I'll be honest, right from the start. Cards on the table, I'm a land dweller, I'm not sure we have any business mucking about on the ocean. My usual enquiry on boarding a water-borne vessel is, "When are we getting off?" However, as a child I fished in the English Channel from what I recall to be nothing more than a rowing boat, later, I ran booze across the same stretch of sea by ferry and hovercraft (these days I take the train), I sped along the Thames just outside Windsor in a racing class powerboat (which I now understand may not have been entirely legal). I Ribbed for seven straight days in wild Scottish seas. Once, between Melbourne and Tasmania, I finally understood that saying about an even keel, as I watched an initially spotless and civilised passenger ferry fill steadily with vomit during a night crossing of the Bass Strait, retiring to bed as the afflicted huddled together in panic and desperation on the restaurant floor. For an hour or so I was a submariner in Mauritius. I've glided over stunning tropical reefs in glass bottomed boats more times than I've visited the dentist in the last ten years. Admittedly, this last excursion is usually employed as an excuse to avoid the "colourful and vibrant" local market. Translation: "colourful and vibrant" means noisy, dirty, overcrowded, and full of scheming locals keen to relieve you of your holiday money.

St Vincent and The Grenadines was the spot. A lovely spot it is too. Set in the Caribbean Sea, the island of St Vincent is used my many yachtsmen as the jumping off point to the nearby gems of Bequia, Mustique and the fabulous Tobago Cays. As part of our hotel deal we had the option of a private three day sailing trip on a 48 footer, touring the islands and the cays, sleeping and eating on board, and bring your own booze.

Transfer safely negotiated, we took up position on the bridge. "Do you want to give Danny a hand with the sail?" asked Captain George. Danny was the cook and deckhand. "I don't have to climb up anything do I?" I asked. Having established that no gymnastics were involved, I joined Danny at a sort of mid-point between the bridge and the front for some serious rope pulling. Polite thanks were offered as he gently elbowed me aside and employed a looping and winching manoeuvre which secured the flapping thing. "Not much wind today" said The Captain as he switched on the engine. We surged forward at 3mph. Waste of bloody time that was, I said to Sandra, and we were almost aware of the force of the mild acceleration.

George and Danny leapt into action and raced to the back of the boat. Some feat as they had both been asleep downstairs moments before. The "Do you want to take the wheel?" line was obviously a tried and trusted one to guarantee a little R and R. "Keep her straight", ordered George. Here we go, spin it left, oops bit too far, spin her right, oh no, too much, spin it back, whoops, here we go again in a semi-circle or worse, wonder how they're doing with that fish? I glanced over my shoulder to see Danny hanging off the back with the gaff as Cap'n George struggled with the reel, and the only casting going on now was that of exasperated looks in my direction.

Stopped off at the rich man's island, Mustique. If you ever bought an Italian car it seems much of the money has gone on Signor Agnelli's huge pink villa on the hillside. Our arrival coincided with the return home of the local workforce who commute by ferry to St Vincent every day for construction or dock work. I'm sure they don't drink in Basil's bar on the harbour where even at Italian car magnate might baulk at the price of small ale. We were moored for the night off Mustique. George and Danny asked for a hand in securing the biggest sail. We rolled it up, and George said, "Just tie a double bow" Ooops, too late. Whatever I tied, it would not be recognised as any kind of bow, more like that first attempt on your shoelaces, and certainly could not be found on the rather attractive nautical knot arrangement which sat in a frame on the wall outside the galley.

Well, I promised to keep quiet, and as I pointed out, the boat was moving anyway. I found the motion disconcerting, so sleep was difficult. It seems that on a yacht, you have to attempt sleep on a piece of four-by-two, five feet above the floor, with the consequence that the whole night is spent in fear of a swift descent onto a hard and unforgiving deck. The 3AM pee (OK I'm over forty), involved a steep climb from the bunk, a stumble across the cabin, stifled cursing while treading on Sandra's hairbrush, then, mission accomplished, a dozen pumps on the flush, which succeeded only in filling the whole cabin with the smell that the gent's toilet had in the only pub you could get served in when you were sixteen.

I returned to steering, and, by deciphering Captain George's oblique instructions, showed some improvement. Got into the swing of feeling the current and the wind, moving the wheel to fit the conditions. We were approaching the island of Bequia, me at the wheel, Captain G saying, head for that hill, then head straight for that boat at the end of the harbour, the kind of instructions I can understand. I thought, well he'll take over in a minute, because we're coming into the harbour now, lot of boats around, he'll take over any minute now. Instead, he said, mind those freighters to your right, come left a bit, look out for that speedboat, then, with just little hand gestures, this way and that, until we found a mooring, he guided me in. The moment of mild excitement passed quite quickly and, as the long hours of aimless bobbing about began, I eyed the shore for likely hotels.

Finally we hit some big waves and a decent wind on the jaunt from Bequia to St Vincent. That's when, moving around the boat, I began to consider the design faults of these sailed craft. Those rails of flimsy wire, with a gap plenty big enough to fall through must surely be a case for The Health and Safety Executive. Beds on the ceiling? Only birds and squirrels live like that on dry land. Those steep indoor stepladders. Why not make the boat a few feet longer and install a proper staircase? Generally these yachts, these rich boy's toys, are full of hazards for the unwary traveller. I find I can get up and walk around, or have a drink or a meal in relative comfort on an aeroplane or a train. Try doing this on a sailing boat and you'll soon find something to bump into, fall down or trip over. I absolve RIBS or powerboats from this, as I find the white knuckle experience concentrates the mind perfectly on nothing but self preservation, making redundant any thoughts of wandering around the craft. At those speeds the intake of food or drink should only be attempted by those with recent experience of the space shuttle, anyway, I've usually been smart enough to have a couple of stiff ones beforehand.

I don't know much about the sea, this much should be clear to you by now, but I do know that the only way to negotiate waves, is fuel-assisted, at high speed, and over the top of them. You bounce a bit for sure, but there's none of this interminable, dreary, cat-stuck-in-a-washing-machine type ride.