Dan had told me all about his own diving experiences, the way the sea opened up to you once you were underwater and was like a HD film in colour. But I was going to live this myself, see things through my own eyes and have an amazing time away from hairdressing, essays and even childcare.

I was a complete beginner when it came to diving, though having listened to Dan’s stories, he’d made it sound fun and easy, so it had become another thing on my living list and I was eager to tick it off. I wandered into the diving school that morning and explained to the friendly guy at reception that I’d made a booking online. The guy was laid-back and smiley, and when I told him I was a beginner, he said, ‘Fair dinkum,’ and handed me some paperwork to sign. I’d paid online for an hour’s tuition followed by a beginner’s boat dive, which wasn’t cheap, so I had to do it now or lose it.

‘Will we be diving from one of the boats out there?’ I asked, pointing to a clutch of lovely white-sailed yachts out on the water, framed by the deep blue sky. I could see myself leaping off one of those and discovering a whole world underneath – I’d take photos of me in my gear and send them to all my friends. I smiled at what Mandy’s response would be to a photo of me in a bodysuit made of rubber. The friendly reception guy said his name was Ken and he was the dive master, which made me think of Mandy again – God only knew what she’d make of that. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ he smiled, and despite his big strong arms and no doubt expertise at twenty thousand fathoms under the sea, I suddenly felt very nervous. I was actually quite alarmed when he stood up and said, ‘Come with me and I will show you the sea,’ like Poseidon himself, not the dive master of ‘Starfish Enterprises – where diving is our game’. It hit me at this point what I might be letting myself in for, but I had to do this, I had to do something out of my comfort zone. I’d come to Sydney, which had been a big deal, but this was more personal – it was about me ticking another thing off my living list.

‘Oh okay, but don’t I need to be wearing rubber, or something?’

‘It’s a dive, not an orgy, lady,’ he laughed.

I was embarrassed. ‘Yes, I know, I wasn’t expecting some S&M style get-together,’ I tried to joke back. ‘I don’t need a gimp mask,’ I laughed, but when he looked at me like I was some kind of nympho I decided not to elaborate and stopped talking. For once.

‘You have your bikini on underneath?’

‘Why?’ I asked. Oh God, my conversation had given him the impression I was up for anything.

‘Because you’ll need to be in swimwear, you put the wetsuit on top.’

‘Oh… I…? No.’

‘You need to go and put swimwear on,’ he said, like I was a madwoman. I just hadn’t thought – it’s not like I’d done this before, but I should have thought it through. I felt rather foolish.

‘I’ll meet you at the boat with the rest of the class, where I’ll hook you up with your bondage wings and your bottom dump.’

I didn’t know what to say.

He pointed vaguely in the direction of a large white yacht and told me to hurry.

‘We leave in half an hour, lady,’ he added, as I turned to dash back to the hotel, which was further than I’d thought and almost killed me.

I hurriedly put on my costume, threw my T-shirt and shorts on over the top and ran back across the warm sand to the water’s edge, where the boats were, holding my sandals as I could run faster barefoot. As I got closer to the boats bobbing about in the shallow end, I was a little concerned as I couldn’t see the boat Ken had pointed out, so I ran into the water for a closer look. I was very hot and breathless now and the top of my swimsuit was beginning to ride down, which could be difficult to manage once on board when I had to take off the T-shirt and slip into my wetsuit. A glance at my watch told me the fit of my swimsuit was the least of my problems as the boat was about to set off any minute.

My eyes scanned the decks for Ken, but there were so many boats and so many people wandering about, this was a nightmare. Eventually, I spotted him, but he seemed to be throwing anchor and about to leave and all I could see was the $150 I’d paid sailing off into the sunset. So I yanked my bag onto my back and thrust hard into the water, shouting, ‘Ken, Ken, wait for me!’ But he didn’t seem to hear me, so I ran on, wading through the water, now thigh-deep, and calling for him to wait. I managed to get to the boat and scrambled up the side like a bloody pirate, shouting all the time for them to stop.

Ken didn’t even turn as I called his name and tried to lurch over the side to get my feet on deck. Wow, I thought, this is real diving. It was certainly no pleasure cruise. But that suited this adventuress – this was the Faye that jumped off rocks and abseiled over mountains. I was a world traveller and didn’t want to be treated like a soft tourist. Having said that, as I clutched at the side of the boat, my legs unable to make purchase on the side and moving like a giant frog, I did think some kind of gangplank might be in order.

‘It’s me… Faye, I went to put on my costume,’ I was yelling, as I continued the frog-like advances up the side of the boat. But now Ken had got my dollars, his easy-going friendliness in reception seemed to have disappeared as he’d transformed into the hard dive master. I was determined though to prove I was no meek landlubber – Ken could push that throttle as fast as he liked, but this mermaid wasn’t letting go, so I kept scrambling, like a rampaging pirate, until I landed with a loud bump in an exhausted, dripping, frankly frightful heap at Ken’s feet.

I looked up, as he looked down. But to my horror, this wasn’t Ken, this guy was in full hardcore sailor regalia. I attempted to rise by getting on all fours, but the weight of the water in my bag pulled me back down. I was now face down and dripping at the feet of a complete stranger, who seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Meanwhile, I was aware the boat was now setting off at some speed. And I couldn’t see anyone else on board.

The man who wasn’t Ken was now watching me warily, like I really might be a pirate or some kind of sea criminal (if there is such a thing).

‘Is this… the dive boat?’ I asked. I was now climbing up his leg in an attempt to gain purchase and make it to my feet. He was looking down at me like I was some kind of crazed crustacean that had landed on him.

‘No,’ was all he said, as I slowly moved up him, taking a quick glance at the nearby table set with gold cutlery, fresh tropical fruits laid on silver platters and a bottle of champagne on ice. No, this clearly wasn’t some scuzzy scuba-diving vehicle filled with beginner divers, this was a private yacht. And I’d just clambered aboard like a mad, middle-aged stowaway – and God only knew where this yacht was headed, but a quick check told me that land was getting further and further away.

The man helped me to my feet and as I continued to cling to him, called for someone to come from below deck, while I stood there in all my damp sea glory. My hair was now stuck to my head with salt and sweat, my shorts so wet it appeared I’d had some kind of exploding bladder incident. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was dangerously close to having a wardrobe malfunction as the top of my swimming costume was edging dangerously close to my breasts and I wasn’t quite sure which problem to deal with first.

‘I think I may have the wrong boat…’ I started, as a young woman appeared from below decks. She was dressed in a spanking white kaftan, the dazzle of which was matched only by the diamonds on her fingers.

‘Who are you?’ she said, in a French accent. She looked terrified and moved her perfectly manicured hand to her mouth in horror. She’d clearly never seen a wet, working-class person on her yacht before.

‘I’m on the wrong boat,’ I explained. ‘The wrong boat,’ I repeated, slightly louder, like this would help if English wasn’t their first language.

At this point a man appeared, equally horrified, equally French. Then I realised the champagne breakfast must be for these two, they were obviously about to have a romantic meal, alone at sea. But guess who was coming to dinner?

Eventually another, older man appeared. Oh God, was there a long line of people coming out to witness my latest humiliation? I felt like the curious catch of the day.

‘Where did you come from?’ he asked. To my relief he spoke English – with a delicious French accent, I noticed, despite my plight.

‘England,’ I said, stupidly.

‘You swam a looong way,’ he chuckled.

‘No, sorry… I came to holiday with my… Well, the man I was going to spend time with has a baby and it’s all…’

‘Complicated?’ he said, looking bemused, as everyone else looked on, waiting to see what I did next – like I was the on-board entertainment.

‘Something like that. My name is Faye… I’m staying in Sydney… I thought you were the dive school.’

‘No, we’re not,’ the young woman said, clutching the young man for safety, like I was some mad marauder she needed to be protected from.

‘Sorry… The thing is, I need to get on the dive boat. I’ve already paid for the lesson, you see.’

‘Ah… I’m so sorry, Faye, we can’t turn around, we have planned the route, we’re spending the day at sea,’ he said as I looked forlornly behind me at the land disappearing rapidly. ‘We book the crew, the team… we can’t just go back now.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, dripping saltwater all over the lovely white decking. My costume was doing strange things and seemed to have gathered water around the front of my groin, which was giving the impression that I had a large tummy and no bladder control. From the bemused look on his face, I was sure he thought I was standing there talking to him and blatantly weeing at the same time. The woman let out a little yelp and took a step back, her hand clutching her face, horrified at the spectacle before her. I felt like a wild sea beast.

‘So please, use the facilities…’ the older man said politely, averting his gaze from the Niagara Falls between my legs.

I smiled and moved my legs to walk, desperate to at least escape this awkward gathering, but the sound of gushing water and his graciousness made me feel like a wild sea beast.

‘There are towels and a robe in the bedroom,’ he gestured towards the cabin below. ‘François will give you what you need.’ Ah, so the man who wasn’t Ken was François.

I apologised profusely, too much really, because the more I spoke, the longer I gushed water onto the decking, while the woman turned a dangerous shade of puce – I doubted it was seasickness. François meanwhile stood at a safe distance before taking me to the bedroom downstairs, where I was to avail myself of my wet clothes.

The room was amazing, and hard to believe I wasn’t in a five-star hotel – the cabin was huge, the bed was king-size and the fittings in the en suite were gold. It was surreal to find myself in this beautiful room on water, especially as I was expecting to be aboard a sea-worn diving boat strewn with flippers and bondage wings (whatever they were). I gazed around as I slowly took off my T-shirt and shorts. I felt really weird about taking my costume off, though – I was in a stranger’s boat on the high seas and being naked wasn’t on the agenda. Despite the spectacle I’d created on deck with my errant costume and the waterfall between my legs, I had some dignity left. So, deciding to keep it on, I pulled up the ill-fitting costume around my bust and tried to manoeuvre the now-baggy groin area that had inexplicably filled itself with water and given everyone on board the impression that I was incontinent.

François had left towels and a robe on the bed, so I dried where I could and quickly wrapped the robe around me. I think the older man took pity on me because once I went back up on deck and François had taken my clothes to dry, he invited me to have brunch with them. The couple didn’t seem too excited about this, and moved way up the banquette seating so I didn’t contaminate them.

I couldn’t believe it: here I was sitting in a bathrobe with three Parisians, dining on champagne, eggs Benedict and tropical fruit. I was speeding to an uncertain destination with a boatful of strangers and felt like I was starring in my own Agatha Christie novel. I smiled awkwardly at my hosts and the man whose legs I’d climbed, who seemed to be a waiter – and wondered just who was going to be murdered first. The way the Frenchwoman was staring at me, I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that. It was me – and the murderer was Madam Kaftan on the boat with the oyster fork!