Looking for a good home-Allegro waits patiently for her next owners.

I used to think I knew a thing or two about selling boats. In the last three years, I've been involved in the sale of four boats, and the purchase of four as well. That number would seem to leave me with zero boats, a misperception I can clear up by mentioning the boat my boyfriend owned when we met, and the subsequent boat he bought one day while I was at work. Thus, our entire boat inventory currently stands at two, which is still one more than we really ought to own. Until a month or so ago, had I been asked, I would have said that selling a boat is simple. We had no trouble selling even the lonely little MacGregor Venture to an enthusiastic new owner. It seems, however, that my lucky boat-selling star has gone to shine on someone else, if my efforts to sell the Allegro, our 1964 Pearson Commander, are any indication.

I've grown to love the Allegro, something I wouldn't have thought possible a couple of years ago, when I came home from work one evening to find that Patrick had purchased her at a lien sale. "Someone had to love her!" he claimed, putting a hand to his heart as I stood on the dock and fumed, eyeing the grubby deck and flaking varnish. I was in no mood to be appeased--we owned two other boats at the time--but Patrick worked hard to win me over. He stressed good points like the low purchase price and the elegant lines of her nine-foot cockpit, and downplayed less glamorous factors like dirt and mildew. "You won't have to do anything!" he promised, "We'll just clean her up and sell her!" After a while, my blood pressure returned to normal and I started to see the old girl for the neglected beauty that she is.

To make room for our new project, we sold one of our other boats and set to work scrubbing away mold and installing a new turnbuckle or two. Although I noticed that the prospect of not having to do anything had somehow faded into the past, I enjoyed seeing the improvements that even just a little elbow grease provided. Every day, we discovered something: a brand-new compass stashed in a lazarette, a digital depth sounder, a jar of peanut butter. Somebody had loved this boat and spent many, many hours bringing her to life. All the deck hardware had been replaced, and she'd been painstakingly rewired. Patrick and I would look at each other and wonder why she'd ever ended up abandoned at a lien sale.

It didn't take long for the Allegro to become a dock favorite, perfect for parties or overnight trips up the coast. Her slip was right nearby, so it was simple to turn loose and skip across the harbor for dinner, or take a friend's kids out for impromptu sailing lessons. We told ourselves we had to sell her to save the slip fee, but we never made much of an effort. Occasionally, someone would ask about her, but the inquiries didn't amount to much, and Patrick set to work refinishing the mahogany cockpit coaming and I fashioned Sunbrella covers to protect the beautiful wood. In addition to her role as a daysailer, she functioned as our ersatz guest room and, in a few notable cases, the proverbial doghouse.

Only a month or so we realized we had to get serious about selling the Allegro. We'd sold our liveaboard Ranger 33 for a bigger model, and a glance at the bottom line told us we could no longer afford the luxury of two slip fees. Having had good fortune selling the last three boats, and taking into consideration the modest asking price, we decided to forego a broker. I wrote a couple of ads to insert in online listing services, tossed in a couple of pictures, and sat back to wait for a response. I didn't have to wait long. Almost immediately, my in-box was swamped with dozens of inquiries from people writing from overseas, desperate for a chance to buy the boat. Oddly, each inquiry was nearly identical. "I saw your advert," they'd start out, "I really am in need of your 1964 PEARSON COMMANDER SAILBOAT." It was easy to recognize the messages as a scam I'd heard of, whereby a "buyer" sends an unsuspecting seller a check for an amount in excess of the asking price, then asks for the overage in cash. Naturally, the check bounces and the "buyer" disappears with the money. I didn't fall for the scam, but I'll admit to briefly amusing myself by writing back to one or two to explain that the boat was no longer for sale, as it had dissolved, or that I'd replaced the mast with a stack of Dalmatians. (Each time I did, I received a response asserting that yes, the buyer was still interested.)

The legitimate responses seemed easier to determine, but in the end, even the most promising lead proved fruitless. Interested buyers would call, ask detailed questions, even go so far as to set up an appointment to see the boat, then fail to appear. One promised to be there within the hour, and never materialized or answered our calls. I was worried he'd met with an accident, but then it happened again, and I began to realize that advertising online can foster development of a dance I call, with diminishing good humor, the Curiosity Tango. This dance requires two partners: one who wishes to sell a boat (Partner A, let's say) and one with apparent great interest but concealed disinclination to actually own a boat (Partner B). The partners face each other at a distance and begin a polite exchange of e-mails. Next comes a series of back-and-forth steps, as Partner B poses increasingly detailed questions and Partner A patiently answers each. A rhythm is established, and the pace escalates as, in a test of Partner A's stamina, Partner B increases the demands for information and photographs of hard-to-reach areas of the boat. Following a prolonged period of circling and hedging about appointments to see the boat, Partner B vanishes completely, leaving Partner A alone and twirling in place, wondering what happened.

Rewiring an old boat is a time and money intensive project and proof positive of an impulse buy turned into a labor of love.

Each time a potential buyer evaporates, Patrick and I shrug and go back to working on the boat. We talk about alternatives: hauling her out and keeping her on a trailer; moving her to a nearby lake, where fees are less. We've even tossed around the name eBay, but haven't had the heart to list her yet.

I believe that a classic boat finds her owner, and this one has found us and latched on like the last kitten in the crate at the pound. We saved her and now we're responsible for her. At some point, the right person will come along and appreciate the old girl for her solid simplicity and grace. Until then, we've got the sail covers off, and she's ready to go.