No matter where you go these days, from Singa- pore to Phuket, you see junks on the horizon. These are tourist junks, to take travellers on pleasure cruises reminiscent of days gone by.

In days gone by, however, they didn't have air-conditioning, gourmet meals, freshwater showers and toilets that flushed. Nor did they have the sophistication of these modern junks — all the satellite navigation, depth sounders, radar and so on.

Take the Nakalay, the largest antique Chinese junk in operation today in Southeast Asia. More than 35 metres long and 15 metres wide, it's operated by Thavorn Beach Village Resort and Spa, above Patong Bay in Phuket. Nakalay is a remarkable vessel. Built in Indonesia a century ago, it was used to transport rice from the islands to China. These days it transports tourists instead of rice, sailing to some of the most breathtaking scenery and islands in the Andaman Sea. Nakalay achieved fame in 1995 when the vessel played a prominent role in the pirate film Cut Throat Island, starring Geena Davis and Matthew Modine. The movie portrayed the junks as the spirit of romance.

My recollection of junks is a bit different, and has nothing to do with romance. I had my experience with these vessels when I was in China after the war. It was a junk that carried me to freedom when the People's Red Army drove out the Kuomintang. The vessel was Hai Lang, or "Sea Wolf", a fitting name — right out of a Jack London novel. To escape from the communists who'd overtaken Tsingtao, I swam out to Hai Lang, which was sailing south down the South China Sea coast to Shanghai. The crew picked me up at sea, half drowned, and placed me for the night on deck at the forepeak.

The vessel must have been around since Kublai Khan's day. It was a miracle it was still afloat. All through the night, I could hear the crew manning the bilge pumps to keep the vessel afloat. I was also aware of the sea lapping against the hull and the creaking of the masts and rigging. No, it was more than creaking; it was groaning. The entire ship was groaning, straining to keep alive and moving. And then came the smells, a hodgepodge of everything: burnt charcoal, fish, hemp rope, tar, and salt air. Mingled with all this was the aroma of food being cooked somewhere forward.

When dawn came I sat up; and then, very unsteadily, I rose to my feet. I hadn't noticed, but several young children had been watching over me, and now they ran off toward the stern shouting in Chinese. Near where I was bedded down lay a two-metre length of heavy chain. It had a purpose. If a patrol boat had approached, they would have tied me to the chain and pushed me overboard.

The children had hardly gone when a horde of Chinese appeared, all from the same family clan. Young children scrambled between the legs of their elders. There were old men, stooped and bent, and old women with tiny feet. The younger men, obviously the working crew, wore turbans and bandanas wrapped around their heads. When they saw me, they smiled. I'd never seen so much gold in any one place except perhaps a gold shop.

The junk was carrying a cargo of charcoal and dried fish, the fish being stored below deck. After my introduction, I was at liberty to look about the ship. She was divided into compartments, five or maybe six, each sealed off from the other. If they touched upon a point or rock and got holed, only one part of the vessel would fill and the others would remain dry.

The junk was overcrowded, with everyone crammed together in its nooks on deck or in its depths far below deck, eating and drinking, playing, smoking and, of course, gambling. They lived this way for months, years, at sea, in ports, in typhoons, in calms; they lived knowing no other life. They were born on junks, grew up, lived and died on junks. During this process from birth to death, there was nothing they hadn't learned about the vessel or the sea.

We sailed following off shore winds to the south. I helped at the helm, and learned to adjust the rudder, which at sea was lowered down the trunk and extended well below the keel. Learning to set sails was quite a chore. I ran around the deck like a Keystone Cop trying to help. With lateen sails, no reefing was needed. When the wind got too brisk, as it did the second night aboard, the crew simply let the halyard go, and the weight of the sails and battens brought the sails down into the topping lifts. When the wind picked up I became uneasy. The masts were extremely heavy and built up with heavy stiffeners bound around with iron bands. The masts carried no stays whatsoever. They just stuck up in the air on their own. Why they didn't come crashing down is a mystery. The first time we tacked, I fully expected to see the masts lift right out of the boat as the heavy yard swung across with a rattle and crash. It didn't.

I was shocked out of my wits my first night aboard, when they started to tack to change our course. It had to do with superstition, and no one is more superstitious than Chinese sailors. Everything they do is governed by their wishes to please the gods. It's necessary that much propitiation be offered. "Chinese paying plenty chin-chin joss," one of the crew explained to me in pidgin.

The date of departure was always governed by feng-shui, a curious Chinese custom that is supposed to be the influence of the wind and water spirits for good or ill. We anchored in one cove, and I expected to set sail the next morning; but our feng-shui wasn't right, and we had to wait another two days. But the worst time to observe feng-shui was at night. Unless you know what to expect, it could be frightening.

It was like sailing into a void. It was one of those black evil nights when it was impossible to see more than a fathom beyond the bow. Chinese junkmen seem to be able to see in the dark. But this night was unusual. The crew was up to something. Suddenly the silence was broken and the skies lighted up. Flares were flying and streams of sparks from their tails fell into the sea, lighting up the surface of the water in brilliant displays of colour.

At this signal the crew, without warning, began beating gongs. The noise they made was shattering. While some of the crew beat gongs, the rest of the men "came about", tacking and changing our course. I was certain the procedure was to signal the other junks that a manoeuvre was taking place, but the mate explained in his pidgin that it was to frighten away the devils of the sea. We had to give them warning, he said, and not bump into them and make them angry. The kids thought this was great fun, and ran up and down the deck shouting with joy, waiting for the next time we came about.

In Tsingtao, when I visited the docks, I saw hundreds of rats running up and down the quay, taking cover in the go-downs whenever someone approached. I was sure the junks were alive with rats. Imagine my surprise to find there were none. The reason I learned, after one tasty meal, was that the crew trapped and ate them.

I spent hours sitting at the bow staring out at sea, dreaming, hoping. Then I saw it — a US destroyer coming straight for us. I stood up and waved frantically. The destroyer did a turn and came to within 100 metres, and I could see sailors lowering a whaleboat from its davits.

I was jubilant, elated, thrilled, but also saddened to be leaving my new friends. The children lined the deck, and each of the crew in turn shook my hand. I went over the side and stepped into the whaleboat. I waved my last good-bye to Hai Lang and her crew. The next morning we arrived in Shanghai.