This month threw me a lucky bounce in the shape of an all expenses-paid trip to visit six of the Galapagos's uninhabited islands.
There was a catch, of course, but I got to see landscapes and animals I'd never have seen otherwise.

Every now and then the National Park sends out a boat of volunteers to pick up litter from the coasts of particular islands. As with other things the Park does, there's no clear, systematic programme for doing this, or even proper publicity that the boat is going.

Anyway, quite by chance I heard that the litter-pick was happening this month. If I wanted to go, I'd need to be ready to leave at 10.00 am tomorrow! If I'd known a week earlier I could have planned for the trip and worked around it. As it was I was torn: could I really pass up the chance to see islands I'd never get to visit? My mind was made up when I realised three other volunteers had already signed up: my Australian friend Helen; and two Ecuadorian girls I didn't know.

All four of us turned up at the harbour at 10.00 am, as arranged. We didn't have much idea of what the work or the boat we'd be staying on would be like. The only thing we did expect was a wait before leaving, and we got one: the boat didn't leave port until 1.30 pm, as we were held up by the captain not being able to assemble his crew. He had someone to drive the dingy, but no cook. Planning? Advance preparation? Bah, not here: just wait until the day of departure before finding your crew.

The captain himself was a Popeye-like sea dog – obviously more at home in the spray and the surf than on land. His boat was similarly sea-worn and looked like he'd built it himself: all wood, with a single shed of a building up on deck.

Below was the engine room and a door-less cabin with a toilet. Water seeped through the hull and sloshed about under the gappy floorboards. We volunteers were to sleep in part of the shed, thankfully above decks. Our bunkroom was cramped: before the trip I would never have believed I could sleep in a matchbox. The bunks were 60 cm wide, stacked four high, and the room was only 2 m high. (Do the maths: that's tight.) It took me 15 minutes just to get into my sleeping bag each night, and I woke each morning with bruises from moving just a little too far and thumping my head on the ceiling.

The engine room was our Popeye's den. He'd climb down into the gloom periodically, armed with a comprehensive tool kit consisting of no more than a hammer. (Incidentally, it never ceases to amaze me how much of Ecuador you can sort out with a hammer. They must design things that way: to fix any running problem with a well-aimed thud.) Up to an hour, and lots of thuds, later, he'd re-emerge covered in oil, looking satisfied.

Out at sea the fun really started. We were relieved to discover the boat was surprisingly sea-worthy. The engine chugged away too loudly to talk over, but still, it chugged reassuringly enough to make us believe it wasn't going to fail, and I monitored the pump drawing water out of the hold, which seemed to be working reliably. For insurance, presumably, we had a stack of wood balancing precariously on the roof of our sun shade – in case part of the boat fell off or needed patching.

The only real problem was the sea. It was windy and rough. We rocked from side to side up to 45° each way, which made it near impossible for us landlubbers to walk around the boat without holding on, white-knuckled, to anything that looked secure.

On arrival we soon realised there was stacks of litter on the beaches and rocks and a lot more work than we first thought. By the end we had totalled more than 120 kg of rubbish, or enough to fill 13 big sacks.

We allowed ourselves some time to rest our backs after the efforts on the coasts, and the highlight for me was snorkelling with a penguin on Bartholome. He was a curious creature, and looked me straight in the mask just a few centimetres from my face. He even bit Helen (through her wetsuit), more to see what she'd do, it seemed, than to find out how she'd taste.

Although the water was pretty chilly, we had almost continuous sunshine for the whole trip. It seems every island but mine, Santa Cruz, is immune from the cloud and drizzle that's plagued us for the past two months. As a consequence, I'm browner than I've ever been before in my life.

Next month I'll describe my ridiculous run around trying to equip the recycling centre with a water supply. (I've returned to working as a plumbing supervisor yet again). And I finally have my bird photos back from the continent, so I'll tell you how they came out too.