I'm not a sailor. Not by any means. But I have found in myself a fondness for jiggering with the rigging in a race. Especially when the race is part of that utterly relaxed regatta around the rocky isles of Phang Nga Bay. It's hard to define any single element that makes this regatta so special. Perhaps it's the almost tangible air of magic that hangs around the limestone towers in the bay. Or maybe it's the parties.

Regatta parties resemble the gathering of the clans — hearty fellows ripping great smiles and slapping backs, sharing tales of valiant start-line deeds and I-was-here-but-the-wind-was-there setbacks. The first night's affair was sprawled along the beach before Railay Bay Resort, backlit by teen-sized fire dancers and the twinkling lights of 30 assorted yachts bobbing at anchor. Puttering back to Marigold after my fill of Phuket Island Lager, I looked forward to settling down on deck for a night with the stars. Ah, yes. The peace, the void, the soft slap of waves aside the yacht ... the unremitting undulation of drum and bass from the non-stop Ton Sai Beach party, the roar of longtails ferrying partying sailors back and forth throughout the night. At three I gave up and headed for my cabin.

Marigold's crew turned out to be indefatigably good fun under our skipper's deft leadership. Consisting of a Zimbabwean couple en route to Australia in a catamaran bigger than a three-bedroom house, a fumble-fingered journo and a young lady trying to escape her math exams, we raced in the lightest of moods amid the lightest of airs, mustering the necessary when the breezes began to bite.

We were all but racing tyros, little tested in competition. Even Marigold herself had made but an exceptionally brief appearance at the Raja Muda Regatta in Malaysia, her performance cut short by a broken boom 30 minutes into the first race. Having never finished, this 32.5ft Beneteau was still a sail racing virgin in these waters. It had been a last-minute decision of the skipper to put her into the PNB regatta, and that's how we all got ourselves a ride.

But we couldn't have wished for a nicer chap to show us the way. While the other racers dodged back and forth along the start line on that first morning, we hung back and watched the fun. Then, at our own leisurely pace, we set the headsail and wafted off in the general direction of the other yachts. This gave us time to get to know each other better, and, as importantly, let the boss see where we best fit into the tight order of tasks required. He soon had us jollying along in a fair facsimile of a racing crew, and this allowed us to enjoy the experience all the more. "Look, chaps and chapettes," he said, as we tucked into our second mug of coffee and tidied up the piles of multi-coloured ropes that carpet every cockpit during a race. "If at any time I raise my voice, I'm just trying to let you know something. I wouldn't want you to think I was being angry. Now, shall we tack before breakfast, or would you like to wait?"

The morning cruised along nicely, with light breezes keeping things interesting. Until they wafted away for an early lunch and failed to make it back. Boats stalled in adverse currents and, as the afternoon heat bore down, a reluctant dribble of resignations scratched in over the radio. The fast boats of Racing Class and the multihulls quickest off the line had made it, and most of Cruising A had fought valiantly with the last dying breaths to get across the line. The rest of us hardened our resolution and pushed onwards. And, sometimes, backwards.

Our choices were limited: eke our way closer into the shadow of the nearest island cliff, and risk losing what little wind we had, or head into the current running between the megaliths and hope it wasn't stronger than the bare gasp that stirred our sails. This can be some of the hardest racing, and can depend so much on luck. Still, you had to see the funny side — we were racing against the rocks, and the rocks were winning.

"Hey, anyone still out there: don't give up yet — there's wind coming your way from the northwest." It was Jim Ellis of Remington, long since across the line, and happy to encourage the last few boats, Marigold included. Then the barest ripple upon the water had the crews beginning to bounce expectantly. And it was enough. The race was back on, and the line was in sight. Then we ran out of time.

The Nakalay Junk sat at anchor in the gaping maw of Choeng Lat, a cove comprising two looming, crescent-shaped sea mountains set like the eroded remains of some monster's dentures.

Thirty little satellites, the fleet hung at rest around the huge floating restaurant. As dusk fell, the junk lit up with thousands of fairy lights strung up in her rigging, a festive beacon for a horde of buzzing inflatables. And our second night's revelries were all the more emboldened by the Nakalay's history. She'd been the Hollywood star of Cutthroat Island, out-performing the lead players as a battling privateer. Now the pirates were boarding her, intent upon seizing every last victual aboard. Anyway, we gave it a good try, before burping off back to our bunks, impossibly overloaded dinghies protesting against the swell.

At last I had my night beneath the stars. Storm fronts boiled all around the giant dentures, but none could enter our Choeng Lat haven. It remained still and warm throughout the night. A guitar-strumming boat party sent soft rhythms floating by, while the night bugs hummed along. I settled back to count the heavenly bodies — 1.5 trillion and twelve. And now with the left eye …

Right from the start of the second racing day, we could tell things would be different. There was a sprightly enthusiasm about the breeze. It was to be a fine day for the spinnaker, in fact, one that saw Marigold finally become a racing maid. After dropping anchor off the Natural Island Resort, we toasted her honour with a cup of tea.

That night, those with energy enough took to dancing to the band, while the rest sat chatting of tales to come. The winds continued to freshen, and it was with weary excitement that we trickled back to our boats. That night, sleep rather than the stars called me.

Leaning hard against the mainsail boom the next morning, holding the flapping sheet of white Kevlar stretched into the wind, I was just finishing a bowl of muesli when it occurred to me that we had made a quantum leap to athlete status. My crewmates didn't seem terribly convinced by my argument, but it took another cup of coffee and a cigarette break to completely rid me of the idea.

It was time to tack. The spinnaker went up, and we were off like a rocket, streaking away through the mouth of the channel. Then the gods yawned, and Marigold simply ceased to move. For long, sweat-drenched minutes, we awaited divine exhalation. And, when it came, it did so with a mighty rush. The sails boomed to life and the boat, seized at a 45-degree angle, was flung hard up the home straight. We held on like windjammers and rode across the line to cheers from the committee boat.

It soon became clear that Marigold had given the boats of Cruising B a drubbing, racing ahead of most, and fighting hard to the line against the likes of Fat Cat and Rock 'n' Blues. For sure, we would have taken the class. Were it not for the fact that we were actually in Cruising A.

But we didn't care. We had raced. Our hearts had beaten strong and we had felt the power of the wind at our backs. So, the good ship Marigold and all her cousins motored into the welcoming arms of the Yacht Haven Marina to prepare for a night of revelries, a sprawl of food and music, and a celebration of our own particular brand of success. For it is not about winning the Phang Nga Bay Regatta, nor is it entirely about simply taking part. It is about having the good sense to enter in the first place.