Palolem, India

It's a cloudy morning, heavy with heat but thankfully without a breath of wind, as the six of us gather at 6.30am on the beach, gazing at a sea gently rippling before the dawn. Rikki had been woken during the night by streaks of lightning in the sky but the storm sees to have disappeared as we say hello to Mr Max and his boat.

He instructs us to push the wooden craft over logs down to the sea and we jump in as the water splashes around our legs. The onboard motor is pulled a few times and the propellor cranks into life. We're the first boat to leave today and the sea and its dolphins are all to be ours.

Out we sail, past Monkey Island and Butterfly Beach. Hints of blue sky are visible through the thinning cloud and as we crest the waves rolling further out to sea we scan the ocean looking for a dorsal fin or a telltale flipper.

Half an hour later, becalmed off Agonda beach 12kms to the north with not a sighting to be had, memories of safaris start coming back. But even more pertinently we remember another futile boat-trip a couple of years ago, again with Bethan and Simon, but this time off the Pacific coast of British Columbia. Three hours stuck at sea in thick fog "whale watching". We couldn't even see the prow of the bloody ship let alone an elusive mammal. By the time we returned to harbour some of the passengers had been sick, most were asleep and all were $100 dollars poorer and vowing never to repeat the experience. That was three hours of my life I'll never get back.

Yet here we are again being strung up like kippers, promised dolphins and delivered a big fat expanse of salty nothing. By now, more boats are on the water, a flotilla of folly stuffed full of hopeful idiots expecting to see schools of dolphins displaying their playful intelligence as they backflip over the boats and generally behave as though they are at some aquarium in Florida.

Of course, the skippers start shouting "dolphin" and speeding off, but all of us cynics are yawning and thinking of breakfast. But no, there they are, three or four of the creatures, swimming a small distance from the boats, backs arching gracefully from the water. We stay out watching them for about 20 minutes, although sadly they seem reluctant to walk along the water on their tails, toss around a ball with their noses, make manic ack-ack-ack clicking noises as they try to communicate with us or jump through the bright pink hula hoop I've brought along specially.

However, we return to shore satisfied that the early-morning wake-up call and, ooh, about £1.50 that we've each extravagantly paid, have been worth it.

Later we decide to hire taxis and head for Agonda beach. From the boat it had looked huge and deserted and sure enough its 3km of golden sand are almost uninhabited with just a few little restaurants and secluded huts dotted here and there. The sea is deliciously warm and very clear, and you can walk out for miles, perfect for a cooling dip.

We seek out the Turtle Lounge having been told it's the chi-chi-est place to base ourselves for miles around. A beautiful beachfront property, set in gardens with little thatched huts and chandeliers in the trees, it's like a private members club. Run by a tall, camp German in his 50s called Berndt, an ex-fashion photographer, he swishes over to welcome us to his tropical paradise.

For just a £3 fee we laze on ridiculously comfortable daybeds, with complementary towels and silver buckets full of chilled Himalayan mineral water, and gaze over the clear sand down to the shore. Above us awnings provide shelter, behind us are plush palm-fronded yet open-air toilets with designer sinks and at reception we can order cocktails to be brought to cool our thirst in the now blazing sunshine.

And if that's not enough for our over-pampered indulgence, a massage therapist is on hand to help with all this stressful relaxing. Berndt tells me, with a wink, that I should go for the 'Bamboo' massage. I scan the list of available therapies and don't see it listed.

"Ha ha, sex massage," roars Berndt. "It is ze happy ending!!" Really? And do you offer this? "Oh nein, nein!" he replies looking a bit offended.

Obviously zis is eine respectable establishment. Oh, that crazy German sense of humour.

Coman and I both opt for an Ayurveda Abhyanga Massage in a straw-thatched hut, a £20 treatment that would be about seven times that price back in London. I go first and for an hour am bent, manipulated and pummelled. Every disc and knuckle, toe and joint, muscle and tendon is stretched, caressed, pulled and rotated and 60 mins later I leave in a zen-like trance, to evaporate moments later when we realise our bag is missing containing camera, phones, iPods, room key and more.

Thankfully it's located in the restaurant next door where Coman had left it behind after finishing his lunch. All present and correct, no damage done but my bliss now just a fading memory, replaced by a burst of stress and adrenaline. I sink back onto the daybed and try to reclaim the calmness of spirit while Coman skips off to emerge an hour later without a care in the world.

That evening, over gorgeous pasta in a restaurant called Magic Italy, he's even happier when his idols Sheena Easton and Kenny Rodgers sing a duet over the stereo. "We've Got Tonight" they croon, an apt song for a lovely night ended on the beach at Bar Cuba. Why none of these places have Indian names is beyond me, but amidst the twinkling lights, the quiet swoosh of the sea and the warm, warm breeze it's hard to care.