I have never been a natural at boats. This became embarrassingly clear the moment I arrived at Trogir Marina, clutching a hire car key and a crumpled booking confirmation, convinced I was about to spend a week in a charming waterfront apartment. What I had actually booked, I now realised with growing horror, was a stay on an actual boat. A houseboat, to be precise, moored in the marina itself. The website had mentioned "unique maritime accommodation." I had skimmed past that bit in my excitement about the price.

The drive down from Split Airport had been straightforward enough, hugging the coast road with the Adriatic glittering to my left and the rugged Dalmatian hills rising to my right. Trogir's old town loomed ahead, its medieval towers and terracotta roofs looking like something from a postcard I would later buy and send to my mother with the words "wish you were here" written in increasingly shaky handwriting.

Finding the marina was simple. Finding my specific berth was not. I spent twenty minutes wandering past rows of yachts and fishing boats, my wheeled suitcase clattering loudly against the wooden piers, attracting curious glances from Croatian sailors who clearly recognised landlubber confusion when they saw it. A grizzled man in a faded polo shirt finally took pity on me, pointed toward a modest houseboat near the end of pontoon C, and said something in rapid Dalmatian that I chose to interpret as "good luck" rather than "you poor fool."

The mishap, when it came, was spectacularly undignified. Having established that yes, this was indeed my accommodation, I attempted what I imagined would be a graceful step from pier to deck. My suitcase, heavier than anticipated and apparently possessed of its own agenda, swung forward with pendulum precision and knocked me off balance. I stumbled, windmilled dramatically, and executed what can only be described as a controlled collapse onto the houseboat's small stern deck. My left foot landed in a bucket that someone, presumably the previous guest, had left containing seawater and a single sad-looking sponge. My right foot found purchase on what I desperately hoped was a non-slip surface. The suitcase, traitor that it was, teetered on the edge before plopping into the marina with a satisfying splash.

I sat there, one foot bucketed, listening to my clothes gently submerge, and had one of those moments of clarity that holidays sometimes provide. Here I was, forty-two years old, moderately successful in my terrestrial life, completely undone by a four-metre gap between land and floating home. The absurdity struck me suddenly, and I began to laugh, there on the deck, bucket still attached, as a small crowd of neighbouring boat owners observed this British spectacle with the detached interest of people watching a nature documentary.

Retrieving the suitcase required the assistance of a teenage boy from the neighbouring yacht, who spoke excellent English and managed not to laugh until after he had hauled it up with a boat hook. I tipped him with soggy Croatian kuna and what remained of my dignity.

The houseboat itself, once I had composed myself and removed the bucket, revealed itself to be surprisingly cosy. Compact, certainly, with clever storage solutions that suggested the designer had played an excessive amount of Tetris. But the small galley kitchen smelled faintly of pine and salt, the narrow bed was made up with crisp white linen, and through the porthole I could see Trogir's UNESCO-listed cathedral catching the afternoon light. The gentle rocking, which I had anticipated with dread, proved immediately soothing.

That evening, I sat on the tiny deck with a bottle of local Posip wine purchased from a nearby konoba, my clothes drying on a makeshift line, and watched the marina settle into its rhythms. Fishermen mended nets. Tourists wandered the Riva promenade with gelato. The cathedral bells marked the hour with unhurried precision. My suitcase sat in the corner, still dripping slightly, a reminder that first impressions do not necessarily determine the quality of what follows.

By morning, I had mostly mastered the art of stepping aboard without incident. Mostly.