In the ten minutes it takes to sun-dry from my swim Sam has safety briefed and set us on our course. Her teaching ethos is to learn while doing so she directs us on the move, forgoing too much naval argot in favour of us getting a feel for the boat. Sailing is a complex enterprise but we quickly begin to feel we could play our part as crew – trimming sails and steering for all the world as if we knew what we were doing.

Our first port of call is a pretty little deserted beach on scrubby green Salt Island. The BVIs are full of these empty coves and bays, only accessible by sea. We moor up to snorkel around the remains of the Rhone, a Royal Mail ship wrecked here in 1867. Mooring sounds like a simple task but I haven't yet found my sea feet and stagger around like a drunk infant. Catching the buoy is like a tricky fairground game where I have to snare a fist-sized rope loop 15 feet down in the water with a boathook, while Ibis bucks and rolls to stop me tying her down. On my third attempt I capture the rope and secure us with one of my newly learned knots. It is wildly satisfying and by the end of the first week has become second nature.

Sam balances brilliantly the more stressful aspects of sailing with plenty of time to snorkel and explore. There's a lot to learn and things can happen fast at sea. Most of the crew are beginners so the concentration involved can be quite intense. Our captain carefully gauges our progress and when we need a break she schedules swimming stops at a series of Edenic islands. The Baths on the north side of Virgin Gorda were a particular favourite. We tie Ibis to a buoy and leave her pivoting gently with the current, for all the world as if she's wagging her tail.

A backwards roll off the deck and we’re snorkelling in a sheltered basin busy with outlandish marine life. Skirting around a sullen triggerfish I glide past lavender coral filigree and hover over elegant Eagle Rays. Transfixed I lose a full hour following a pair of four-eye butterfly fish flitting through the rocks in a surreal animation. They sport large cartoon eyes on their backs to confuse predators and I can barely keep up as they play high speed hide and seek. Blue tang and surgeon fish kiss the surface of the sea then race down to audibly chew off chunks of coral causing an inverted avalanche of particles to explode.

Emerging onto icing sugar sand I spreadeagle in the sun for a while before exploring Devil's Bay. It's straight out of Neverland, a jumble of huge smooth rocks falling in on each other protecting a series of perfect turquoise pools. I float peacefully around in a dream. The refracted sunlight describes a rippling helix on the stone. But soon it gets busy – at least by BVI standards. A cruise ship has stopped and the beach is filling up with what I overhear a local call "the newly wed, the nearly dead and the overfed".

Back on Ibis Sam serves up a feast of Mahi Mahi and salad – breakfast and lunch are provided every day on board. All the fresh air and activity has restored our appetites to factory default. We eat when hungry, sleep when tired. For an hour after lunch we are starfish stuck to the deck, snoozing in the mast's shadow. A fat bee bounces drunkenly in the breeze. An enormous sea turtle pops up for air, bows to our stern and disappears. Eventually the crew slowly come to, one by one. Dopey and blithe no-one is ready to move for a while but Sam is alert and ready to go. “Jenni, can you check the hatches please and everyone stow their stuff. We're leaving in 10 minutes.”

My petulant limbs refuse to obey, I feel like a sulky teenager “Whhhyyyyyyyyy do we have to go?” my mind privately whines. But we rally, the hatches go down, the sails go up, the sheets are trimmed and there it is... that sublime moment when the boat’s engine cuts out and she see-saws magically on forward, powered only by raw natural forces. We hear only wind and waves and flickflacking sails. I silently thank Sam for pushing us and send my inner adolescent to her room. We race along with the white horses at 45 degrees, spellbound and serene.

For 10 days we slowly ricochet between the islands, each day some new configuration of the same routine – eat, sail, snorkel, sleep – rinse and repeat. We learn to gybe, goosewing and tack. Soon we know the difference between beam reach and close haul. We watch Sam expertly manipulate the ropes on Ibis like the strings on a marionette, making her dance.

Each night we stop at a new home for more mooring practice and dinner ashore. We shower off the day's salt on the diving platform with sun-warmed water from the tank. Mal de mer was my main concern before I came but mal de terre was more of a problem. Most evenings on land my brain would swing around in my skull on a gimbal and my vision swam until I realised the trick was to take sea sickness pills before heading ashore. Once the crew finds its landlegs we drink spicy rum sundowners at the beach bars, merrily comparing a litany of minor injuries. We feast on plump buttery lobster, golden knots of saffron pasta and lemony conch fritters.

Despite the piles of food I consume the extra pounds seem to be shifting. Swimming, winching sails, even steering all help exercise away the excess baggage. By the end of the trip I'm exhilarated but exhausted so I head to Peter Island for a little post-sail pampering. I'm greeted at the luxury resort with fragrant icy towels and a rum cocktail by Collin our host. He whisks me away in a golf cart narrating the plants we pass. Mother-In-Law's Tongue – sharp pointed leaves, the Tourist Tree – goes red and peels in the sun, Five-fingered cacti – you get the picture... And the Machioneel Tree, considered one of the world's most dangerous plants. Not only are its small green fruits highly toxic but stand under it when it rains and its caustic resin will burn you like acid. It sounds like a menacing fiction I’m assured otherwise. A stark contrast to the fragile scent of frangipani that fills the air.

Peter Island is privately-owned with very limited development so the heavenly beaches are mostly empty. The elegant A-frame cottages are simple but luxurious. I take a few hours in my suite to wrestle the crazy out of my hair before ambling along to the grandmother of all spas.

After 10 days of sea salt and sun my skin is something like suede. An expert beautician applies layer after layer of creamy unguents until I resemble a human woman again. There are plenty of activities on offer but after so long at sea it's lovely to just loll in a hammock with a book, minty cocktails on tap, concocting elaborate plans to miss my flight home. After a few days of sloth though I begin to really miss the sailing, the satisfaction of working in a crew, exploring a different port every night. I now know three things. One, how to tie my ropes properly. Two, how to avoid villainous trees. And three, where I will be spending all future Januarys.

Words: Jenni Doggett
Photography: Sergio Villalba