The large dog lazily slapped his tail on the wooden floor – slap slap slap. He lifted his head every time the man walked past.

“You are a lazy old bastard, aren’t you?” he said to the dog, in a kindly way. The dog didn’t understand the words but understood the tone; his tail wagged a little harder. Something like a rough-haired Irish Wolfhound, something like an Alsatian. There were probably a few other breeds in there. He had not had a good life, now he was getting comfortable in his new home.

Looking out, the man saw the breeze was good, the sun not too hot. It would be a good day. The work could wait for when it was rainy. Momentarily, he felt guilty; he had nobody to answer to except the job awaiting him in the shed. “I’ll do more tomorrow.” he said out loud, as if apologising to someone; perhaps he was – leisure man apologised to working man, even though they were the same man.

He had moved here after his wife died. His family had advised against it, moving away from the city he had lived in all their lives; but his son was seventy five miles away and his daughter was not one for popping round though she was closer. He loved Norfolk, the house was perfect from his point of view. He knew that in a few (ten? Twenty? Who could predict?) years he might need to move again. He lived off a by-road down a half mile of track. There was an intermittent bus on the road (three times a day?) but there would come a time when he couldn’t walk to the end of the track and then along to the bus stop. But that could be decades from now.

He had been a bit obsessive in sorting out the books. His wife’s were never ones he would read, almost all of them. So he reduced their books by perhaps 70%. It had taken a long time, and every time he though he was done, he found another box, in the spare bedroom, in the loft, in the garage. He had been determined to do a good job. His daughter had felt he was trying to remove her mother’s memory. That wasn’t it. He needed to clean out. She saw that about her clothes, but not the books. He also sorted their kitchen tools, reducing the saucepans and only keeping the ‘good’ ones. At last the cupboards doors shut, the shelves didn’t bow; he had smiled, and then he moved.

The ‘new’ house was an old house, in need of work. He started, and when he had a living room that was liveable and a kitchen he could use (new gas cooker, using bottled gas. There seemed to be some doubt that the wiring could take an electric cooker), and two bedrooms – one for himself and one for visitors, then he got distracted. The boat shed had needed urgent TLC to stop it collapsing. He had enjoyed himself shoring it up, then replacing the uprights and, when the walls were firm, applying the roof spars. That’s when Fang arrived.

He had made the mistake of going to the Animal Centre open day, it was a fund raiser with cake stalls. Homemade cakes and bad coffee was something he and his wife had never agreed on. He was happy to eat a homemade cupcake with the ignorance that perhaps the cook had licked his or her fingers, he was happy to drink the hot water Nescafe with a dash of milk. She liked her cakes from a ‘proper’ bakery (because they never have Health and Safety failings, do they?) and her coffee to be proper ground coffee with steam heated milk. He tolerated her need to pay three times more for a coffee and cake; she, more rarely, tolerated his interest in charity cake stalls.

Like most of the other visitors, he had bought coffee and cake, and then some things he didn’t need because it was for a good cause. Then he had walked round the enclosures. There was a shivering poodle, just come in from her dead owner’s house, and terrified of her new surroundings; there was a Staffy, ugly but fashionable, who would be rehoused soon; and then there was a large, grey furred dog lying on the concrete. He looked at the man walking past and the tail slapped a couple of times. The dog had a scar across its face, the result of being used in dog fights. He hadn’t been that good at it, he wasn’t aggressive; he just defended himself. When the police raided, there had been a suggestion that all the dogs would be put down. Most were, this one wasn’t because he didn’t growl at the men and women in blue. He submitted to the muzzle without argument. The animal centre suggested they should take him, but they thought it unlikely he would be re-homed; homed really, he had never had a proper home. He had one canine, the other had broken in a fight. His scar put people off, his broken tooth put people off, his size put people off. The man saw the tail and the process of adoption was started. Fang seemed an appropriate name.

His family were even more convinced he needed help. They thought they would find his savaged and half-eaten corpse one day after rushing down when he didn’t answer his phone. He had to be very careful to keep the mobile charged, he was told. But then he had had to get the landline connected. Reception was poor here.

The dog was company, and kept him active. It was hard to know who kept whom active really. He felt he had to take the dog for a walk; the dog would have happily spent his days lying doing nothing, but always went with the man where ever he went; the dog was a loyal companion.

The one noticeable thing was Fang’s fear of water. At first he was terrified. They had gone to the beach and, as other dogs ran after balls across the wet, puddled, sand at low tide, Fang kept to the dry sand at the top of the beach. It had taken great patience, gentle encouragement and treats to get the big dog to walk through the puddles. The treats were squares of chocolate, but the disapproval of family became louder – dogs couldn’t possibly ever have chocolate, it was poison to them. Fang didn’t seem to realise this. He bought doggy chocolate on a trip to Norwich and the protests subsided. The man had argued that since they were both in the final quarter of their lives, knocking an hour off their lifespan occasionally was probably not the biggest sin in the world; but sometimes a quiet life is easier.

On Sunday’s they would walk up the river bank to the footpath they came from the village. Maps did not seem to indicate why the footpath was here; but careful investigation (the library had tolerated the dog once they knew he would not pee on the books or bite the customers; but the librarian was always a little nervous of him. She was more nervous of the self-confident man with the dog, who seemed to be so self-assured and understood libraries as well as she did; even spending time helping on occasions. When the primary school had arrived for a visit, she had been grateful for help in finding the books the children wanted) had shown that a windpump had existed across the river, this was the route to get to the rowboat to get to the windpump. Before that the land had been another shallow broad and had probably been used for reed collection. The footpath had probably existed since HenryVIII. The footpath led to the village, and the village led to the pub. Sunday roast and a plate of chips. The chips were for the dog.

Slowly the positive reinforcement led to the dog happily splashing through water and then, unfortunately in October, came the time to venture out further. The man went for a swim – it was freezing, but this was important. The dog ventured deeper. A wave lifted him, and he was swimming. Back onshore the treat confirmed what a good day it was and the dog became happier in water. It was unknown why the dog had hated water so much. No-one would know that the rest of the litter he had come from had been drowned in a sack, and it was only chance that the sack had been pulled ashore before Fang had died too.

The small sailing cruiser was calling. It bobbed on the river, waving the mast at him, beckoning him towards it. “Well Fang? Fancy a sail?” Sail was one of the words the dog did recognise, like ‘walk’ and ‘rabbits’. It had taken a while, but Fang had got the idea that rabbits should be kept from the vegetable patch. It was a losing battle really, but they tried. At first, the dog had sat in the boat shivering with fear, surrounded by water. The rewards had to be carefully judged. Given too late, the dog would imagine he was being rewarded for getting safely ashore. Given too early and the dog would think he was being rewarded for being frightened. Still, care, and, it has to be said, a genuine love for this big dog, had persuaded Fang that sailing was fun. Now the difficulty was to keep him out of the way when they were sailing. He would stand directly in front of the helmsman, or sit on the seat beside him, leaning out to see better. Occasionally a fellow boater would do a double take as they saw a sailing boat heading towards them helmed by a large grey dog.

A quick look inside the boat shed first. “I’ll do some tomorrow, I promise.” he said to the Forlorn Hope II. Forlorn Hope number one had been the campervan that he and his wife had driven around Europe for a couple of years before her untimely death. When he started on the project, he had woken one morning knowing that his wife was saying (as she had about the campervan) “That’ll never get finished, it’s a forlorn hope.” She had been right about the camper; they had preferred to go places than to make the grey water sensor report correctly, or fix the ladder (which had more tape on it than metal it seemed sometimes). She was wrong about the boat though. It was a half-decker. He had found one in a boat yard, its back broken, all the fittings removed. The yard had been amazed when he asked to buy it. Then, in a corner of the same yard, he had carefully removed or pushed back the sprung planks and then taken a mould of it. That, he had used to build a new frame. It was not a standard way of building any boat, let alone a half-decker, but he was content to experiment and learn. The planking was made of layers of thin ply. Instead of steaming them to bend, he used thin, whippy marine ply and then waterproof glue to join them. This had an unexpected advantage. To the outside there were still lengths that were joined two thirds down, but inside he built them from the front and then the back. The lengths overlapped and created a stronger stiffer boat. The inside was to be entirely coated in resin rather than varnish. The outside, he was still contemplating. The roof of his boat shed had been made to carry weight. Aside from spars, it also carried lifting strops; he could lift the entire boat to work under it. His family expected him to be found buried under it one day. The entrance to the boat shed had been stopped up and then sandbagged and the tarpaulined on the river side. A pump came on when the water was an inch deep in the mooring.

“Sail!” Fang was up and wagging his tail. “Sail” meant crisps (he liked Salt and Vinegar best for some reason); he even went to find the lifejacket. They had tested it once in the sea, to Fang’s confusion, this was like wearing a collar and lead in the house, it wasn’t normal; but he tolerated his owner’s silliness with good grace. The lifejacket helped, but it would not keep the dog’s head above water; it would help a disabled dog float, and would help with a handle to pull the dog in. The man doubted he had the strength to pull a large wet dog in; but had been surprised when he had fallen in years ago and his wife had yanked him out of the lake they were in. In need, you find extra strength.

Then they were putting up sails, casting off and letting breeze pull the bow round. Casting off the stern, they sailed quietly up the river. Once again, the dog put its head directly in the way. As they sailed, a marsh harrier was quartering the fields. “Look, Fang a harrier.” The dog slapped the deck with his tail, he had no idea why he should be interested in a bird that was way up in the sky, but he liked to please his partner. He didn’t see himself as owned, he saw himself as part of a small pack with the man as the leader. Clearly the man was a good hunter because they always ate well.

They came to the section of river called the U-bend. It had been called that in the 1970s and the name had stuck. Like the U-bend of a drain. For sailors it seemed particularly appropriate because no matter which way the wind blew it was always against you somewhere on this part. The river curved round 180 degrees, and then back 90. Actually this was originally a branch of the river, the main channel had gone straight; but that was hundreds of years ago. More recently a project had driven a narrow channel through the marshes to cut off the bend; but it had always been shallow, too shallow for heavily loaded wherries; and narrow, too narrow to pass another wherry coming the other way. It had fallen into disuse many years before the Broads became a tourist destination, and now only the two entrances at either end offered shallow anchoring off the river. Even then it was risky because the slight tides this far up could result in a boat being stuck.

Slowly the sails were sheeted in until the inevitability to tack arrived. “Okay boy? Shall we tack?” he asked the dog, and the dog slapped his tail. “I’ll take that as a yes. Going about!” After all these years of sailing alone, he still said it out loud. He didn’t know why, he just did.

The boat began it’s steady movement backwards and forwards across the river, each tack ending in a slight creep up the bank with the wind dead ahead, until the momentum started to fall off and they completed the turn to head over the other way. The man enjoyed this challenge; get it wrong, stay on head to wind too long, lose way and steerage, and you ended in the reeds. But get it right and you made much better progress in a heavy boat.

A large cruiser appeared heading towards him. It was one of the ones he used to call bathtubs. Wide beamed, round fronted. Maximum space and minimum ascetic appeal. He had always been scathing about them until he met Madeline one year. A girl in a wheelchair since she had an accident, but still able to get on the water because of the accessibility of the ‘bathtubs’. The old wooden cruisers looked better but were far less easy to move around. Madeline could sit in the front well looking out, or in the back cockpit and even steer (though she admitted that she couldn’t see where she was going). After that, he was less rude about them.

This one was steaming straight down the middle of the river. He could see there were some women in shorts and teeshirts on the top deck. The driver – he couldn’t call it helmsman – was leaning round waving her arms. He kept sailing across. Then turned. One of the things people often misjudge is how quickly two slow moving boats come towards each other. The cruiser slammed into reverse and revved up. He passed across its bows. If it had kept on, it would have passed neatly behind him, but now it was going backwards and so, as he turned, he saw that it was in the way again. He intended to bear off and pass in front of it, it was too long to get behind, he knew he wouldn’t make it on that tack. He waved, trying to signal that he knew what he was doing.

They wouldn’t be able to hear him over their engine, they couldn’t understand his hand signals. One girl thought he was pointing rudely at his own bottom when he tried to tell them to pass behind him. All they knew was they had been told “Give way to sail, yachts have right of way. Always keep out of the way of sailing boats.” Once more they reversed. He began to apply generic terms to the effect that all young women were stupid. He turned and headed towards them again. They should have engaged forward and been well past him now. But they weren’t. The helm was now panicking; as he passed them again, she revved up, surged forward; she screamed a set of expletives at him for going backwards and forwards “just to fuck us up”. She didn’t usually use such language. It didn’t help when he laughed. She was still shouting at him and they were still looking at him when the bow went into the reeds. He actually had tried to point, but they thought he was making a rude gesture again.

Fang barked a couple of times and then settled down again. They sailed on to their destination, eating crisps and cheese sandwiches. This was paradise for Fang. He rested his head on his master’s knee, snaffling the occasional barbecue crisp when he could “Heh! You’ve had yours.” But he didn’t mind. It was near paradise for the man as well. They sailed, watched the grebes, fed the swans (who hissed at Fang, who growled but did nothing more), and sailed into Greben’s dyke simply for the pleasure of doing it. It was a long, narrow and weedy dyke that ended in what had bean a brickworks. The factory had shut down long ago, probably the market had dropped, or perhaps the clay had been worked out. The two companions walked around it, scaring rabbits half to death as a monster suddenly appeared that had barely to break a sweat to catch them up. But Fang wasn’t a hunter, he loved catching up with them but then let them run off. The dog managed to cock a leg on almost every wall, the man was more sparing with his marking, and then they headed back to the boat. It was getting to the evening as he carefully wound the boat round, with Fang barking joyously at him from the boat at the delight of being in charge.

It was getting dark when they reached the broad, and the wind had died. They drifted past a heron only fifteen yards away, who only looked at them; then decided fishing time was over and headed home.

As it got dark, the birds quietened; the day animals crept back; and the world settled into that evening peace that rests the soul. Only a gentle lap-lapping of water on the side of the boat, and even that was reducing as the breeze died away.

They were barely sailing now, drifting with purpose would be a better description; but he didn’t want to ruin the peace with an engine. There was no reason to hurry. There was boat ahead. It was the same boat as the one they had seen hours ago. The lights were blazing and as they slowly drew near, he could see it was still wedged into the reeds. He had assumed they had got off ages ago.

By now the yacht was travelling at a very slow walking pace. The tide was against them, it would reach peak height around 10pm. At this distance from the sea, it was only about three inches different to low tide, but it provided a slight push against the zephyr that was propelling them downstream again. As they moved silently past, he realised that they had made the common mistake of thinking if you can’t see out, people can’t see in. He could see in very clearly. In a back cabin, a young woman was drying her hair with a towel, clearly just out of the shower. She had pants on, but nothing else. As they glided past the window, she reached for her pyjama top and pulled it on, admiring her upper body in her mirror as she did so.

The next window was on the corridor, and a woman had just closed the door to the shower, but the man didn’t know this until she burst out again, having discovered that a holiday cruiser with ‘lashings of hot water’ meant there would be enough for one person to have a shower. The girl had stepped into warm water which had immediately switched to freezing. She jumped out, carrying a towel and not covering herself at all. It was a fleeting glance, but one he had not had for a long time.

The main cabin was populated by the other three girls, each in their underclothes. They seemed to be having a mutual grooming session, brushing hair, painting nails. They were still aground. He sighed quietly. He didn’t have any responsibility, but he did have a duty. He couldn’t leave them here where he knew there was no cellphone coverage. He slid into the bay that had been the entrance to the shortcut, used the quant pole to edge back a little and dropped the mud weight. Fang wagged his tail. He liked sleeping out, the smells of the marshes would invade his dreams and he would be hunting otter and rabbit and badger in confusing combinations.

A scratch tea of beans and Weetabix, with tea and dried milk. Fang fared better, there were always some tins of dog food on board. Then an early night. It had been a good day.

Morning came early. The light was not obscured by hills or trees here, a bright red ball steadily yellowed and rose. At eight he edged out of the reedy bay. The dog and he had shared peeing over the side. It had taken a while to teach the dog that skill, but it was a worthwhile one. There was a special peeing pole at the side of the boat for the dog to use. He eased up to the cabin cruiser, tied to the stern and knocked on the door.

A young woman opened the door in surprise, and realised at the same time he did that she was wearing a pyjama top which, from his slightly higher angle, did nothing to hide her well formed breasts. He had no idea of cup size, only that they looked smooth and attractive. He forced himself to look at her face, something she was grateful for; a lot of men would have held the conversation with her boobs.

“You look well aground, there is a high tide in about two hours. We might get you off if we lighten the boat.”

She looked at him, she had been the person steering and she recognised this man as the cause of her troubles. Was he winding her up? They were miles from the sea. No, he looked genuine. Anyway, they had no network reception here. They were stuck.

“Okay, I’ll wake the others.” said the girl called Hailey. She turned and he watch the barely covered small bottom leaving. He hadn’t seen a woman’s underwear for some time, and a young woman’s for even longer. He didn’t count his own daughter, anyway, even she was older than this nubile miss (or ms?) walking away from him now.

“GET UP! We have to GET UP!”.

Girls appeared from various doors, in various states of nightwear. Initially none noticed him and he found himself fascinated by the girl in a nightdress that showed very clearly that was all she slept in. “Linda! There is a man back there!” Linda realised that her nightdress was quite see-through and she was displaying her trimmed, manicured, pubic lawn. The man smiled at her and said “Morning!”

Linda disappeared again. So did others now they understood why they had to get up. He waited patiently until he was invited to come in. The truth was that a girl in very tight shorts and teeshirt with no bra was not showing much less than a girl in pyjama top and pants, but apparently this was far more acceptable to them.

He explained over a cup of tea, whilst they drank tea, juice, and toast. He noted that they just assumed he had eaten and didn’t offer him anything. “There is a small tide, high tide is around 10, 10:19 I think. If we run off all the water, and get all of you, except one, onto my boat then we stand a better chance of floating free.” It transpired that all they had done was gun the engine – they were lucky they still had one from the misuse they described. They hadn’t tried rocking it, but these were flat bottomed so it would not have helped. They hadn’t tried all getting right to the back to try and lift the bows. They hadn’t tried much, and then they had resigned themselves to being stuck until someone helped.

There was a clatter on the deck outside. Fang had got bored. He pushed open the door and five girls looked scared as a large dog with a scar made its way towards them. “Fang, were you invited?” Fang looked slightly sheepish; a girl reached out, expecting to lose a finger at any moment, and stroked him. The dog looked at her and then at the man as if to say “See?”

“Okay, he’s friendly; but we have to get moving. Run all the taps so the water runs out.” Waste water was still allowed straight out into the river, only toilet effluent was now stored in a tank to be pumped out. Luckily they had only collected the boat the day before, so they hadn’t filled it too much yet.

He pulled his own boat close and got all the girls to cross except the one who seemed – despite running aground – to be the most confident. This was the same girl who had been driving the day before, the one who he had met when he first came on board. Hailey.

Fang went from girl to girl, sniffing their bottoms to confirm what he already suspected. His leader had done well, all of these smelt good. They were fertile and not only young, but the oestrogen coming off them suggested they would be worthwhile mates. Fang was aware of the unusual restrictions in this pack. He could not mate with two legged dogs, and his master would not mate with four legged ones. Still, he was pleased for him; surely he could persuade some of these young females to join him? Fang’s brain worked in simple ways: food, sex, sleep, companionship. Not necessarily in that order. His doggy brain had no concept of sex for fun, sex was for procreation. He had been down to be neutered, but somehow he had been adopted before it had happened.

“Ahhm. I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I was a bit upset.” He waived the apology away, saying that it was understandable; and he had only laughed because he was pretty sure what she suggested was physically impossible for him now. She blushed.

“Right, look, don’t worry about that. At first I don’t want the engine on, I’ll try and pull it back. If that fails we’ll try bouncing it. If THAT fails ... I’ll think of something else. But if it comes off, then you need to start the engine okay?”

He jumped back onto his boat. It was much smaller, but probably about the same weight. The fibreglass cruisers were lightly built, flat bottomed and very difficult to control in winds. He lined tied ropes to both mooring rings on the cruiser and led them to one central large cleat. He had thought of removing it a few times as it wasn’t much use; until now.

Engine started and revved a little, pulling directly back from the way the boat had mounted the bank. Nothing happened. Then he tried zig-zagging to edge it back. Still no movement. After ten minutes, he stopped. “Okay, phase two. Go back on board and stand right at the back and move up and down. Not side to side; drop down all together. The idea is to try and lift the bows out of the stiction, it might slide a bit then. I’ll stay and try pulling again, so make sure you don’t lose balance if she shifts.”

An enjoyable period of watching five pretty girls dropping into squats and then standing again, over and over, followed. Tight shorts emphasised tight firm bottoms as the stretched across them. It was a good sight to have. It made no difference, the boat stayed firm.

The tide was probably on the turn now, they would start to lose the extra few inches of water. “Okay, Linda, you come and take the tiller and throttle. No, it’s fine. Just don’t over rev it. So not beyond ‘here’.” He put an imaginary mark on the wood work. “When I say. You others come back too. No point in adding too much weight to the boat is there.”

“We don’t weigh that much!” shouted one of them, a pretty blond with ‘petite’ written all over her. She had a pixie face, small boobs and boy’s bum and young girl’s legs.

“Not what I meant. But every extra kilogramme adds doesn’t it?”

He went the other way with the quant pole and placed himself at the front. “Start the engine Hailey, yes, when Linda revs up mine, you reverse too, not too much. All ready? Okay, EYAAAAHHHH!!!!” he said as he pushed with all his might.

“It moved, it did! I saw it!”. The pixie shouted.

“EYAHHHH!!!” The pole bent, and then straightened, the boat had indeed shifted a couple of inches.

“Once more! AHHYYYHHHHHHH!!!!” He was sure his back would go pop in a minute, but no, the big cruiser started to slide “Yes! Come on you bastard!” It gathered pace, slid into the water and headed back straight towards the sailing yacht. Several girls rushed to fend it off “No! Use your feet, not your hands.” He struggled down the side of the cruiser, carrying the quant pole, laid it on the roof and pulled on the tow ropes to slacken then. Then he untied them and threw them to the girls on the boat. “You’ll need to fill up, we can go down to my house and you can do that there. You okay with the boat Linda? Don’t worry, Fang will be fine.” With that, he got Hailey to put the cruiser into forward and they moved off, leading the way. If he was nervous about letting an inexperienced young woman steer his yacht, he didn’t show it. She was much more nervous than him; terrified that she might hit something with the bow sprit. It would probably have broken immediately, but knowing that would have made her even more nervous.

It took an hour. A couple of times the girls discussed switching back to their own boat, but it did seem a bit risky. There were few places to tie up, the reeds lined the river and they all agreed that they did NOT want to go near them again. A house passed on the left, and then two on the right. Those two had no easy access by road to the town down the river on the left bank. That would take an hour of driving, or twenty minutes by river. Then there was a river bank and three houses beside each other. The dog signalled that they this was their destination by barking and wagging his tail. Sure enough, the cruiser slid closer and closer to the bank, wooden palings held back the earth and the man went to the front of the cruiser with the stern rope and picked up the bow rope. He waved hand signals at Hailey, who was terrified of getting it wrong. At two feet from the bank, he stepped ashore and waved ‘neutral’. He had been clear “Put it into neutral, but don’t turn the engine off until you are sure you are tied properly at both ends.” She forgot and immediately switched off the engine. He was about to shout, but decided not to. He ran to the stern with the stern rope and further back, he looped it around a wooden bollard and let the rope take the strain. Even then, he didn’t tie off, he let the rope slide slowly until the boat stopped, then he pulled her back until the bow rope was tight again and then tied off the stern.