One Fort in the Grave, with KEITH FORT

JUST booked for my summer hols, a one week boat trip from these shores -- and, no, not because of any fear of flying.

Actually, it's a much braver choice than that. It almost borders on the masochistic. Like to know which boat? You might not when you read this.

Television has got us all used to Holidays from Hell but many of us have had our own crosses to bear.

There was a time in my life when I vowed I would never set foot on a cruise ship again. That was in 1975 when I had my first experience of life on the ocean waves. And I mean Ocean waves.

We set sail from Southampton on a balmy autumn day in September. There were more than 800 on board and you had to fight your way through two restaurants to get a cup of tea as we headed down the channel ... into the teeth of a force eight.

I will never forget the welcome aboard dinner that night. Six of us turned up and the head waiter asked me: "How many steaks would you like?" The entire ship was suffering mal de mer.

It got no better as we rocked and rolled through the Bay of Biscay and when we finally docked near Lisbon white and green-faced passengers staggered ashore.

On to Tangier where, despite warnings from guides, scores of women had their handbags stolen.

The return journey was even worse. Through the Bay of Biscay we hit a Force 9. The nightly disco had to be abandoned because the ship was heaving so wildly, records were being flung off the turntables and the dancers were leaving the floor -- literally.

The ship's stabilisers failed and passengers were thrown from their bunks, one lady breaking her arm, another having fingers almost severed by a slamming metal cabinet door as she groped her way through her dark cabin.

Some of us, with the ship swaying dangerously, were called out to rescue unconscious passengers from the first class cabins -- they had been gassed when the ship's ventilation systems failed.

As we laid them out in a midship lounge, someone said: "At least the captain is on the bridge." At that moment three figures appeared atop a stairway, the two outside supporting one in the middle. He was pyjama-clad, green and semi-conscious. It was the captain.

We got through the night, not all of us unscathed, and it was a sorry shipload that arrived back in Southampton. None of us was surprised to read later in the national press, that the entire crew had mutinied and would not allow any vehicles off the ship from the lower deck of this passenger ferry.

It took 21 years to get me back on another ship (I'll not even count the Greek fishing boat adventure when we reached another island waist deep in water through a storm and people had to be rescued in larger boats).

Everything seemed to be going well as we floated through calm waters down the Malacca Straits from Thailand to Singapore. This time our enemy was not storm or tempest.

This time the ship caught fire and blew up! There was one incredible piece of good fortune for us. It happened after we had left the ship to see the city. Perhaps you can understand our feelings as newsboys ran past us in the city streets, posting billboards announcing the disaster. It certainly wasn't lucky for the crew -- one was killed in the blast and 11 injured.

We watched as our listing cruise liner was towed from the port and we had to be repatriated by plane a few days later.

An invitation to rejoin the ship a year later to complete the cruise was, understandably, met with mixed feelings, mainly of apprehension.

However, undaunted, we booked another cruise, two years later, this time in the Caribbean. Surely nothing could go wrong there? Good weather forecast.

We joined the ship on Montego Bay, Jamaica, and set sail for the eastern Caribbean just as it was going dark. We leaned over the ship's rail watching the glinting shore lights of the island.

Two hours later, the shore lights were still there and we realised the ship was not moving. Suddenly, all the ship's lights went out and we were plunged into pitch blackness on a strange vessel. The ship's generators had failed ... need I go on?

So, as I say, this next excursion is bordering on the masochistic. Would you say I was jinxed?

Added to everything else, it's this ship's maiden voyage (better not tell the owners, eh?)

Would you like to know which ship I'm sailing on? I bet you would!

Due to a typing error in last week's column Ken Livingstone was described as the "extremely poor left-wing mayor of London" when it should have read "extremely popular." We apologise for the error and any embarrassment caused.