Chitra Ramaswamy: Fear is a stress-reliever: fact

IT hasn’t been a typical week. I haven’t been failing to do any Christmas shopping or freezing my mitts off at various bus stops, which as any Edinburgher will know are always a mysterious five degrees colder than everywhere else in the city.

I haven’t been eating more than my body weight in clementines and I haven’t been moved by the John Lewis festive ad (the fact is, I never am – I might be dead inside).

No, instead I’ve been riding what I refer to as the death boat from hell. Location? The middle of the Indian ocean. Reason? A last minute, I-deserve-it-because-it-has-been-a-terrible-year trip away. Objective? At first, to relax. Now, to make it out of here alive. The phrase that comes to mind is ‘trouble in paradise’.

It all starts with something very nice-sounding, called a dolphin cruise. This, one would presume, is a cruise on which one sees dolphins. We have been told that 95 per cent of people see them and that apparently some of them even spin. I have never seen a wild dolphin, spinning or otherwise. I am beside myself with excitement.

A couple of hours before we head out, a storm breaks. All of a sudden the Indian Ocean looks more like the North Sea. The wind howls, flinging wet sand at my calves and whipping the sea into angry peaks. The trip is off, then on again. Eventually we’re told it’s up to us. We can go but it won’t look as pretty as usual because of the slate skies. Pah. I live permanently under slate skies. I can handle it. Oh, and the seas might be “a bit choppy”. Still, the 95 per cent statistic keeps biting like a fish on a line.

We decide to brave it. Of course, there is always the chance that you’ll be in the unlucky 5 per cent. An hour later, nothing around but swell after sickening swell and a horizon surging this way and that. After a while, each frothy crest begins to look like a dolphin arching out of the water. Sadly, this nausea-induced hallucination is as close as we get to the real thing. The following morning we get up at 4am to begin the epic journey home. This starts with a short speedboat ride to the airport. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, in the middle of a storm. And so I step on to the little death boat from hell. Within seconds, we are climbing what feels like Ben Nevis but is actually a wave. The back of the boat thumps down. It feels like a giant, perhaps God himself, is picking up our groaning craft and smashing it on to tarmac every five seconds.

A wild terror seizes me. I see this tiny insignificant person from faraway, bustling London who must now give up her dear life. I think about the fact that my parents grew up in Bangalore, in south India, hundreds of miles in any direction from the sea, both still unable to swim. This means I shouldn’t be here now. It’s unnatural for a person with such a landlocked heritage. Yet, sadly, here I am.

Ten minutes later, it’s all over. We wobble on to terra firma. The rest of the 24-hour journey passes in a blur. This is how to cure fear, I realise. Terrify yourself and then everything else seems like a walk in the park. The final leg is a late-night flight from London to Edinburgh. At the gate, a predictable row between raging British commuters flares up. Someone has pushed in. Threats and swears are exchanged. Onlookers shake their heads at the state of the nation. It’s good to be home.

Twitter: @chitgrrl