THIS isn't a ferry, where you just get on and are taken where you want to go. On this boat, you're the crew." That thought wasn't promising. No self respecting sailor would creep on board carrying a complete chemist's range of seasick tablets, as I did. A little fleece cap hastily bought from the Great Outdoors was my sole attempt at vaguely nautical wear.

On the other hand, the captain, who had just politely issued this cautionary statement, looked every inch a captain. With his trim beard, navy wool captain's hat, and tanned and weathered face, Connemara native Joseph Connolly could have been sent over by central casting for a sailing epic.

But the star of this particular show was definitely Famaire ("Sea wanderer") which rocked gently on the afternoon tide at a pierside berth at Glinsk in Connemara. This red sailed 42 foot Galway hooker is a testament to the shipbuilding skill which remains alive in the west. She is a youthful two years old, but every inch a traditional hooker, with the addition of a comfortable cabin designed to house a rota of paying guests each week.

Once the traditional, turf carrying transport vessel of the west, the hookers' red sails nearly saw a permanent sunset, but the boats are enjoying a revival. There are about 50 hookers in the country, yet they are still a far from common sight. Therefore, spending a week on board Famaire, criss crossing Connemara's pockmarked coast and heading out to the Aran Islands, seemed a dreamlike honour, even for someone who prefers boats to be small and plastic and floating in a bath.

As this week's "crew" arrived, they were enthusiastically greeted bay Famaire's owners, Jackie and Micheal O Cionna, and introduced to Joe and second crew member and cook Eileen Noonan. Four Germans, a couple from Boston and one landlubber from The Irish Times stowed bags and inspected narrow bunks, but kept any reservations to themselves. The crew sleep in little cupboards on either side of the engine, as if disappearing into a personal morgue drawer each night.

Lesson number one was learned immediately by the Germans: hardbacked suitcases and boats don't agree. As they struggled to shove reluctant rectangles into the curved nooks and crannies of Famaire, the rest of us attacked a tray of sandwiches. As our maiden voyage was only to be across Bertraghboy Bay, the sandwiches seemed likely to stay put inside us, where we wanted them.

But soon, Joe was ordering us all out on deck, and the formal training began. A man of infinite patience, he explained for the first of an eternity of times how to prepare to set sail. He grabbed a rope.

"This is the halyard. You untie it here, but you must always keep it looped under like this, then you don't need to support the weight with your hands, like so ..." Hands, he said, were the most frequent casualties on boats, due to rope burns.

Then there were jibs and staysails and mainsails; gaffs and booms; "travellers" and pulleys, ropes going up and down, and ropes running across the deck and through little holes, ropes that needed to be pulled taut with the full weight of two bodies straining as hard as they could, until Joe came over and teased out another impossible foot of slackness.

"Ho, ho, HUP! Ho, ho, HUP!" He pulled hard on the "ho's", and two of us hauled in the newfound inches of rope until all was properly done. The mainsail magnificently unfurled, and we all stepped back to admire our work. Except Joe.

"What about the jib?" he asked. Thankfully, Steve was a seasoned sailor and knew both what a jib was and where it was found. Andreas was ordered up front as well, to wrestle with the bundle of sails, while Margie knew bow to direct us to untie the white airfilled "lenders" that bang over the sides and cushion the boat from the pier ("All hands to marshmallows," called Steve).

And then, there we were, three sheets to the wind. At the front, the sharp triangle of the jib, drawn out onto the bowsprit; then the wider wedge of the staysail; then the full glory of the mainsail, on its hefty boom. They flapped and snapped, then tensed and filled, and we sprang forward. Over 1,000 square feet of red sail pulled us with ease out into the bay. It was a breathtaking moment.

First stop was Roundstone, where a group of gawky young boys climbed out of the water to help us dock, following instructions in soft Irish from Joe. Eileen started to prepare the first of a continuous series of wonderful meals from the little galley, as outside the pilgrimage began. Alone or in small groups, tourists and locals, a steady stream of admirers came down to examine Famaire and chat with Joe.

Next morning dawned clear and bright, and a climb above deck revealed the achingly beautiful setting of Roundstone, the bay glassy before the rollercoaster bumps and dips of the Twelve Bens. Before long a good wind had begun to churn the outer reaches of the bay, and we were under sail, as Joe repeated his directions all over again. This time, the women stepped in Monika, Hildrud, Angelika and I hauled and tugged and heaved while Andreas again untangled the jib.

Today there was to be a race of hookers, and we sailed out to watch them arrive, as people gathered on the shore to enjoy the sight. A rifle shot signalled the start, and the boats became a welter of activity and shouted Irish as men and boys hauled up anchor and trimmed sails. Joe sailed alongside, giving us a marvellous view - and suddenly, we were in the race. Joe was calling instructions, and Eileen was everywhere helping us struggle to carry them out. We gained on the third hooker, then passed her out.

A crisp wind sent us out around the islands, and Joe made shrewd gambles to gain ground by cutting across here and turning there, and for most of the race, until a poor final turn, we thrillingly stayed a healthy distance ahead of the last boat. Later, we were delighted to learn that Raidio na Gaeltachta mistakenly reported that we had been placed third!

NEXT day we were off to the Aran Islands, although we had the alternative of heading north, too - guests and wind direction make the decision. And the long sunny weather had eased in for the entire week; day after day of lazy sailing in T shirts and shorts.

We all had stints at the tiller, learning to set course by the large black nautical compass. And we were settling into the rhythm of Eileen's kitchen.

Has anyone even had a chance to feel hungry yet?" asked Margie. Andreas - now known as Mr Jib - rechristened the boat the Immer Essen as we downed another serving of poached salmon, or crisp salad, or a lamb roast.

Joe, we discovered, missed not a single detail that might reveal new information about wind direction or changing weather patterns. Tufts of cloud in the sky (mare's tails) elicited a rhyme about cloud shapes, as Inis Mor drew closer: Herringbone skies and mare's tails mean tall ships show low sails."

Arriving in the islands on the Famaire was not remotely like arriving on a chugging, noisy ferry full of daytrippers. In contrast, we made a stately entrance, and we all began to feel proud of "our" boat.

There were free hours for exploring the islands, and evenings full of Aran pints and seisuins. Inis Mean's long white sandy beach looked like Acapulco (until you walked into the water and were reassured, shivering, that you were still at home).

On Inis Oirr, the seisuins ran late, and Monika seemed well pleased in the centre of a group of Aran men, while we chatted and enjoyed the old pictures of hookers that every island pub seemed to feature.

All too soon, we were sailing back to Rossaveal, admiring two porpoises at play and wondering if we could mutiny and commandeer the ship. It was a feeling I hadn't had since I was a child, after summer camp ended and we all had to catch the bus home. But, just like when you were 11, you could dream about doing it all again next year.