Some men joke about never having gone to bed with an ugly woman, but having woken up next to a few. I could go one better: The other morning I woke up next to an anchor. And I still don't even know her name.

I met the anchor's owner at the opening party of the annual Phuket-Phang Nga-Krabi Regatta, a younger sister to December's King's Cup — the biggest event of its kind in Southeast Asia. Skip, a fiftysomething Aussie, the proud captain of a Columbia 36, was enjoying himself so much at the Railey Beach get-together that he actually invited me to sail with him for the next few days. The party was a riot of wet backslapping and too much beer, so by the time we boarded Skip's yacht I was more than happy with life. I promptly collapsed into a lower bunk that was to be mine for the next three days.

Through a bleary eye early next morning, I surveyed the yacht's main cabin: a broken outboard motor was clamped to the dining table. Underneath a halo of gnats, a mini-mountain of unwashed dishes peeked out from the sink. I sat up, gently pushing my anchor-lover away; and got a face full of an oily lifejacket.

Skip emerged from his cabin and put the kettle on. " I've mellowed out lately," he confided, belching philosophically, "You'll see, Sam, I've really mellowed out lately." Then he put his underpants on.

At 10 o'clock that morning, at the starting gate off Laem Hang Nak, spinnaker all ready to drop, we were raring to go. Another yacht pulled up alongside. Skip smiled a Rasputin-like smile at me, took a long sideways look at the captain of the challenging yacht and shrieked: "'ERE. DON'T YOU KNOW THE F***ING RULES? MOVE UP! UP! UP!"

Anyone who knows anything about yacht racing will have now recognized the fact that Skip is a canny, canny starter.

Happily, everything got sorted and off we shot. It was classic full-sail racing for a good hour. But the wind died as fast as it had risen, and soon we were edging along at only one knot. And that's slow.

"What's the spinnaker looking like?" growled Skip.

"Er, it's blue, yellow and red," I replied.

Skip didn't respond — his gimlet eyes were on the horizon, one sunburnt calloused hand gripped the wheel, and the other held his second beer of the morning. In the meantime, in my role as a passive observer of all things nautical, I fried my ass off. It was simply impossible to find a place in the shade that didn't cut, burn or stink of toxins. By the end of the first day's racing, my skin had changed colour enough to have the veracity of my passport photo questioned.

That morning, at about three o'clock, just off Kho Yai Noi, the yacht's shortwave radio came on of its own accord, providing all aboard with a brief but ultimately unwelcome static-laden account of the BBC shipping news. I pulled the plug out as soon as I could find it but, as it turned out, the radio was connected to the fan, which was connected to the cabin light, so unwittingly I plunged us all into the silent dark sweltering heat of the night.

At dawn, Skip emerged from his bedroom, filled the kettle and as if by intuition, turned straight to me and leered: "WHO'S BEEN MESSING WITH THE F***ING RADIO, THEN?"

I mumbled back that English shipping forecasts were all well and good, but not at 3am in Phang Nga Bay. Skip spat stoically over the side, slipped a sarong on for modesty's sake and served tea to everyone else but me.

The racing, that morning, was even slower than the previous day. In the broiling heat, spinnakers were dropped in favour of mainsails, then replaced, and then dropped again in an effort to catch the faintest breeze. It was all very frustrating, but there was no mistaking that this was the sort of sailing at which Skip excelled. He had everyone jumping to tack and pull in like the well-tuned Formula One pit crew. We placed well at the end of the day's race, due to Skip's undoubted skills in low winds. Still, we were miles behind that sleek racing machine, Yo. Everyone was, and knew it.

That evening, in Koh Chong Lat, we celebrated aboard the Nakalay Junk, the huge converted rice delivery boat that hosted the evening's party. Due to earlier rain, the decks were as slippery as eels in olive oil and, at the prize-giving ceremonies, more than one Phuket Island Lager-fuelled yachtie, instead of strutting off the stage prize in hand, found himself sliding towards the safety rails at an alarming rate of knots. We all applauded and cheered heartily. Splendid entertainment, indeed!

Skip had come third in the cruising class, and was celebrating over his twelfth beer with a concise breakdown of the day's racing. Nodding to a table of immaculately matched T-shirted shaven-headed sailors to his starboard, he burped and stage-whispered: "See them there? They're all Jerries. Too busy talking about their Mercedes Benzes to bother about sailing. That's why we beat 'em."

Then he insisted on ordering a round of whiskey that cost as least as much as the imminent repairs to his stricken outboard motor.

And so to the third morning. After a breezy start, during which Skip exchanged good-natured (I hope) obscenities with Richard of Isobar, we all found ourselves slowing down from a healthy four knots to three, to two, to half-a knot. Pretty soon it all looked like the Waterworld movie set, complete with gasping, dry-lipped sailors, no wind - and all this under a midday sun that could have roasted a side of beef within minutes.

Still, it made for a very colourful vista. Pink, black and purple spinnakers hung limp over a preternaturally deep turquoise sea, the cloudless Phang Nga sky a magnificent backdrop to what amounted to a maritime Mexican standoff. In the meantime, as one of our crew bitterly reflected, Yo's team had probably crossed the finishing line and was enjoying a few cold ones, an after-lunch shower and a massage back at the Yacht Haven.

In the withering heat, one yacht after another dropped out of the race. Various excuses were bandied over the radio, my favourite being Black Jack's: "Sorry, I've got better things to do."

Then Simpatico, the all girl-crewed contender, came on: "Hang on, does this mean that we have to finish within six hours or two hours after the first finisher?"

A good question, and there were more, but time and again the decidedly uncommitted voice of the committee boat replied with a: "Please refer to your race manuals." It was a phrase we were soon to tire of. All this time, at the wheel in the sweltering heat, Skip loudly plotted violent and gruesome fates for the committee boat members, but was assuaged by a barrage of "Chill outs!" from the crew and a regular supply of beer from his wife.

Then the unexpected happened: The wind picked up and we fairly rocketed through the finish gate with minutes to spare before the six-hour limit. "Save us some beer!" someone on the committee boat yelled as we headed back to the Yacht Haven for the final evening's party.

We grinned back at them.

Skip swore softly.

I never would have expected it. This was just the sort of ending that only existed in a Julia Roberts movie. I slipped below deck to shave for the final evening's bash. Yup: I'd made it through the Regatta without being seasick, and I'd had a great time, to boot. I whistled a happy tune. Then Skip ran the damn yacht aground.

How, why, and just where weren't important to me. All I knew was that we were leaning at an alarming angle against a sandbank, and the tide was going out fast. It all seemed faintly ridiculous to me that a man who had sailed since his youth could do such a thing. Still, all was not lost. Along came that perfidious Committee boat to haul us off the bank before any more crockery and even more brittle pride was broken. Skip fell silent.

The party that night at Laem Praow was monumental. Toby played his African drums and, with Mick on percussion, got everyone dancing wildly, the Freedom band was hot, Jim Ellis did his "Our sponsors who art in Heaven" routine and managed not to fall over on stage, plus we finally got to hear Gypsy play some mean lead guitar and blues harp.

It was a great ending to a rather whacky regatta. All the same, though, I think I'll try to get on Yo next year. I need the discipline. And the early shower.