I've come damn near sinking twice, but haven't had to deploy a life raft – until now.

I toss the 53-pound valise over the side, yank on the painter, and the raft mercifully pops and hisses just as it's supposed to, auto-inflating in a matter of seconds. I jump off the swim platform, take a few quick strokes, and soon scramble into my yellow and orange bubble of life. This will be my boat, my home and my entire world for the next 24 hours.

Wait a sec – 24 hours? How do I know exactly how long it'll take to be rescued? Because the boat I jumped off of last Thursday is still placidly bobbing around behind me, and it has no intention of sinking any time soon. Actually, I've just simulated an abandon-ship situation at the whim of Mad Mariner. I've agreed to spend the next 24 hours in this six-person Winslow Super Light Offshore Plus liferaft to find out what it's like – before disaster strikes – and pass on the information to Mad Mariners all over the world.

Of course, we can't replicate the shock and fear of actually having your boat sink out from under you, nor could we replicate stormy sea conditions without taking unreasonable risks. So before you critical types start wagging your fingers at us, just remember: the idea here isn't to try to experience the real thing, it is to learn what we can to better prepare ourselves in case we ever do have to board a life raft. (See sidebar: 24 tips in 24 hours)

Swimming to the raft means a wet arrival, and plenty of bailing afterward to get the inside dry. BOARDING PARTY

As I crawl into the Winslow, the first thing I notice is how easy it is. I've heard that boarding life rafts can be tough, but the inflated boarding platform and nylon webbing handholds make it very easy. In fact, it took just two minutes and 20 seconds from the moment I pulled the painter to the moment I stood up inside the raft. Maybe it would be more difficult in rough seas (we have a mere one- to two-foot chop, and it's a sunny, beautiful day here on the Chesapeake Bay,) but I doubt it, because this thing is designed with handholds and straps galore.

First things first; I gotta dry off. But I pulled a ton of water into the raft when I dragged my sopping self in, so I locate the collapsible bailer and get to work. About 10 minutes later I have all the water out, so I strip down to my skivvies and set my jeans on top of the canopy to dry in the sun. I take stock of my surroundings.

There are many liferafts on the market made by various manufacturers, and each offers a different set of features. The Winslow raft, which was supplied by the company for this exercise, is a decagon shape (think octagon, with 10 sides) with separate inflation chambers for the floor, the lower wall and the upper wall, which also includes the canopy. It has a zippered enclosure with reflective tape outside, and the whole thing is bright orange and yellow. Inside, it is equipped with Winslow's Basic Offshore Survival Equipment Pack, often called an SEP.

The raft comes with a survival bag, the bailer, a waterproof flashlight, a throw line, a safety knife, and a black sea anchor, which deployed automatically. The space is roomy for me, but six people would be very tight. Then again, it's a piece of emergency equipment, and luxury is not an expectation.

Most of the items are tethered to attachment points on the raft, so I can't lose them. I open the survival bag, and check it out. There's an EPIRB, a set of small paddles with reflective sides, a bag of sealed water pouches, a bag of vacuum-sealed SOS survival rations, a first aid kit, a raft repair kit, a hand pump, a compass, a mini fishing kit (with s spool of 15-pound test, two jigs, a few hooks and some weights,) sponges, a signal mirror, flares, smoke signals, sea sickness tablets, sun block, and the most interesting find of all, a mini-Bible. I had brought my own personal ditch bag along for this ride, but evidently I won't need it much for a one-day stay.

I've dried off, and checked out my surroundings; it's time to settle in for the duration. I wonder how much time has passed, and am a bit distressed to learn I've only been in the raft for about an hour. Only 23 to go.

SURVIVOR MAN

If I were stuck at sea for real, undoubtedly I'd spend a heck of a lot of time trying to catch fish for food (just like I do in real life). So I break open the fishing kit, and get busy. At first I try the jigs, but the fish in this area could care less. I need some sort of bait. Hmmm"¦

There's nothing in the survival kit, but I do have an ace up my sleeve. Being a bit of a wimp when it comes to roughing it, I've packed a small "cheater bag" and smuggled it aboard. In it, there are three Slim Jims and a small bag of beef jerky. I rip open a Slim Jim, savor the smell, and bite off the end to sacrifice it as bait. Again, the fish couldn't care less. But eventually I feel a slight tug, and yank back to set the hook. Resistance. I bring the line in hand-over-hand, and discover I've snagged a blue crab. Yummy – when you have a steam pot and Old Bay. But crabs can't be eaten raw and are useless in a liferaft – or are they? I break off the claw I've snagged, set the crab free and re-bait with the fresh crab meat.

A simple fishing line caught a blue crab -- and that crab provided bait to catch a better meal.Eureka! Almost immediately, I have a bite. This time, I pull in a six-inch spot. Now, I figure I have it made. The spot will provide little meat, but it will make excellent bait for more spot, croakers, striped bass and other fish.

I fish for a while longer with the remaining crab, then decide to have some lunch. I drop the now-dead spot into the pool of water sloshing around in the boarding platform, so it stays fresh while I find out just how good or bad SOS Survival Rations taste. I use the safety knife to open the sealed bag, and discover tan-colored crumbly blocks. They turn out to taste like compressed graham crackers – not bad. The sealed water pouches are a different story. They're warm and metallic, and not very appealing.

After "lunch" I decide to go back to fishing, and reach out to grab my spot – but it's gone. What the heck? Closer examination shows that there are drain slots in the back of the boarding platform, and I've just lost my bait and my dinner. Dammit. So much for my status as a kick-butt survivor-man.

CLAM BAKE

It's getting hot out. Really hot. Even after applying the SPF 30 sunscreen in the survival kit, I find myself leaning back into the shaded portion of the raft. Why didn't they pack a maximum SPF, instead? It's a serious lesson: every ditch bag must have sun screen, and every liferaft should have a canopy like the Winslow. Without it, I'd fry.

Luckily, I eventually discover I can let air out of the floor, allowing me to lay on rubber that's in direct contact with the water. It's an excellent way to cool down, and when in the shade and laying on the deflated floor it's actually quite comfortable.

Without warning, a 40-something cruiser goes flying past at 30 or so miles per hour. As the curling wake approaches, I slide lower into the raft. It passes, without much more then a gentle shake to the raft. Another thing I've just discover every life raft needs: ballast. This raft has a "Cape Horn" system, which consists of large pockets on the bottom. They fill with water, and stabilize the raft effectively. Different manufacturers all have their own systems, but Winslow's handled these conditions just fine.

Fishless despite my efforts, I spend the next several hours staring at the rubber walls around me, and watching a sailboat race taking place at the mouth of the Severn River. Watching the slow-motion "action" of a sailboat race has never been appealing to me, but right now, it may rival staring at the inside of the raft. Maybe. I've been in six hours now, so I'm just a quarter of the way home. Digging back through the survival kit, I discover a survival guide Winslow has included. It seems a bit overly broad – there's a section about hunting seals in the Arctic – but it has a few kernels of wisdom every life raft dweller should know.

The next few hours are just plain boring, until I discover the imperative item Winslow failed to put into the life raft and I failed to bring: TP. I decide to open the first aid kit and sacrifice the bandages to the cause. In a real disaster, of course, you'd want to save those bandages. Then again, in a real disaster you could probably find a way to go without TP, too.

The author makes landfall after a full day in the raft. NIGHTFALL

It's getting late, and there's a ton of boat traffic here. If we remain in open water, someone could drive over my painter line, or worse. So for safety's sake Mad Mariner Editor (and captain of the Mainship 40 I'm tied to) Glen Justice agrees to tow the raft into the protected waters of Annapolis for the night. At first it feels like the raft is anchored, and it moves through the water with the grace of a brick. Then I remember the ballast. I reach over the side to try and pull the ballast bags up, and discover they trail lines for just this purpose. I pull them tight, tie them off and the raft glides over the water's surface.

Roughly 10,462 weird stares later – and one close encounter with a sailboat – we're securely floating among an anchored fleet in a creek off the Severn. I break out the SOS rations for dinner. The second time around, they don't seem quite as tasty. I scarf down out the last of my Slim Jims and beef jerky and prepare to retire for the night.

It's cold now. I re-inflate the raft floor and that helps take the edge off the chill, but it's not enough. Luckily, I keep a "space blanket" (the micro-thin blankets that look like tin foil, and come in a package the size of a deck of cards.) in my ditch bag. Unfortunately, I soon discover these things are useless for sleeping. Every time I twitch it makes a crackling noise like cellophane, and it's so dang loud it wakes me. I eventually crinkle it into a ball, and shove it in a corner.

I awaken, shivering, from the cold. Even with the floor inflated it's like laying on a freezer plate and a sweat shirt and jeans are not nearly enough to keep me warm – imagine if I'd abandoned ship in something less? My feet are particularly cold. I take two of the giant zipper-lock bags out of stowage pocket in the life raft, and put them around my feet. It helps a bit. I send some dispatches (I filed live from the raft using Twitter and Glen posted photos on Flickr) and try to get back to sleep. No dice.

DAYBREAK

It's light out. I must have passed out again at some point. A moment ago I remember seeing 4:20 a.m. on the cell phone, but now its 8:30 a.m.. I try to sit up, and my back protests. My legs protest. My whole body aches. Sleeping in a life raft is not comfortable.

We tow the raft back to the marina, and I spend a few minutes cleaning up. There's an hour to go before we reach 24, but I'm hot to get out of this thing. I can see the dock, just a few feet away. The temptation to jump onto it is strong. Very strong. Instead, I occupy myself by deflating the canopy and top section of the raft.

As we approach the final minutes, I am absolutely dying to get out of this thing and the expression "chomping at the bit" doesn't even begin to describe it. I wonder if they gave me credit for the two minutes, 20 seconds that it took to inflate and board the raft? I finally crawl off the dock and head for a land-based bathroom. When I return, I found one more disappointment: the stopwatch looped back to 00:00:00 after a full day. I never get to see it read 24:00:00. To heck with it – I was outta there and back on land.