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FOR me, an eternal romantic with a partner of the same ilk, Valentine's Day is always a good day. Even so, some of these annual celebrations of togetherness stand out from the others. Here's a good one.

Years ago, Craig and I decided to buy a boat in Connecticut and sail it to Hawaii ourselves. In many ways, this trip turned out to be the grand, nautical adventure we expected it to be. But the journey had an additional challenge to it: We were suddenly forced to live solely on a 37-foot sailboat for nearly an entire year.

And this wasn't simply a test of getting through the usual chores of daily living in a tiny space. We had to learn to trust one other's judgment in potentially life-threatening situations.

Our first trial came on the first day of the trip as we rounded Long Island's Montauk Point. The area there is notorious for rough seas and, sure enough, I got so seasick I couldn't even sit up.

Craig was understanding and generously took the helm for the entire day, the evening and far into the night. Finally, at 3 a.m., he gently shook me awake. "Susan, can you take a watch? I really need some sleep."

He had been in the bunk no more than 30 minutes when I began to freak out. The lights of Manhattan seemed to be approaching way too fast. Worse, Long Island's sandy shoreline loomed large off the starboard bow, convincing me that any moment we would run aground. Then, out of the blue, a monster container ship began to bear down on us.

"Craig! Craig!" I called in panic.

He flew up the companionway, his eyes red and puffy with exhaustion. "What's wrong?"

I showed him the alarming proximity of Manhattan, the shoreline, the container ship. He looked around, then shocked me by growling, "Susan, we are miles from land! And that ship is at anchor!"

After that, we both tried harder. Craig, who had a lifetime of experience on the water, took more time to teach me the subtleties of sailing. In return, I curbed my tendency to fret.

Over the next 6 months, we learned to respect each other's right to be silent, restless or melancholy. I practiced shooting sites with our sextant and got good at it. Craig prowled the boat, constantly checking, repairing and jury-rigging its systems.

Gradually we made our way down the Intercoastal Waterway, through the Bahamas and on to Puerto Rico. Things were going well until we left the Virgin Islands for St. Martin. That night, just as a storm appeared, leaving us with only a few feet visibility, our satellite navigation system broke down. Soon, huge waves were breaking over the deck and we weren't sure where we were.

We braced ourselves and together, in the red light of our tilted, jolting navigation station, plotted our course, figured current drift and calculated time to landfall. At each lurch of the boat during that long night, I worried that we had misconstrued our position and would crash into a cliff. But I did not mention it.

Hours later, at first light, we spotted the harbor of St. Martin. And just to the left of it, high and dry on the rocky shore, lay a large, newly wrecked sailboat, its torn sails flapping in the breeze like broken wings.

After a hug and a high five, we anchored, then rowed ashore with our broken SatNav. But to our surprise, all shops were closed, steel drums reverberated and people were dancing in the streets. "What's going on?" Craig asked a musician.

"It's Valentine's Day, mon. We are celebrating!"

It was a great moment and a wonderful party.

Hope your Valentine's Day is as much fun.