboat to the new mooring. Blue Eyes resisted. She said on a day when so much had gone wrong, taking the chance of towing the boat, even on a windless day, would be begging for disaster.

One of the best things about Blue Eyes is she is never wrong. One of the worst things about Blue Eyes is she is never wrong. Plus, if you don’t listen to her, you will be hearing “I told you so” for the rest of your natural life.

We sat. We called. We called the local marinas. We called the diver.

Everyone was tied up for hours. Everyone wanted money. I wondered why anyone, anywhere ever wanted to own a boat. We called the harbormaster.

I don’t think I was actually crying when I called Wotton. Since he planned to put out a few traps anyway, he agreed to check out Daybreak. He was there in 20 minutes and tied up to the sailboat. He checked the engine and found a rusted fuse connection leading to the starter. (The replacement of the 50-cent fuse would prove successful the next day.)

Wotton towed us to the safe mooring and even tied up the boat. He must have figured that putting a rope in my hands at that point was a bad idea. He must have spent an hour going over the boat. We offered him money but he firmly declined. The Wotton family came from Matinicus and other Penobscot Bay islands where helping your neighbor was a way of life, he explained.

Gratefully, we locked up the boat and motored to shore in the Zodiac. We drove directly to the Rockland waterfront, where we drowned our frustration in spinach lasagna at Conte’s Restaurant. In spite of the day’s pratfalls, no one was hurt. No one drowned. We toasted our (relative) good fortune and considered the best publications in which to advertise a sailboat for sale.

My advice about buying a boat? Forget it. Open that window. Throw $100 out of it.

Go back to your La-Z-Boy.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.