The student steering the training yacht Karpathos knew he was about to mess up, but it was too late to do anything about it. A squall of wind took hold of the yacht and spun us around like a toy duck in a bath. We held on tightly to keep our balance and, just as the sun burst from behind the sails and warmed the deck, we were sprayed with icy seawater. The boat shuddered as the heavy air slammed into canvas above us.

"What were you trying to do?" the instructor bellowed, making certain he could be heard above the roar of the sea. "You were supposed to tack, not gybe!" Instead of turning the bow of the yacht through the southeaster, the novice sailor had inadvertently turned downwind, an awkward manoeuvre for which the rest of the crew weren't prepared. Moments later the wind eased off and the tension on the boat dissipated. Karpathos levelled out. We relaxed our grips on the ropes. "Was just trying to get some sun on my face," the trainee quipped, smiling through his contrition.

We all wanted the sun on our faces, that's why we were here. For nine rookie seafarers, sailing held the key to the dream of a never-ending summer. We had arrived a few days previously at Club Mykonos in Langebaan, off the West Coast, to enrol in Sunsail Maritime Academy's Competent Crew course.

Some of the students were planning to work as crew on luxury yachts in the Caribbean; others needed certification to rent a yacht when they went on sailing holidays in the Mediterranean. A few just wanted to learn how to sail, to travel wherever the wind might take them. One of Sunsail's instructors had spent the past few years skippering charters in the sun-drenched sub-tropics — Mexico, Cuba and the West Indies.

Sailing, for us students, seemed to be all about lazing on a sunny deck sandwiched between azure skies and translucent waters. But learning to sail, as we were soon to find out, was altogether different to a postcard from Greece.

It's a cabin boy's life

From the first morning, concepts such as discipline, safety and co-operation were emphasised. "Sailing is great training for life skills," said instructor David Booth. "You can't run away from your problems, you're sharing your living space with lots of other people you may or may not like and each person has a role to play in steering the boat in the right direction. If one person doesn't know what they're doing, the whole boat could end up in danger."

As if not to dampen our spirits, David was quick to remind us that "sailing is 50 percent safety and 50 percent fun." The tone of the course had been set. If we worked hard the fun — and the sun — would follow.

The first few hours of every day were spent in the classroom. Safety, weather, rope work, navigation, rules of the road and terminology were introduced, then expanded on. We got to know the regional and local weather conditions intimately. When we sailed at night, we learned the meaning of the different coloured lights on the shore and on other boats. Out in the middle of the bay, we took turns to chart a compass and magnetic course by triangulating our position. And we quickly understood the rules of the road: on which side of another boat we needed to pass and which vessels needed to give way.

The terminology was particularly perplexing. "It's like learning a whole new language," one student protested. Halyards, sheets, bows, sterns, reaching, hauling, jibs and mains, stanchions and stays, bilges and bosuns — plus a hundred other equally obscure terms. Then the knots: bowline, clove hitch and reef knots just for starters.

Thrown in at the deep end

Students get to sail from the very first morning. After our initial theory session, David showed us how to rig the boat with the correct sails (the genoa for gentle breezes, the jib for stronger ones). Then we were out in Langebaan lagoon — sailing!

From 10am to 5pm every day, we were on the water. Students took turns at the helm while the others ensured the sails were correctly trimmed. All the while, the instructor kept a close eye.

"I've gotta make you competent," chuckled David. "But if your captain is doing something you don't understand, you must ask!" Besides sailing since he was six years old, 52-year-old David also coaches under-15s for international competitions and was formerly commodore of Durban Yacht Club.

Students quickly learned to sail just by being on the same boat. David's manner was explanatory, definite and comprehensive. He anticipated and answered queries as we thought of them. Very rarely were we left in any doubt as to what was expected of us. When the breeze dropped and there wasn't much sailing to be done, it wasn't long before he was quizzing students on what they'd learned so far.

After seven hours on the water every day, pulling and winching ropes, raising and lowering sails and constantly balancing our bodies on the southwesterly swells, we felt battered and bruised. We slept well on the boat in Mykonos Harbour — we needed our rest.

But as our competence grew, so we wanted more. The West Coast weather had been moderate, accommodating our inexperience. By the end of the penultimate day we'd sailed in rain, sunshine, cloud and gentle ocean swell — a good variety in which to learn. We had even sailed at night, going across Saldanha Bay for some dinner. There wasn't much we hadn't experienced, except for some big wind. We hoped for a Friday gale.

Be careful what you wish for …

Our last day dawned and David walked into the classroom smiling. The wind was snorting — seven on the Beaufort Wind Scale, or near-gale. We all knew the wind would pick up even more during the day thanks to the increasing high pressure over the Namib Desert. As aspirant sea dogs, we were starting to love wind.

Not too much, but definitely not too little; enough to let us get out there and slice the boat through the blue-green expanse.

We motored out of the haven of the harbour into the heavy swell. No-one said anything. We didn't need to; by now, each crew member anticipated the other's actions. After the skipper steered into the wind so we could hoist the sails easily, I scrambled up to the foredeck to uncleat the mainsail and prepare it for the others to raise with the halyard. We reefed it immediately.

The wind was too strong for a full main. The boat was tossed around, but it never felt precarious. "One hand for me, one hand for the boat," I kept telling myself. I crawled up to the bow to untie the jib so the crew could raise it with the uphaul. We were a well-oiled team.

We took turns at helming. I thought back to our first evening when we watched a video documenting Ellen MacArthur's epic round-the-world solo voyage, wondering why she didn't want to get off her beloved boat at the end of the gruelling journey. Now we understood. Although Karpathos was no intrepid adventurer, it had protected us from Neptune's darker moods. We owed it for that.