I wince while writing this – the blisters on my hands are still tender, my sunburned knees protest, and my nose has begun to peel painfully. Yet, for the last three days I have been a part of something from which no amount of discomfort would have deterred me. Indeed, even as unrelenting sun scoured unaccustomed skin and rough ropes tore at bruised palms, I found myself laughing, excited, and – strangest of all – looking forward to more of the same. The Phang Nga Bay Regatta has filled my sails.

This is not to say that I haven’t enjoyed sail racing in the past. There’s nothing as inspiring as watching the explosion of spinnakers on a downwind start – especially from the comfort of a martini-soaked spectator boat. Previously, however, I’ve been reticent about accepting invitations to involve myself in the actual act of sailing. For one thing, I have always been of the opinion that there are far too many ropes involved, and my chief concern has been that, in the heat of the moment, I would accidentally pull the one attached to the plug.

Arriving at the Phuket Yacht Haven on a bright sunshiny Monday morning just before Chinese New Year, I was entirely convinced that, yet again, I would be enjoying the comfort of the latest confection in pleasure cruising for this year’s QBE Phang Nga Bay Regatta, only to be confronted by Di Hard. As the name suggests, the most comfortable thing about this boat looked to be the sail bags.

“Haha,” I chuckled to one of my companions. “This looks like it should be competing in the regatta.”

“It is,” she replied, with a matter-of-factness that set my stomach twisting. “It’s YachtPro’s fastest racer.”

Unfortunately my lift had already left, so I was stuck. “Well,” I grimaced, grasping for consolation. “At least Rob Williams isn’t skippering.”

“Oh, yes he is.”

My groan could be heard on the mainland.

Rob Williams is not only one of the most competent sailors I’ve ever met, he’s also one of the most accomplished, with oodles of regatta honours, not to mention his appearance on one of last year’s Phuket King’s Cup winners, Cedar Swan. He moved to Phuket a few years back to set up his sail-training operation, YachtPro. Now the idea of sharing a sailboat with him on almost my first attempt at sailing – and not just sailing, but racing – left me wondering how long it would be before I found myself keelhauled.

To add to my misery was Rob’s custom-built Frers 41 ocean racer, Di Hard. A veteran of the Admiral’s Cup and a survivor of 1998’s Sydney-Hobart, this was no training dinghy and – to my horror – had even more ropes, winches and associated sailing paraphernalia than I’d seen on yachts twice its size. I was doomed.

By the time the looming escarpments of Railey were upon us, I was in much higher spirits. For one thing, the Phang Nga Bay Regatta has its finger firmly pressed against the fun button. That isn’t to say that the yachties – many of whom are locally based – do not take the racing seriously, but the faster they can finish the races the sooner they can start the partying.

And Railey Beach is an excellent place to start four nights of parties. Oozing relaxation and only accessible by boat, it is entirely isolated from mainland Krabi by vertical limestone mountains abutting thick forest. A favourite haunt of beach bums and rock-climbers for much of the year, that evening it belonged to the yachties. As the food and beer flowed at Railey Bay Resort, to the accompaniment of music and fire-dancers, I learned that about 70 percent of the 2001 entrants had returned. Even more surprising was that, once again, 38 boats had registered – a remarkable turnout considering how the woes of the world have ravaged similar events.

In fact, the only thing that looked like putting a damper on the fun was Phuket’s treacherous winds. In recent years the winds have been miserably unfair to many Phuket regattas – including last year’s Phang Nga Bay – blowing boats out of the water the day before a start, then leaving the racers to propel their craft around the courses by force of will. However, as dawn broke on the first morning of racing and the haze lifted from horizon and minds, a sprightly breeze played across our mainsail. It was to be a windward start, spinnakers to the fore, a mass dash of colour to get both boats and hearts racing right from the get-go.

As the gun sounded for 10 minutes to the start, it occurred to me that my previous day’s dozing might have been better spent learning a little bit about sailing … Oh well, too late now …

It’s the strangest of things, but even those who don’t bat an eye driving at a hundred down the freeway, find their hearts in their mouths when the shout of “Gybe! Gybe! Gybe!” goes up. Cutting through the water, often at speeds slower than the average family car in a supermarket car park, the exhilaration is nonetheless akin to taking a Formula 1 Ferrari around the Monte Carlo circuit.

From that first morning’s start, I was hooked. The thrash of Di Hard’s Kevlar sails as they took the wind, the spinnaker puffed out and tugging upon the mast, the sudden acceleration as her hull effortlessly cleaved the murky bay waters. All I had to do was hold this one rope – I pulled it when Rob said pull and I stopped pulling it when he said stop – what it did, however, I had no idea. Look at me Ma, I’m sailing!

By the time we reached the Koh Hong Archipelago – en route for our first night’s layover at Chong Lat – we were creeping along steadily enough for Rob to begin expanding our individual duties. Before I knew where I was, I had several ropes and a mainsail grip doohickey called a “traveller” to take care of. This, I felt, was blatant silliness, for at any moment I could very easily mix everything up, pull a rope I should have let go, tie one off that should have stayed loose and we’d end up being the first submarine to compete in Phang Nga. However, Rob didn’t get to be an international offshore and cruising racing instructor by letting an idiot like me sink his boat.

I was terribly glad to see the Nakalay Junk awaiting our arrival at Chong Lat. Rather than feeling like a freeloading journo at the revels aboard the Nakalay that night, for once, my participation felt justified. We had sailed, we had raced, we hadn’t sunk. I danced the night away.

The next day’s race to Koh Panak found our tyro crew just that little more organized. We still didn’t quite get why we did what we did, but we did it all a whole lot quicker. Another spinnaker start had given us the rush of adrenaline and speed we needed to get our hearts dancing again, and before we knew it Rob had put us through half a dozen tacks and sail changes without anything like a major cock-up.

What really surprised me was how well Rob handled us. I’d expected Captain Bligh, but he barely raised his voice unless the shuddering spinnaker made it necessary. And, though he was cool efficiency itself when we were in the midst of a tricky procedure, the moment we could breathe easy again, he’d crack a smile and chuckle in his deep Aussie drawl.

Although Di Hard is a damned fast yacht, we were up against serious competition in Cruising Class A, and Di Hard’s handicap also made winning a near impossibility. But during a race a handicap is the last thing on your mind – just getting in front of the boat ahead is what matters. I chatted about this with Rob, that night over dinner at the Natural Island Resort.

“Ya see,” said Rob, sipping from his glass of fine Bordeaux. “It doesn’t really matter where we finish. If we’re smiling when we cross the line, we’ve won.”

This, I felt, was an excellent piece of sail-racing philosophy, but I had to wonder if it wasn’t just the spirit of this particular regatta that had got to him – the same spirit that had led the committee to announce that all protests would be considered … in the bar over a few beers.

During a race – whether you’re a part of it or just observing – it’s almost impossible to tell who’s winning. Yachts that appear to be going in totally the wrong direction, suddenly tack and zip past everyone else. It’s even more difficult in Phang Nga Bay, where the winds are anything but consistent and, by the last day of the regatta, I’d virtually stopped trying to work out where we stood. For one thing I was far too engrossed in what was happening aboard Di Hard. Somehow, in just three days, our little band of landlubbers had been transformed into a fairly tight racing crew. I think Rob was as surprised as anyone else, but to him all the honour must go. When we had boarded we’d been scared to move too much unless we capsized. Now we were all leaping around like we actually knew what we were doing. Quietly and calmly, Rob had converted us into yachting nuts – and he hadn’t once had to resort to the cat’o’nine tails.

Ahead of us lay the finish line, just short of the Yacht Haven, where – only four days earlier – I’d shaken my head and wished I’d stayed home. Now we were roaring toward the end of one of the most exciting experiences in my life. Only one more finish, only one more party, and it would be over for another year. I should have been a little sad about that, but – as we crossed the line to a huge cheer from the committee boat – I was grinning from ear to ear. We hadn’t come first, but Rob was right: we were all smiling, so we’d won.