We steamed past drifting race boats on Penobscot Bay. The Penobscot Bay Pursuit start would be delayed for an hour or more. Once we put some distance between us and our mooring, I killed the engine, and gave sailing a try.

No clue of wind to my senses on flat water. I hoped the boats left over engine power coast, would last long enough to hunt up some sail power.

Set sails-Loose foot main, looser, looser,...right there-fat belly.... Nothing,..?...Then... A red flicker of life flashes above in the tiny telltales on the trailing edge of the sculpted white curve overhead.

We have something! But the genoa, with no skeleton to shape it, isn't buying it. Telltales dead. Crack off a bit, lead it out a bit, 'push' it's sheet. Ah! The telltales are lifting gently.

There it is. There it is! There's wind.

Now, we were sailing, very slowly, no where in particular. Unless you're a racer, this sort of sailing is an aquirred sailing taste.

1.5 knots of boat speed on the GPS felt brisk and liberating. It's the art of going nowhere fast. More a state of being.

With no place to go, wandering under sail, can be a feeling of pure decadence.

For the next 24 hours we wandered, anchored, wandered, and covered about 24 nautical miles. So much to see, hear, smell. So much time.

We had brief 5 knot wind gusts the next day retracing our wake. And we coasted patiently through 0 knot-wind lulls. A gizmo in my pocket drew us a map of our wake.

Between tacks slicing the surface in complete quiet, I remember a child's voice as clear as a bell on the shore of Vinalhaven, the loud blow of a dolphin nearby. Then the raucous commotion of our clumsy tacks, slow turns, the centerboard inches above the ground below. Lovely in the coasts between tacks, it was a battle for an old boat to thread the narrows against the current that wanted us to stay put.

A motoring schooner breaks our silence. The dudes line the rail to watch, the old boat under sail. We all wave, sailors.