Often when non-sailors learn of my penchant for sailing long distances over the open ocean, one of the first things they ask is, "When have you been the most afraid?" For some reason this logical question always catches me off guard and I have to think a bit before answering. Usually what comes to mind first is the afternoon I arrived in West Africa in my 35-foot yawl, Crazy Horse.

So I tell the terrifying story of how I sailed into Dakar, Senegal, after a seven day passage from the Canary Islands, and had no idea where to land. I had never been in West Africa before and had no cruising guide for reference. All I could think to do was radio harbor control for instructions. They ordered me to tie up in the main port alongside an immense wall between a Cuban freighter and a massive oil tanker. Standing atop the wall was a crowd of about 70 men, all of whom were madly waving their arms and shouting as I pulled in. I had no idea what was going to happen, and I was so afraid as I threw my dock lines ashore that I nearly wet myself.

Upon hearing this anecdote my listeners invariably look disappointed. They expect a thrilling sea tale involving fearsome wind, breaking waves and perhaps a leaking boat thrown in for good measure. While I do have a few stories like that to tell, the reason I remember that afternoon in Dakar so well is because the situation was so very unfamiliar to me.

If nothing else, fear is an excellent tutor. We gain experience when we are forced to confront our fears and handle a boat in unexpected situations. Whether they arise out on the water or in a foreign port, you can learn a lot during those heart-in-your-throat moments – especially when they come with a punch line, as was the case here.

CHARLES J. DOANECruising West Africa aboard Crazy Horse, an Alberg 35 yawl built in 1964.As it happened, those agitated men on the wall were merely looking for work, and I had to employ one as a watchman to stave off a riot as I stepped ashore. I also discovered later there was a lovely yacht club just a mile past the main harbor where I could easily have come ashore unmolested.

As a result, the fear I felt that day taught me two valuable lessons: Never bring a boat to a dock in West Africa unless it's absolutely necessary; and when entering a strange harbor in a sailboat, don't land anywhere until you find where the other sailboats are parked.

INTO THE BREACH

I have also, of course, encountered unfamiliar scary situations while actually sailing my boat. I well remember, for example, the first time I sailed in more than 50 knots of wind. This occurred in the Azores (well before I made it to Dakar) after authorities in a tiny harbor on the island of Sao Jorge suddenly asked me to leave so a small freighter could land. I set off for the island of Faial, just a few miles away, but within half an hour was engulfed by an unforecast gale.

At first I had only 25 knots of wind to cope with, a situation I felt comfortable handling. Very quickly, however, the wind was blowing much harder than anything I'd ever experienced. Once I saw the read-out on the anemometer punch over 50, I felt I had entered an unknown universe, an awful place where the wind could blow as hard as it wanted.

I ran before the blast flying only a scrap of headsail with no plan other than to keep my stern quarter to it for as long as it took the wind to subside. Fortunately, I had sea room all the way to Iceland. Unfortunately, a shackle I'd installed as a toggle between the backstay and its turnbuckle began to deform as the wind blew harder and harder.

I lay nearly paralyzed with fear on the cabin sole dressed in my foulies, expecting the worst. Every 15 minutes I stuck my head out into the cockpit to check on the shackle and the sea state, then I lay down again, more terrified than before, swearing I would never go sailing again. By late afternoon, fortunately, the gale had blown itself out and my mast was still standing.

I've sailed in 50 knots a few times since then and have never been nearly as scared as I was that first time. I'm sure, however, the first time I see an anemometer hit 60 knots (God forbid) I'll be just as frightened all over again.

But again, this is how sailors gain experience. Think of an anemometer as a torture device, a dial that is turned higher and higher as a sailor's tolerance for anxiety likewise increases, and you'll have a clear idea of how a good sailor's education is conducted. When the unfamiliar and scary becomes familiar – whether it is a question of windspeed, docking or any aspect of day-to-day life for that matter – we not only are less afraid, we also have learned something valuable. Of course it is also possible to learn things without being afraid, but, as the old saying goes, a good scare is always worth more than good advice.

CHARLES J. DOANEThe author, photographed about 100 miles up the Gambia River, not long after leaving Dakar.FATALISM AND FOOLISHNESS

Aside from unfamiliarity, what most scares me on boats is responsibility. When I am merely crewing a boat, a threatening situation always seems more interesting than frightening. I remember, for example, one large schooner I crewed that almost sank en route from Florida to Bermuda, and then later actually did sink on the coast of Spain. In both cases I felt much more curious than fearful. Not that I wasn't anxious, but at a certain point in situations like this I quickly become fatalistic. When we abandoned our sinking schooner in Spain I remember rationalizing, "If I am doomed, so be it. We are all doomed anyway. Meanwhile, though, this really is kind of cool!"

I cannot achieve this state of mind, however, if I feel I'm in charge of a vessel. I first realized this while crewing for a cheerful, yet incompetent skipper on a double-handed passage from Spain to Madeira. Once I understood how unskilled he was, and that our safe arrival in Madeira in fact depended on me, a thrilling bolt of fear shot through me. A trace of that fear lingered in my heart for the duration of our passage and is present every time I board a vessel as skipper, whether I am bound across an ocean or merely across the bay.

There are good reasons why skippers cannot, and should not, succumb to fatalism. Doom may well be ultimately unavoidable, but no decent commander wants to invite it aboard. We need a tinge of fear when commanding a boat – not blind panic, but rather an acute awareness of unpleasant consequences – to help us make good decisions. If we are not a little afraid of what might happen, how can we properly prepare?

A skipper who is not afraid is a fool. A skipper who is afraid, but uses that fear to inform his or her decision-making, as well as to learn when things go wrong, is in my book both courageous and wise.