I had my first taste of salsa dancing at a nightclub in Florida. A friend and professional dancer took the lead and spun me around a crowded dance floor, careful to catch me from crashing into other couples as my unreliable feet stumbled to maintain some sense of rhythm.

I didn’t find some unknown talent in dancing that day. I didn’t pick up the moves easily or find that my clumsy tendencies miraculously transformed when I hit the dance floor. But the energy I felt was intoxicating. It was pure, breathless fun, despite my complete lack of skill, and I promised myself to learn someday to do it right.

Fast forward to January on Martha’s Vineyard a few years later. My first winter on the Island. Here I am, working as a newspaper reporter, not much time off — something about all those night meetings to cover. Still, it’s winter and I wanted to find some kind of carefree diversion. Maybe something a little jazzier than the knitting group.

I began scanning the course catalog for Adult and Community Education (ACE MV). I had seen Saskia Vanderhoop only once, leading a small group of teens in a couple of dance moves one Friday afternoon at Che’s Lounge in Vineyard Haven. As I scanned the catalogue, there was her name next to the Salsa for Beginners class. I’d found my winter escape. Because I would challenge anyone to see Saskia dance and not want to follow.

They stood before us on that first day, the lithe and lean Saskia and her home-grown partner, her husband, David. He was a testament to her teaching skills, the way he fluidly led her around the dance floor. And she looked as if she was born twirling on her toes.

I’ve been told it sounds like a herd of elephants descending when I barrel down a flight of stairs, but I can manage a light-footed march, if I put my mind to it. Good thing, too, because that was the first step on Saskia’s agenda. March in place, try to follow the beat, “one, two, three, four . . . five, six seven, eight.”

The basic step threw me a little at first, but just like memorizing the multiplication tables, with constant repetition it became like second nature. Next came slightly fancier variations: the side step, the cumbia, a ladder-like side step that I believe was designed solely to make me fall down in front of room full of people.

Those steps only laid the groundwork for the real dancing. And in a six-week class, the dozen or so eager students didn’t have long to dwell on the fundamentals before Saskia paired us off with partners. It was one thing to be spread out around the room with our own personal dance space. But dancing in a closed position, we had to navigate the new and awkward steps with another pair of gawky feet stumbling around inches before us.

The weeks passed. It took less and less time at the beginning of class to warm up, to fall back into the steps without constantly watching my feet. Glancing around the room, it seemed that the women fell into fluid movement more easily than the men. Perhaps that is part of the design; the men dictate the direction of the dance, and need flexible partners ready to follow their every whim.

I found myself dancing on my toes, which felt more natural as we evolved from simple steps to more complex turns. My leather boots felt too heavy for the flowing motion, but I preferred their heels to the flat soles of my tennis shoes. Saskia, too, kicked off her flats at the start of each class to slip on strappy heeled sandals, and I began to consider getting myself a pair. The boots simply would not do when I took my newfound talents to a real dance floor.

It didn’t get easy, exactly. I was thrilled when Saskia suggested extending the classes by a month or more at another location. I needed more practice to be able to mentally tear up that Florida dance floor from so long ago. And as we completed what should have been our last class, Saskia arranged the class in a circle to execute all the steps in one unbroken string. It was the great crescendo, a fusion of all of the twists and turns, trots and spins we’d been perfecting over the weeks. The result wasn’t perfect, but I felt strangely comfortable as I followed it through to the end.

“Ohhh fancy,” my partner complimented, a little surprised. I blushed and tried to disguise my sharp swell of pride. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “maybe not so bad.”