IT’S August 1987 and I go sailing for the first time in my life – that’s proper sailing, on a tiny yacht, across the sea, for four nights.

I really should have known better because as a child I suffered from travel sickness on the shortest of journeys. Even the Hour-Bus that skirted the edge of town from Athersley North to Kingstone Church (via Cundy Cross and Stairfoot) was too much for me. And it was a terrible ordeal when I went on a half-hour journey on a small motor boat around Scarborough Bay.

But as I grew older my stomach became less delicate and then one day in the old Wheatsheaf pub, a friend asks a group of us (all teachers) whether we’d like to join him on a four-night sea voyage. We are to sail from Anglesey to the Isle of Man in his father’s 26 foot yacht.

John Sugden, a fully qualified sea captain, is offering ‘mates’ rates’, so all four of us jump at the chance. That Friday, in mid August, we travel down to Red Wharf Bay preparing to sail that same evening and return to Barnsley the following Tuesday. Getting back home on time is vital for me because I’m flying to Menorca with family and friends on the Wednesday.

When we arrive at our place of embarkation we hit the first snag: a sudden strong wind has got up, which means sailing is too risky. So, although we feel disappointed, we heed Skipper John’s advice and sleep on the boat, in the harbour, overnight.

Next morning the wind, if anything, is slightly stronger.

“It’s a Force Six, shipmates. It’ll be a rough crossing,” announces our skipper.

“Force Six? That’s only a breeze isn’t it?” I say.

“Hmmm, it’s a strong breeze on land but at sea it’s a sailor’s gale.

Let’s all head off to the Greasy Spoon Cafe and weigh up the pros and cons over breakfast.”

I’ve never before eaten a ‘full English’ that’s floating in such a lake of transparent fat, but I know I’ll need my strength for the voyage. By the time the last rasher of bacon is devoured, we all agree to weigh anchor and set sail.

We spend half an hour learning how to gather in long lengths of rope and how to tie a simple knot – and soon the engine’s rumbling and we’re moving out of the bay and into the increasingly choppy open sea.

All four novice sailors are feeling exhilarated at our new life on the water. The sky is cloudy but bright, the air is fresh and the sea-spray is invigorating. Every so often some member of the crew strikes up a new song and the rest of us join in. Life is great – at least for the first two of the 10 hour voyage to Castletown.

We’re all safe in our life jackets but the big waves are tossing us up and down like a cork from a bottle.

For the next eight hours I’m as sick as a dog. A couple of my shipmates suffer minor bouts of queasiness but soon recover, but all I can think is: if this boat sinks I couldn’t care less.

At six in the evening we disembark in Castletown harbour and walk unsteadily to the Drunken Sailor Inn like a team of Wellington Street alcoholics. Getting used to dry land again is tricky.

Sleeping on board the yacht that night when the wind drops and we’re protected by the harbour wall, is pure heaven. Next day Howard Beattie and I take the steam train to Douglas while the rest of the crew sail up the coast. By now I’m fully recovered and we all thoroughly enjoy a day and a half in the capital.

Late Monday night we set sail back to Anglesey. Chris Redmond and I are on the first four-hour ‘watch’. The sky is cloudless, the moon is full and there’s hardly a swell in the Irish Sea. Our instructions are very simple: “steer south/south-east and if you see any other vessel always head behind it.”

On the Wednesday evening, me, my family and friends land in Menorca and are ready to spend our first night on the gorgeous island.

However, even as late as Thursday night, as I lie in bed, the whole room still feels like it’s being rocked by the waves of the Irish Sea.