Crossing over: I have a confession to make. I recently sold my sailboat and bought a powerboat

A decade ago just out of college and nearly broke, I knew that I wanted a boat, but it had to be affordable. That meant I didn't have a lot of money for gas and engine repairs, so buying an old sailboat over an old motorboat was as much an economic decision as a lifestyle choice.

I picked up a 1978 sailboat, motor and rusty trailer for roughly $3,000. Like a first kiss, I clearly remember the cold January day when Constitution, as I named her later on the Fourth of July, warmed my heart with the thoughts of a sailing lifestyle. She was a whole 21-feet of fiberglass, swing keel, Dacron and drink holders. The small outboard wasn't going to win any speed wars, but at least it started.

During our first seven years together, she sat happily on her mooring at Ossining (NY) Boat and Canoe Club on the Hudson River's Tappan Zee. My powerboat friends soon dubbed me "Sailboat Scotty," and were always surprised to see me try to keep up with them.

Often my club's lone, token sailboat tied up with a raft of partying powerboats, I like to think that I was breaking down the barriers to one of boating's dirty little secrets--the segregation of power and sail.

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When we moved to Washington, DC, a few years ago, Constitution took up residence in southern Maryland on the Potomac River. I spent countless hours exploring this famous river but only a few miles at a time.

Maybe that's what caused my somewhat embarrassing "medical problem." Last summer I had a flare-up of the recessive motorboating gene. Soon "Being there" prevailed over "Getting there." I began to put money into my savings account for the gas dock. I took a Colgate Power Cruise class.

The last straw was when my one-year-old son got his first "boat-bite"--a black eye after he slipped on the unstable cockpit floor. The worst part was explaining the following day to daycare that I didn't whack my son, he had simply lost his balance as the sailboat turned to catch some wind.

Obviously, Mom was none-too-pleased. I've since learned from many brokers that "boat bites" on the young and innocent do wonders for their business. So with the family in tow, I bought a big, fat, 28-foot fly bridge cruiser with 454 cubic inches of General Motors wrapped in Mercury red and black.

Like children raised by wolves who later awaken to their humanity, everything began to make sense. I could simply turn a key now. No more time spent tacking, and the cockpit floor would stay flat. Excited yet saddened, I sold the sailboat quickly, leaving the new owner everything except my memorie-and a lump in my throat.

With great expectations and a new sense of freedom, I wasn't prepared for what followed. My first try at docking the "S.S. Enterprise" became a spectator sport. But thank God 1 asked some dockmates for help and hit full throttle in reverse, I inadvertently backed into a finger pier, which sent the whole thing swaying like a freeway bridge in the Northridge earthquake.

Adrift and with alarms blaring, my newest boating buddies put me safely in my slip. I was very grateful. Except for a new semicircular dent in the swim platform and my crushed ego, I was fine.

On the very next weekend's official inaugural cruise, my wife, son, guests and I were cruising upriver at the ungodly speed of 20 miles per hour when Enterprise suddenly came to a stop. The prop was spun. The boating gods must have been telling me this was a great day to get acquainted with my local TowBoatU.S. captain, who seemed like a darned nice guy, by the way.

So after a couple times out, how do I feel? It's too early to say if I've done the right thing.

Some sailboaters say my loss to their ranks was inconsequential--I was never a "real" sailor to begin with, anyway, because I didn't cruise and only got the boat because it was the cheaper option.

Like a secret fraternal handshake, however, every powerboater I meet inevitably says, "Welcome to the club." This is particularly true of those 50-somethings who were once-upon-a-time sailors, but who now own trawlers. I'm not quite there yet, but who knows, only time and the price of gas will tell.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Boat Owners Association
COPYRIGHT 2005 Gale Group