I once saw a flyer posted in a local bar seeking crew members for an adventure on the high seas. The mission was to deliver a large luxury yacht to Vietnam for refitting. A few guys I knew were considering going along. The pay was terrible, and the captain who was making the offer was a self-described "autocratic bastard". The flyer was reminiscent of the old pony express-rider posters for the US mail service, touting extremely long distances on horseback, lack of sleep, highly dangerous conditions and low pay. It sounded like fun.

But I couldn't be away too long due to other commitments and the eminent arrival of my parents for their first visit to Thailand. I made the call, admitted that I had very little experience, and made it clear I would only sign up if I could be assured of returning by a certain date.

"No problem. We'll be Ho Chi Minh City three days before that, and you can take your pay and your return air ticket and travel straight on back here, or eff off to Vietnam for a few days. Up to you, mate. You can even get off in Singapore, if you need to, and fly home from there."

And so it was that I became a crew member aboard a 1,500-tonne marine vessel we'll call Black Pearl. I was assigned to the engine-room watch, reporting to Mr Chapati, a young Indian gentleman, the only original crew member and chief engineer. He had an adorable pet monkey named Chips that followed his every move. The ship was amazing, but in questionable condition and in a state of alarming disarray. We were about to embark with no radar, an inoperable set of electric generators, a faulty steering mechanism, an short-handed and inexperienced crew, and an anchor winch that had to be beaten with a massive sledge hammer in order to lift the anchor.

The captain was blustery and animated, full of himself. He knew what he was doing — this was mere child's play, compared to the endless list of his seafaring accomplishments. We bought a small diesel generator to power nearly everything electrical, including the ship's only navigation equipment, a laptop and a hand-held GPS. Luckily we did have a man who was competent in using it.

Not more than a day into the journey, our only female passenger, liaising for the ship's owner, asked me to stay in her cabin. She said our captain was taking the liberty of undressing in her private cabin for his showers and making unwanted advances. She said she'd call the ship's owner and explain. I moved in straight away. The captain was furious.

Three days into the journey, the generator went south and began spewing fuel on the upper deck. I was on watch, and woke Mr Chapati with the report of a broken fuel-injector line. Just as he was about to attempt repairs, the captain leapt off the bridge cursing us "monkeys" for our incompetence, yelling ridiculous accusations at both of us. "What the hell did you do to break it," he asked. I watched, stunned, as he slapped Mr Chapati in the face.

Arriving in Singapore, the captain parked the giant boat half in the active shipping lane. Goodness gracious me! We were soon approached by the harbour authority and placed under scrutiny for lack of proper documentation, lack of a ship's agent, and lack of a proper parking spot. It started to become clear that our illustrious captain was not what he claimed to be. Placed under house arrest, the ship's crew was a bit nervous, as the captain filled the air with loudmouth commentary about the idiocy of port authorities who obviously didn't know their jobs. It was right about then I was thinking, "Am I having fun yet?"

Twenty-four long hours later the Black Pearl departed Singapore. After some hair-raising encounters with large freighters that nearly mowed us down in the dead of night, we finally motored into Vung Tau, Vietnam. This is where the real fun began. We still had no ship's agent, and were again placed under house arrest, and told no crew member could set foot on Vietnamese soil. After four days of waiting, and numerous "gifts" to immigration officials, we were able to get a shore pass.

The captain sniffed a conspiracy, and eventually decided I was trying to take over the ship. It slowly dawned on me that, left to his incompetence, my fate was uncertain. I finally made contact with the ship's owner, and arranged money and air reservations for the crew as well as another "gift" for Immigration officials to issue our visas. Relieved to stay in a hotel for a couple of nights, I went back to find the only person on board was the captain, who sat sulking at the stern. Packing up, I found that a very expensive electronic device was not where I'd left it. He watched me look for a while, and then grinned too broadly when he asked what I was searching for.

About this time, a little voice in my head was saying: "You're in big trouble, mister."

It was my editor. I'd missed my deadline. And I wasn't where I was supposed to be, just then, playing a big music gig either. Oh brother, the things you do for adventure. But at least I wasn't the only one in big trouble. The captain was reprimanded by the ship's owner and was kicked off by the authorities. Turns out, he never was qualified to command a ship of that size in the first place.

I've since heard many similar historical tales by all the people who know "the captain". As it turns out, it's sort of a perverse local entertainment thing, to wink and nod, and not say a thing. It makes for huge laughter when all the stories come out. "So how was your trip with the Captain?" they ask.

He's back here now. I see him in the waterfront bars all the time. He's wearing his charm as bait, waiting for the next opportunity to fall in his lap.