Making the transition to liveaboard means a lot of life's accumulated 'stuff' will need to be left in the wake and traded for adventures out there.

I knew from the start, when Patrick and I made the decision to move aboard our sailboat, that there would be compromise involved. That didn't bother me much; being born in October creates a natural inclination to compromise--Librans are celebrated for our diplomatic skill. Even if my ability to adapt owes more to a love of adventure than the arrangement of the stars, I knew that there was information available to ease our transition from land to sea, and looked forward to being able to turn loose from the dock at a moment's notice and head out to sea in our home. I understood that I'd have to cope with space limitations, and that the silver service and my 38 pairs of shoes would have to find another place to stay, but still, it was refreshing to pare down our belongings and live a comparatively Spartan existence.

Even without most of our belongings on board, it's not easy to squeeze a large group into a 33-foot boat, so we got used to meeting friends out at restaurants instead of cooking dinner for them at home. Out-of-town guests who'd drop in for the weekend adjusted too, and found hotels to sleep in (although, in a few cases, that could be viewed as not a sacrifice but a blessing). Life on a boat became a process of discovery and adventure, and we soon felt comfortable in our new community.

One change I found difficult to make, though, was facing the reality that there was no room for my hundreds of books on the boat. I never expected to keep them all aboard, but I was surprised at how few I was able to stow securely. Disheartened after a miniscule deck leak transformed a dozen volumes into mush, I recognized that I had to pare down even further than I had.

Patrick suggested I make use of the book exchange at the marina, a set of shelves in the lounge that act as an informal lending library, where people leave books they've read and take new ones. There's no record-keeping, but the supply never dwindles as boats come and go, refreshing the selection. Patrick had good luck picking up travelogues and illustrated guides on knot-tying, but I pouted over losing my own books. Finally, missing my library, I wandered up to the lounge to check out the shelves. My hopes weren't high as I looked through rows of mysteries and romance novels, but here and there, I spotted a gem. I found works by John Steinbeck and Joan Didion, as well as volumes on ways to streamline life aboard a boat, and I borrowed a few, to educate myself.

There are few pursuits I enjoy more than putting my feet up in the cockpit of the boat and reading a book, whether at the dock or under sail, and so the book exchange soon became a regular habit. Over time, I read biographies, novels, and every available book of advice on how to stow towels, clean sea bass, and keep wine cool in the bilge.

We soon adjusted to life in the marina, and had met a lot of liveaboards, many of them women, enthusiastic and capable sailors all. Our fellow sailors were more than happy to share tales of their successes and frustrations, and we laughed about our sea-going experiences: dragging anchor at the Channel Islands in the middle of the night, or a difficult trip up around Point Conception. I never noticed a gender bias among the couples; generally, the work was evenly split between male and female. Still, recognizing that there can be specific challenges for women liveaboards, I started talking to a friend about putting together a book of advice for women sailors. Shortly thereafter, I came across a volume in the book exchange bearing the title "The Sailorette" stamped in gold on the navy blue cover. Written by a woman named Fran Westfall and published in 1958, the book, I thought, might be a bit out-of-date, but I picked it up in the interest of researching my topic.

My hope vanished when, in the first few pages of "The Sailorette," the author described her reader as a "gal" who's hesitated to join her husband on the boat out of fear, and launched into soothing reassurance that sailboats are designed not to sink or tip over, suggesting that the reader experiment with watching a tin can float around in the bay, to illustrate the principle. Not exactly advice for the intrepid sailor, but entertaining on a certain level.

Still believing there was advice to be gleaned, I paged through an exploration of nautical terms that have entered common vernacular, an explanation of the various parts of a sailboat (cabin top, deck, handrail), and a brief overview of the deck hardware (winch, cleat, compass).

The author mentions the rules of the road and identifies various buoys before enthusiastically detailing the many decorative flags available to denote a variety of messages, including a couple I'd never seen. It was mildly interesting to learn that there are flags bearing images of different fish, to announce the type of fish that's been caught, but any man I know would be too concerned with self-preservation to fly a flag bearing a picture of a witch on a broomstick to signal that his wife has left the boat.

Further into the text are recipes for dishes like Bream Casserole or Conger and Potatoes, and information on storing butter and eggs without refrigeration. I flipped through the list of stain remedies and suggestions for appropriate gifts for the captain--a cocktail shaker in the shape of a fire extinguisher was one-- but when I got to the fifteen-paged nautical dictionary at the end, I realized that the book lacked any useful information about actually sailing the boat. Except for the brief outline of the rules of the road, there's no indication that the vessel being described will ever move from the dock. Moreover, the role of the Sailorette seems, apart from some instruction on how to tie a carrick mat, completely removed from the environment of the sea. She acts primarily as a housekeeper and hostess, concerned mainly with keeping guests from scratching the brightwork she took so long to polish.

The author in action. Sailing means actually using skill and the wind to move the boat in the direction you want to go, and women's roles onboard have moved far beyond housekeeper and hostess.

It's no secret that the role of women has changed dramatically since 1958 when this book was published, but still I was surprised at how detached the Sailorette is from my favorite part of boat ownership: the act of sailing the boat. I feel fortunate to live in a time when women are considered able crew and not simply hostesses. If my role in sailing our boat was reduced to serving drinks and knitting "boat booties" for guests, I would have given up the sea long ago.

There is a thrill in taking the helm and making the decision to change a course or a headsail, and now when I talk to my women friends who've navigated the Strait of Magellan or sailed single-handed down the coast of California, I think about Sailorettes of days gone by, and wonder if they ever knew the freedom of standing at the tiller at sunset, steering a course of their own choosing. It is a freedom I wouldn't trade for all the perfect brightwork in the world, and if I do write that book for women liveaboards, it will start with this advice: Don't forget to take the helm.