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"How hard can it be?" I ask myself as I haul the heavy (19kg to be exact) surf ski down to the water’s edge one swelteringly hot Sunday afternoon.

"Keep the nose of the ski over your thigh — it’ll be easier to carry," my instructor yells effortlessly from his perch on a sandy knoll a few metres from the surf, while he watches us all with a narcissistic grin on his very suntanned face.

Easier said than done, I mumble to myself, struggling to keep the ski off the ground, let alone above my thigh. By the time I reach the sea, I’m red in the face, puffing like a steam train and not in the mood to be trifled with.

Dumping the uncooperative piece of fibre glass triumphantly into the water, I prepare to climb aboard. The sea, in utter contrast to the weather, is rough and choppy, with very sizey swells which pummel the shore remorselessly. Glancing nervously at these more than a little stressful conditions, I determine to concentrate solely on staying in the ski, and only in the shallows.

My instructor’s voice rings in my ears as I position myself astride the surf ski, waiting for the perfect moment to sink delicately into the seat and begin paddling. "If you’re gonna fall out, make sure it’s on the seaward side." This, by the way, is a very important rule, because if you fall out on the beach side, the next wave that comes through is going to fling the empty surf ski right at you and cause potential damage. Great. Seaward side, seaward side, I chant to myself as I turn the paddle the right side up and prepare to board the ski.

We are learning on what’s known as a Broadbill. It’s an entry level surf ski, which means it’s got the flattest hull and is one of the most stable skis you can get. The next up is a Hammerhead, which is almost the same thing as a Broadbill; but with a slightly more rounded hull — so I’m told.

Straddling the vessel, I am about to lower myself into the sitting position when it lurches suddenly to the left and I’m sitting waist deep in the shallows with a lovely bruise forming on my inner thigh. Mm…?

Not to be beaten, I lift myself up and once again step gingerly over the ski and sink down into the seat. This time I manage to lift my feet into the foot straps before the boat suddenly tilts to the right, and deposits me none too gently on my behind in the surf.

Okay, so balancing on the surf ski is going to be a little bit harder than it looks. If this is an entry level ski, I’d hate to try the advanced. “You have to paddle to get the momentum going,” yells my instructor from the shore. “I would if I could stay on the damn thing long enough,” I mutter back through gritted teeth.

Concentration plastered all over my dripping wet face, I pounce on the ski, arms paddling manically before I’m even fully seated. This time I move a couple of metres before a wave bashes into the ski and, yup, there I am again, sitting in the water, fuming.

I glance around at my fellow students, glad to see that I’m not the only one who’s struggling to stay in the seat. Most of the group are randomly scattered around the shallows. The beach is littered with washed up paddles and empty surf skis. It is strangely reminiscent of the opening scene in ‘Saving Private Ryan’.

Clearly this is going to take a bit of getting used to. But why am I having such a problem? I grew up on a river, riding paddle skis and canoeing my whole life. This should be a breeze. I had expected to be a natural.

Somewhat humbled I labour on and on until I manage to stay in the ski for a few minutes at a time before a wave inevitably shoves me off balance and the surf ski gamely rolls over as if to say, ‘this is fun, let’s play some more!’

Let me tell you that when — not if — you fall out of a surf ski, you have absolutely no choice in which direction you’re going to fall. One particularly bad tumble sees me falling the wrong way, into the ocean, and a massive wave hurling the surf ski at me at a rate of knots. I duck but not soon enough and the nose of the ski smashes into my lower lip which immediately swells to double its size.

I touch the wound, unable to determine whether it is blood or water that I can taste. Seeing blood on my fingers I imagine the worst. Feeling slightly freaked out I look around for the ski which by this stage has been washed up onto the beach. Fantastic. I’m left with the paddle, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world to swim with, and a fat lip, and am still about 50m from the shore. Trying not to think of what could be beneath me, I swim in and collapse exhausted at the feet of my (none too sympathetic) instructor.

“I’ve cut my lip,” I mumble, pointing frantically at my bleeding mouth, but the words only come out as an hoarse croak. The instructor nods happily. “War wounds,” he says, patting me on the back. “Up you get.”

I stare at him in disbelief as he points to the surf ski. “Sadist,” I grumble to myself, wondering why on earth I paid good money to be put through this hell.

After an hour I am exhausted, but at least I'm staying on the ski for longer than ten seconds. Most of us are faring better than before, but a few have given up and are now sunning themselves on the beach.

I emerge from the sea like some half-drowned nymph, black and blue, sand in my ears but a big smile on my face. Actually, it is probably more like a grimace, given the size of my lip.

“Well done,” my instructor shouts emphatically, removing a giant piece of kelp from my hair. “Next time you’ll be like pros!”

Next time? I am not convinced, but I'm feeling inordinately pleased with myself. I’ve learned a new sport — it hasn’t been easy, but I’ve done it, and that deserves a big pat on the back, in my books.

Whether I’ll go back for more next week… well, that remains to be seen. Hopefully my lip will have returned to normal by then.

The Solo Energy Surfski School offers weekly lessons on Saturdays, Tel: (021) 7825541