Last summer, I had the glorious opportunity to spend 2 weeks on a Greek island. The holiday was a present from my Mum in recognition of limited time spent away from work.

Picture the scene with all the clichés, there was a beach (albeit a little stony), and postcard perfect sea, blazing sun and blue cloudless skies. There was ample time to run on the beach in the morning before collapsing onto a sun lounger with a book, followed by a sea swim and an ice cream.

The hotel had another magical feature – an RYA sailing school. Falling in from boat is never quite as appealing when the water temperature hits 28 degrees, and as a fan of all things H₂O, I duly signed up to refresh any knowledge of sailing. I confess – it is not as easy as it looks. Daily, we would launch picos with the intention of whizzing along the beach, with tight tacks back into shore. Daily, I would find myself struggling to wiggle underneath the boom with the occasional gibe that usually found me practising a capsize drill. Having failed to master sailing in my first week and being of the mind-set that often has the adjective bloody preceding said word, I asked to go again.

I was declined.

There were too many people signed up for the beginner sailing course and they need to allow others to demonstrate their talents.

I was offered the beginner windsurfing course. Now, as mentioned, I have joints that do not behave (hypermobile) and I have no knowledge of left and right, thus balancing on a board on waves is not a prospect that I thought would end well. However, I was egged on by two wonderful women and fellow beginner windsurfers and attendance at the course was worth it for the incredulous look on the instructors face when I informed him that my main aim was to stand up on the board (apparently I should have been asking to do all sorts of tacks and gibes and acrobatics). It occurred to me that this would be wonderful swimming training as I envisaged spending so much time in the water that it would be a protracted kick set with the most gigantic kickboard.

However, what happened was that I stepped out of my comfort zone. Gingerly, I pulled myself onto a board, my legs seemingly transformed from bone and muscle into quivering wrecks. My feet seemingly developed the suction capacity that would make a cephalopod proud (albeit without any capacity to remove said feet from the board or adjust their position). I fell off. I got back on again and once again back flopped into the sea. It was a sequence of events that repeated itself over and over. Until…

I stood up on the board and got the sail up. Moreover, I did it long enough for photographic evidence to be obtained.