As Ratty famously remarked to his old pal Mole, “There is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

Anyone seeking real world affirmation of this timeless truth, culled from the pages of Kenneth Grahame’s children’s book, “The Wind in the Willows,” need look no further than the state of Maine during its marvelous, if all too brief, “boating season.”

For a few fleeting, unforgettable summer weeks, Maine’s lakes, rivers, ponds, streams and harbors, and the shimmering blue ocean beyond, are filled to capacity with watercraft of every conceivable size, shape and purpose. From punts to power yachts, trimarans to trawlers, one man kayaks to four masted schooners they tack, heave, splash and zoom across Maine’s myriad waterways. And as any active participant can tell you, the “messing about” factor in all of this aquatic activity is exceptionally high.

Having grown up on the Maine coast, I discovered the joys of boating at an early age. By the time I was old enough to row a skiff, I’d developed what amounted to a full-blown case of boating fever. Unfortunately, before I could think about having a boat of my own, certain obstacles needed to be overcome. It was at this point due to my near total lack of impulse control that I almost foundered on the shoals of my father’s autocratic boating philosophy.

Don’t misunderstand me. My dad had his captain’s papers and was in fact an avid boating enthusiast. The problem as far as I could tell, was that despite (or perhaps as a result of) his status as a world-class yachtsman, he seemed immune to the aforementioned “messing about” business, which was, as you’ve probably figured out by now, the only thing I was actually attracted to.

Nevertheless, the fact remained that parental permission to operate so much as a six-foot dingy was granted only upon successful completion of a rigorous exam covering specific information detailed between the covers of “Chapman’s Piloting, Seamanship and Small Boat Handling,” a massive tome that my father considered the seagoing equivalent of the King James Bible.

In my childhood, as boating season approached, I could often be found fidgeting behind my desk, gazing out a classroom window, hoping for even a brief glimpse of the azure ocean a half-mile beyond the schoolyard gate. What possible educational purpose, I wondered, was being served by keeping a room full of bored youngsters cooped up like so many stir-crazy chickens on such an intoxicatingly beautiful late spring morning?

Let’s face it. All we’re doing is “running out the clock” on the final half-week of mandated academic incarceration. How hard would it be for the school principal to simply get up from behind that heavy oak desk, saunter across the room, ring the darned bell and send everyone home a couple of days early?

Not that I’d be headed home you understand. No way. In the unlikely event of a last minute executive pardon I’d have made a beeline for the dock to gaze in wonder at my sister’s “speedboat.” A thing of incredible beauty, this sleek, sea-foam green fiberglass runabout was outfitted with a steering wheel, plush red seat cushions and best of all, a massive 40 horsepower Scott Atwater outboard perched on the transom.

Dreams of sitting once again behind the wheel of that boat had occupied my every waking moment ever since the recent Saturday morning when my big sister had suddenly announced that she had decided to go waterskiing with her boyfriend. Then, to my utter amazement, she invited me to join them.

Looking back on it, I suppose I should have guessed that she was motivated by a “secret agenda.” Why else would she ask a little kid like me to come along on a “hot date.”  But, I was happy go and sure enough after a couple half-hearted waterskiing attempts in the hypothermia-inducing Gulf of Maine, she cut the engine and hauled the skis aboard.   

That’s when she turned around, smiled at me and offered to let me drive the boat! Following a brief tutorial (including a warning to, “Keep my eyes straight ahead at all times!) I took the helm while she and her boyfriend snuggled into the aft seating area to “enjoy the scenery.”

The next couple of hours, spent speeding across the glassy outer harbor, warm sun on my face, blue skies and even bluer water blurring the horizon line while the powerful engine kicked up a high handsome “rooster tail” astern, were absolutely magical.

Only years later did I begin to appreciate how profoundly that long ago afternoon had deepened my appreciation for the joys to be found “messing about in boats.”