Dramatic weekend for danger seekers

There's a roaring in my ears and the sky is filled with a huge helicopter, hovering overhead. The sea around our boat is pulsating in giant choppy circles and a man at the door of the 'copter is looking down and gesturing at us.

I am grinning like a buffoon with the sheer excitement of it all. In a few minutes, I expect to be dangling from a line attached to this helicopter, 50 feet over the sea.

I have seen A Perfect Storm, so I am ready for anything. The next thing which should happen is that a square-jawed hero throws down a line, slides down it and lands on the boat at my feet. Looking as much like George Clooney as possible, he should strap me tightly to his muscular body as we are both hoisted into the air. As we scramble into the chopper, saved from the angry waves below, there should be loud manly cheering and swelling orchestral music.

But that's showbusiness: this is reality. It's Sunday, I'm in the middle of a practical exercise in how the emergency services would save your skin if your innocent sailing holiday suddenly turned nasty. This is a pioneering search-and-rescue training weekend based on the Solent near Southampton. It offers unique hands-on experience, backed up with theory, for the benefit of the non-expert weekend sailor. As I've never set foot on a boat with sails before, they don't come more non-expert than me.

Yesterday we had spent some time in the classroom at the Meridian Sailing School on the river Hamble. There were educational videos, question-and-answer sessions and stern advice from our course leader - senior coastguard officer and sailing instructor Harry Leslie.

"The idea of this weekend is to build up your confidence," he assures us. "The more you know about dealing with emergencies, the less likely you are to have one yourself. So don't be scared off."

The five thirtysomething course members (three men, two girls, two beards between us) heard some sobering facts. Like what a nuisance weekend sailors can be - more than 70 per cent of all UK coastguard actions involve unregulated leisure craft. We discovered the official difference between "distress" (grave and immediate danger of death), "urgency" (may need help later) and feeling vaguely insecure (get some therapy). We got to grips with making a Mayday call - by radio, satellite tracking, dis-tress flares, waving your arms about madly and even (if desperate) mobile phone. Grimmest of all, we learned that pregnant women are most likely to survive a fall into the freezing sea ("any-thing I can do to help?" offered Harry) and that groups of macho businessmen fooling about on expensive yachts were the most likely candidates for a watery grave.

To lift our sombre and chastened mood, Saturday afternoon was hands-on fun. A short coach trip took us to a military firing range to have a go at setting off some distress flares. We gleefully created choking clouds of bright orange smoke which billowed up into the air and floated for miles. Then it was on to the local coastguard station. Here we watched in hushed reverence as men in crisp white shirts gazed at computer screens and kept their cool as the panicky voices of weekend sailors came over the intercom.

We were certainly ready for a drink or three at the Jolly Sailor pub that evening. Course member Ben Whitlock (a dead ringer for David Beck-ham) kicked off the inevitable sea-stories session, describing the time the propeller shaft fell out of his boat in a force nine gale when he was sailing around the Greek islands.

Terry Coles (impressive red beard) recalled getting becalmed in a major shipping lane with an ocean liner bearing down upon his tiny boat. Ex-wedding photographer Julie-Lauren Halpin once saw a large yellow melon floating in the water and thought it was a dead body. But Harry topped us all with tales of his appearances on the 999 TV rescue show and an old Army anecdote about a Welsh squad-die, a Turkish bordello and a malacca cane, which I swore not to repeat in a family newspaper.

But this afternoon all is serious concentration once again for the climax of the weekend. Here we are, gazing up at the coastguard's helicopter in awe as our rescuer slides down the line towards us. He steps onto the deck with a beaming grin. We are all hoping to have a go at being whisked into the sky, clamped to this fine chap. My heart is beating faster than a cat in a tumble-dryer. But, after a brief conflab with Harry, our visitor delivers a crushing blow. It is not to be. The weather - there's not enough wind for the chopper to brace itself against while lifting the extra weight. Another day, no doubt.

But what is this? The local lifeboat is dashing through the waves towards us. A quartet of manly types in boots and oilskins steps aboard. They are rugged, they are sweaty, they have an enormous length of rope. I feel better already. So, having waved off the rescue 'copter, we now experience how it feels to be towed back to harbour, even if it's over a mill-pond Solent in the mild winter sunshine. "Saved from almost certain safety," pronounces Harry with a twinkle. Weekend sailors have been goggling at us all the while from their pretty little boats - Brineshrimp, Wave Dancer, Ocean Lady. Let's hope they have learned something from all this, we tell each other. Bunch of amateurs.

Way to go

The search and rescue weekend at the Meridian Sailing School (0800 9179638), Southampton, costs £295, including lunches on Saturday and Sunday and loan of protective gear. The school can arrange accommodation at the Vine Inn on Saturday: £30 per person per night for single/double rooms; bed, breakfast and evening meal included. The high-line helicopter transfer and lifeboat "rescue" go ahead if not needed on emergency callout, weather permitting. The next course takes place on 2 and 3 December.