A cruise on the Norfolk broads. It sounds jovial, doesn't it; what with the fresh air, and the ducks, and the fields of farmers' crops. Perhaps a trip to a country pub could be fit in, or we could take time out to throw stale bread at the locals, I thought to myself as I climbed about the 'Wee Maid', a rather shaky-looking boat. The only thing I could foresee that could potentially put a dampener on proceedings was the fact it was a family occasion - or "faaaamily", as it's pronounced in Norfolk - and family gatherings usually throw up one or two surprises.

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True to form, one of my uncles (there were two on the trip), who was acting skipper, had big ideas. The "Wee Maid," he pronounced gleefully, was a "sea-worthy vessel". I had my doubts, chiefly because I had discovered, during the course of some preliminary investigations, that the Wee Maid was so called thanks to a devilishly complicated play on words: it had been constructed by two amateur boat-builders, with the emphasis firmly on amateur. But Steve - for Steve is, and nearly was, my uncle's name - was unperturbed by this bomb-shell like news, and was determined to head for the coast and beyond.

At first, all was going well, and Steve's optimism appeared to have been vindicated. It was a calm day, the sun was shining, not a cloud in the sky. I'm sure, if I had been able to above the din of the engine, I would have heard birds singing all around. And this remained the case all throughout our outward journey, as we poodled out of the river mouth, along the Norfolk coastline and into Suffolk waters until we could see, on the shore, the town of Lowestoft, home of the Darkness. Here we drifted for a while, as my mother and her two sisters handed out sandwiches and other picnic paraphernalia, and the odd cup of tea.

This, though, was the proverbial calm before the storm. For just as our paper plates and plastic cutlery were being taken down below, the wind started to pick up, and rather drastically. As we turned round and headed back towards Norfolk, we were suddenly confronted by huge waves of a kind probably not seen since George Clooney last went fishing on a trawler. As water was crashing onto the deck, everyone started to pile in to the cabin with Steve, who still had his hands firmly gripped on the wheel. It was soon noticed, though, that there was not enough room inside, so my other uncle, Roger - who did not at any time act as a cabin boy - and I were left clutching the railings outside for dear life.

As Steve negotiated the waves caused by what I was certain was Norfolk's first ever perfect storm, Roger and I settled down at the back of the Wee Maid and prayed to Poseidon. Roger, who is a great sea-sickness sufferer, prayed particularly avidly. I wasn't sure whether his green-ness was down to his queasiness or the fact that he was praying so hard.

When we eventually reached the confines of the local river from which we had emerged a few hours before without losing anyone overboard, it was with a palpable sense of relief. Steve, though, considered the episode an undoubted triumph. Once again, I had my doubts, but am convinced that a cruise on the Norfolk broads could be jovial; just as long as no-one's engulfed by illusions of grandeur and thinks they're the next Ellen MacArthur. Chances are, you see, they'll prove about as successful at that chap whose boat capsized in freezing waters and had to be rescued by the Australian Navy.