During my eighth-grade year, Alaska launched the M/V Malaspina, the first ship of the state's marine highway system. Dad was on the Malaspina's first crew, working as an able bodied seaman. Before I graduated from high school, he'd worked his way up to captain. Riding on whichever ship he was on was a great source of pride, especially after my two daughters were born. We'd pack our backpacks, get on "Grandpa's" ship and spend several days riding with him.

During the day, he'd let us visit the bridge. My daughters proudly sat in the captain's chair, wore Dad's captain hat and, at his urging, tried to find Mickey Mouse on the radar. In the evening, Dad's quarters became a changing room for two little girls getting into their pajamas, brushing their teeth and washing their hands and face. Then we'd find our way through the ferry to whichever corner we'd unrolled our sleeping bags. They'd snuggle in, I'd read from whatever book we were immersed in at the time and, at some point, Dad would stop by to tuck them in.

Other boat experiences are not so idyllic. Like the time I crewed on a halibut boat and we got into an inlet storm our first night out. When waves started coming in the cabin, the captain finally gave up his idea of anchoring off shore and got us to shelter behind a nearby island. Then there was the time I hired on as cook on a drift boat. The captain and I were good friends on shore, but on the boat was another story. As anyone who has crewed knows, you don't argue with the captain. Halfway through the season, I was without a job.

Viewing a place from the water never fails to offer unique perspectives and unexpected experiences. Several years ago, I traveled with my fourth-grade teacher aboard the M/V Tustumena from Homer to Unalaska and back. Not only did I see some beautiful country, I also had a fascinating week getting to know someone who had a significant impact on my childhood.

When friends moved into a home beyond Juneau's road system, they moved their household goods by barge down Gastineau Channel. Among their belongings was a piano. As the barge was towed down the channel, I played the piano and others helping that day sang along, our voices and the sound of the piano echoing off the towering mountains and the still, green water.

In Russia, my dad and I crossed Lake Baikal and the Angara River on a hydrofoil. In Jerusalem, we crossed the Sea of Galilee. In Egypt, we cruised on the Nile while having dinner.

In Mexico, my daughter Jennifer and I went out on Bahia Magdalena in a tiny little boat so we could get close to the immense gray whales. Another time, after a weekend of exploring, with wind picking up and storm warnings being announced, Jennifer, her husband and I caught the last available ferry and made a quick, rolling and -- thankfully -- safe crossing from Santa Catalina Island to Long Beach.

For several years, my daughter Emily's husband guided on the Kasilof and Kenai rivers. Although the Kenai Peninsula has been home most of my life, being on Joe's boats offered a new way to experience familiar territory.

My husband, who has sailed his 41-foot boat to the South Pacific, now has me intrigued with sailing. Through him and other friends, I'm seeing boats in a whole different way as they harness the wind and let it take them across the water.

Each time I visit the harbor I'm aware of the multitude of stories those boats could tell. The people they've carried. The seas they've sailed. The storms they've weathered.

With each voyage completed, each harbor reached, each landfall made, there is the anticipation of the next adventure in this world of unknowns.

It's the stuff that filled my nights as a child and keeps my face pointed toward the water.

McKibben Jackinsky can be reached at mckibben.jackinsky.@homernews.com.