At the tip of Georgetown Island, perched above rock ledges that would have made Winslow Homer drool, sits a home where you can come as close as possible to living on the water without actually being afloat. Constructed on the footprint of a small, winterized mid-twentieth-century cottage, the house takes advantage of the grandfathered site of its predecessor just seventy-five feet from the high-tide mark. The spot had long tantalized one couple as they viewed it from nearby Reid State Park. One happy day in 1989 they finally found the right road leading to the point and, to their delight and amazement, found a 'For Sale' sign hanging on the weathered cottage.By the time they began remodeling the building nearly ten years later, this husband and wife team knew exactly what they wanted.

"It takes a long time to realize what is important in your living pattern and style," explains the husband, a retired retail marketing executive and entrepreneur who prefers to remain anonymous. "Living right on the coast in that house for a number of years before redoing it, we were able to prioritize, amplifying the things we were fond of and downscaling those that made no sense for us."

Size, for example. A huge extended family, some forty-strong within driving distance, seemed to mandate an enormous house to accommodate everyone. But by the time they had found their third and final architect, Rob Whitten of Whitten + Winkelman Architects in Portland, they understood that a smaller, more flexible house that could be expanded and contracted made more sense. At 3,000 square feet, the new house can sleep fourteen comfortably (and up to twenty-three in a pinch), yet by closing off two guestrooms and a large attic loft known as the Crow's Nest, it shrinks to a cozy size for the couple. These days, they live in the house year-round. "We used the footprint as a constraint," the husband says. "Rather than go out, we went up, which made a lot more sense in terms of what we wanted to do with the rooflines. We wanted a traditional coast house."

They also wanted a house that would allow them to experience the raucous and mercurial coastal weather as intensely as possible. "We're edge people," he says. "We wanted to bring the rhythm of the planet into the house as much as possible. We realized over time that we are really engaged with the tides, with where the sun comes up at a particular time of year, the distance between its rise in summer and at the winter solstice." Large windows offer 180-degree views, and porches ring the exterior, offering up-close sea spray on the Atlantic side and quiet contemplation of the woods and gardens on the other side of the 1.2-acre lot. Experiencing the elements as closely as possible means that the owners spend most of their time in the front of the house, so the kitchen and bathrooms were located at the rear.

Authenticity was another priority. Enthusiastic preservationists, the couple has been instrumental in conserving historically important structures in Maine, including the Robinhood Free Meetinghouse, a local landmark. They took inspiration from Maine's seafaring history and traditions, drawing ideas from captains' houses in Bath, a style they describe as more spare than the elegant houses of Nantucket, more straightforward and honest, and better reflective of their own personalities. During the years before they remodeled, they collected Early American antique pieces and architectural salvage that they then incorporated into the house. Although the original structure eventually had to be demolished, they recycled as much of the lumber as possible, reusing some in the new house "because we wanted the same feeling and spirit" as in the original structure and sending bits to family members who made decks and desks from them. Georgetown Island lumber was used wherever possible, as in the antique golden floorboards (some more than twenty inches wide), and in the kitchen cabinets, trim, and moldings throughout the house. The owners wanted a house that would look as though it had been there forever. "We built the house to last a lifetime because it's never going to go out of the family," the husband says.

The desire for authenticity was greatly facilitated by the close relationship the owners had with local finish carpenter John Rogers, who had earlier constructed an art studio for them. Once the framing — reinforced steel designed to withstand 125-mile-an-hour winds — was complete, the husband worked with the builder every day for six months on the interior in a remarkably harmonious give-and-take process.

Wanting to be on the job site every day created some hardship for the couple, who had sold their house in Durham as construction began. A rental house fell through at the last minute, so they ended up living nearby in a trailer for six months ("Another great Maine tradition," laughs the homeowner). But being able to make decisions on the spot, he says, added tremendous speed to the construction process, and allowed the couple great control over the end result.

The years of living on-site before rebuilding their seaside home also allowed the couple to learn firsthand the perils of existing in such proximity to the elements. During one storm before the cottage was reconstructed, for example, a huge wave slammed the retaining wall, surged up the chimney (at that time located on the sea side of the house), and splashed down into the living room. "It didn't harm the house," the husband says, "but it certainly got our attention. On the other hand," and his voice lightens with excitement, "it's so thrilling to be that close."

A tour reveals a house that is as trim and efficient as a ship, surrounded by hugely visible sky and sea, yet cozy and built to withstand every winter gale. With a nod to Maine's shipbuilding tradition, the owners have utilized every inch of space, building drawers into walls and cleverly inserting closets. There are no obvious nautical motifs, no frayed ropes or battered buoys, but the theme of a ship can be found throughout the house. The series of four-over-four lights placed side-by-side high on the eighteen-foot front wall of the morning room call to mind the windows of a tall ship's poop deck, while a wave motif, designed by the owner, lines the base of the staircase. The rich mahogany used for stair risers and drawers might well have outfitted a captain's private cabin.

The Morning Room, named for the morning light that pours into it, combines kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. It is a hub of activity and an all-purpose gathering space throughout the year. Wide sofas provide a comfortable seating area near a fireplace. The antique mantel, topped by an impressive ship model, originated in the Upper Hudson Valley; carpenter John Rogers added a bit of dentil work to make it fit the space better. Doors open to porches on two sides of the room. A long country table that can seat a dozen or more is lined with sturdy antique farmhouse chairs.

The small, well-appointed kitchen, nestled under a second-floor bedroom, recalls an efficient ship's galley. A wonderful bit of Maine history was found underneath the old store counter that forms the base for the island separating kitchen from dining area. Penciled on the underside was a note left by one Sadie Parker, aged thirteen in 1892: "I've been here three weeks. Raining every day." Countertops are made from Fireslate, a man-made cement composite resembling slate, whose tendency to stain ensured that it would eventually match the worn look of the antiques.

In the tradition of rooms named after their previous incarnations is the Wicker Room, a low-ceilinged sitting room that now contains no vestige of the classic cottage material. Teenaged nieces, nephews, and grandchildren gather here to watch television, play games, and lounge on the comfortable sofas by a second fireplace. "We've never bought any modern furniture," the husband says, "except for upholstered pieces. Old couches are uncomfortable!" The antique mantel was reclaimed from a home in northern Maine, and the paintings and drawings adorning the walls were done by the husband. Again, glass doors open onto the front porch.

Off to one side is a glassed-in sunroom with a high-peaked ceiling. The enormous windows were salvaged from the Robinhood Free Meetinghouse, and can be removed in the summer to make a screened porch. The stone floor retains enough heat so that even in winter, the room is warm enough to read in.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was purposely undersized, since the couple realized that "all we do is sleep here." The windows in the master bedroom, which face the ocean, were given extra protection in the form of double panes, backed up by storm screens. The owners report that when it's wailing outside, with thirty- to forty-mile-an-hour wind gusts, the space between the window and the storm window will fill up with water, though none leaks in.

A trap door with a ladder leads from the upper hallway to the Crow's Nest, with its line of built-in beds along one wall recalling the berths on a ship. This is a favorite spot for the grandchildren, who compete for the bed closest to the ocean, eager to sleep next to the sound of wind and sea. A piece of a rough-hewn antique mast functions as a supporting beam.

Protection against fierce coastal weather is provided by heavy roof tiles and steel beams. A taller chimney than the original is now prudently sited in the central core of the house, and has so far kept the living room free from ocean swells. In fact, the owners say they've never had any damage, not even a broken window. A couple of times, water has swept over the retaining wall and washed out the daylily bed along it, but it's never gone farther.

Today, after such a complete transformation of their property, the couple says they could not be happier with the results. "We have a very strong emotional feeling about this house," the husband says. "It meets very personal standards for authenticity and the sense we have of wanting to be engaged with this planet, its tides and movements. Everything is right, and whenever we step on this property, we're home."