We’re standing on a quay on a small Greek island, listening earnestly while the boat hire man passes on his decades of knowledge and experience to us two complete beginners in the space of ten minutes.

Even though we’re surrounded by white gin palaces minded by Russian security guards, we don’t mind the fact that the little 15 horse power craft we’re about to be let loose on is probably the scruffiest little boat in the Ionian.

For a start, we’d have to do an awful lot of damage to it before its owner would notice. And its name has been completely obliterated by hard landings on shore by previous trainee seafarers, so even if we accidentally break the Ionian maritime highway code nobody will be able to pin it on us.

The boat hire man is big, and bearded, and has a beaming smile and an orange shirt, just as you’d expect from a Greek passenger transport magnate called Stelios, though of course he’s not that Stelios.

This bloke is far too laid back to run a hundred yards, let alone a budget airline. We’ve spent half an hour waiting for him to turn up and give us our boat.

By the time Stelios does arrive I've mentally transformed his little row of unprofitable boats into a thriving dynamic player in the tourism industry and my husband has counted five lizards and used up half the bottle of sun tan lotion.

Still, I’ve forgiven Stelios’ disregard for watches, and can barely wait until he jumps off the boat. My husband pulls the cord and the engine starts, which is auspicious, we both agree, and Stelios throws us the rope and we’re off.

We reverse out of the harbour, I arrange the rope in an attractive coil shape, and suddenly we’re out on the open sea with just our trusty little boat, what we’re standing up in, and a rucksack with two macs, spare shorts, snorkels and masks, binoculars, a first aid kit, an umbrella, four litres of water, a mobile phone enclosed in a waterproof case, two towels, a wad of Euros, credit cards, the house keys and car keys, a map, a spare map in case the first one falls overboard, a tweezers for pulling urchin spines out of feet, a secret stash of suntan lotion in case one of our party uses up all the first bottle, and two novels. Yes, this is the life. Travelling light without a care in the world. I close my eyes.

Apparently, if you are the look-out, the one thing you shouldn’t do too much of is closing your eyes. There’s a bit of a shout from my husband when a large boat comes out of nowhere – and passes so close to us that the swell almost tips our little boat over sideways.

I mend my ways and swivel my head round constantly like a petrified rabbit who suspects that merely trying to out-stare headlights is not a good strategy, but can’t really come up with a viable alternative.

After almost an hour, there’s a chance to land the boat on another quay and get a drink.

Land ahoy, I say, as my husband putt-putts towards the stone wall. Sort out the rope, he calls, and I clamber over the front of the boat, grab the coil and wait as the gap between the boat and the quay narrows. I make the jump perfectly, but tying the knot in a proper, nautical manner eludes me.

Here, grab this, says my husband from the boat, and hands me the rucksack as he steps forward to sort out the rope.

The rucksack is heavier than you might think. He leans forward a bit more. I step back a bit more. The boat moves slowly away from the wall.

As the gap between us widens I see the look of surprise on his face. He’s neither on the boat, nor on dry land now.

I wonder how many lizards you can count before you hit the Ionian sea.