I’ve woken up because my bed has just been whipped out from under me. I meet it coming up a few feet later and we both lurch sideways. Then down. I twist over in my narrow space and look out of the window. It’s underwater. No, it’s not. Yes, it is. Then it steadies and a silver skein bubbles past in the sunlight. I decide I’m having the time of my life where not many hours before I had been asking myself what the bloody hell was I doing?

There were eight of us somewhere in the middle of the North Sea, heading for England from Holland on the Trinovante, an 80ft, three-masted schooner. It takes 40 minutes to fly from England to Amsterdam; it’s the best part of 24 hours to sail back. As we emerged from IJmuiden lock to start our crossing at nine o’clock at night, we divided into two watches of four, the theory being that in shifts of four hours, one would work the boat while the other slept. Unfortunately, the wind whistling up from the southwest was dead against us, so we had to motor into it.

In the dark, the motion of juddering, lurching and wallowing over the relentless waves had everyone taking antiseasickness pills and still four were retching. Despite some bumpy voyages, I had never thrown up, but there was no point in being cocky, especially as Su and John, the boat’s owners, thought it wise to take some too. So I knocked a couple back and went up on deck.

It was 1am. Chris had the helm, with a grim look fixed on the binnacle as if all that was keeping his dinner down was determination of purpose. Jess lay on the deck clutching a bucket. Su prowled the heaving deck, keeping an eye on the far-distant lights of other shipping.

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“David, take the helm.” “Su, I think I’d better go below instead.” The pills were sending me tumbling into slumber. I slipped down the ladder, heading for my bunk. No, that was too much effort. I lay down in the saloon and disappeared into a state less like sleep and more like a coma.

I came to in a tangle of wet-weather gear and safety straps an hour and a half later. Evidently, I’d been rolling all over the place. I clambered up on deck. Chris, glassy-eyed, beadily perspiring brow, was still holding nausea at bay. Jess was on the helm with clenched jaw. Su, watchful as ever, made another circuit of the deck. The sails were up. How had they managed to do that without me?

“Well, what about the mizzen sail?” I asked. Chris and Jess looked at me witheringly. Su and I set it. Under sail, the boat was smoother, less buffeted through the water. I took over the helm, feeling very wide awake and perky.

The next day, still in the North Sea, the wind has backed southeasterly and we hoist the fisherman’s sail, a free-flying irregular quadrangle of canvas like a huge kite with ropes at its four corners. It gives us an extra knot and we’re bowling along at 6½ knots in 15 knots of wind.

Mike appears on deck, firmly trussed into his waterproofs, with life jacket and safety line strapped over the top.

“Here I am,” he announces, perhaps superfluously. “Shall I take the helm?”

“Why?” “I’m on watch.” “Mike, you only went off an hour ago. You’ve got another three hours in your bunk.”

“What?” He looks at his watch. He looks at the clips, har-nesses, zips, Velcro fastenings, braces and boots he’s struggled into. He looks at his watch again, fetches a sigh and clambers back down, unbuckling. It’s been a hard night.

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