Chapter 1

I used to be a grumpy old man, but you can call me Joe. To my mind, there's plenty to be grumpy about – the decline in basic courtesy, especially on the roads, cold-calling, litigation over trivial problems, religious fundamentalism ... need I go on? But this is about how I stopped ... well, mostly stopped ... being a grumpy old man and became a happy one.

Where to start? I suppose a good place – if there's anything good about it – would be my wife leaving me. I was forty-five, going on forty-six. To be fair, probably boring too. We were both teachers. Barbara, a year younger than me, taught history. Me ... mathematics. She went on an in-service training course, and when she came back announced she wanted a divorce, forthwith, having met the man of her dreams (she thought) on the course. I argued a little, offered to go to counselling, but in the end we divorced fairly amicably.

Teachers aren't paid spectacularly well, but the two of us had been quite thrifty and we'd never had kids, so splitting wasn't a financial disaster. I rented a small flat, leaving Babs the house until the end of the school year, when she moved to be with the boyfriend in Luton. (Luton? Who lives in Luton?) For me, I applied for, and got, a post ... head of maths at a comprehensive in Ipswich ... Properties were reasonably priced and I only had to rent for a few months until I completed on a pre-war semi on the Nacton Road. I decided early on that a bike – pedal cycle – was a better idea than a car, which helped my physical fitness and stopped my incipient middle-aged spread in its tracks. For longer distances, I bought a motor-bike, something Babs would never consider.

The work was okay. The kids were somewhat better behaved than the products of a northern inner-city, so I had no problems there, though the accent took some getting used to. The town was, well, okay. Ipswich wasn't immune from the effects of eighties politics – no town or city with a socialist Council was immune – but it certainly didn't suffer the blight of northern cities like Liverpool or Sheffield. Regeneration was the thing. The docks, instead of grubby, industrial activity, became a hive of yuppy entertainment; upscale apartments, restaurants and marinas.

Me? I pedalled to work during the week, and at the weekend pottered around the East Anglian countryside on my anachronistic Triumph twin motorcycle. I was a regular visitor to the Minsmere nature reserve throughout the year, but also explored places like the Museum of East Anglian Life at Stowmarket. If there was some event advertised, like the Suffolk Show, I at least put in an appearance and frequently met people to talk to. It was interesting to listen to points of view I'd never previously considered, and hear about ways of life strange to me. And there was a masochistic pleasure to be had when many of the folks I chatted to were willing to moan about the same things that I grumped about. I'm sure my pupils considered me dour, to say the least, but I never had any discipline problems. I was settled in a comfortable, if unexciting, rut.

It all changed, or began to change, the day I visited the East Coast Boat Show. One of the activities on offer was a short sail in a small dinghy. A life-long devotee of Arthur Ransome, I was instantly hooked. Several weekends at Alton Water, and I was comfortable enough to go out and buy my very own dinghy. Not owning a car, I kept it at Felixstowe Ferry, where I had access to the River Deben, and if I was brave enough, the sea. There's a big difference between sailing on an inland lake or reservoir, with a safety boat on call, and sailing independently on tidal waters. For one thing, on the lake, really the worst thing that can happen is a wetting, and the safety boat will pull you out anyway. On a tidal estuary, one has to take account of the current, which might flow at five or six miles an hour, and the tide, which can mean a difference of four metres in the depth of water (more in some places). So, if you capsize, you're on your own and probably drifting into danger: rocks, wrecks and hypothermia. I prepared as best I could in theory and chose very carefully when I was going to sail.

Most sailors are a friendly bunch and I did make some friends, who gave me some good advice (and some bad advice, too – but I managed to learn). After a year or so, I was getting a little bored. The dinghy was fun and had given me invaluable experience, but it limited me to day sails of a few hours. I know people who sleep on the bottom boards of dinghies like my little Wanderer. I tried it ... once. I decided immediately, having survived the experience, that while I could have enjoyed it in my twenties, it definitely didn't suit me in my early fifties.

The next step was a small yacht. It had to have at least one reasonably comfortable bunk, toilet and cooker, and be sound. Through word of mouth, I found a twenty-seven foot, one off, sloop. That is, she had one mast, setting two sails, like my little dinghy. She had an odd-shaped double bunk in the fo'c'sle, toilet and wet-locker. In the main cabin, two six foot six single bunks, which doubled as bench seats during the day – feet end on the port side went under a tiny sink, and on the starboard side a two-burner hob and grill. A small inboard motor lived under the cockpit. She was steered by a tiller, and a lazaret* at the stern held two propane gas bottles and spare warps. All in all, quite a convenient and effective layout.

(*Lazaret – an enclosed storage space usually right at the stern of the boat).

Built of marine ply on oak, she was of double chine construction like the Wanderer, meaning her hull had six flat parts bent into shape, hence just curving in one direction. As she was 'home built', double curvature was clearly beyond her builder's capabilities. A test run revealed that she sailed extremely well. I was delighted. A final feature that was ideal for me was the triple keel*, which meant she could stand upright on firm ground when the tide went out, rather than tilting over to lay on her side.

She came with a mud berth on the River Blackwater, at Maldon. Berths can be expensive and scarce, so I happily took it over, despite the distance from Ipswich. The Wanderer I sold, to delight another novice sailor.

Each weekend between about Easter and October, I'd ride down to Maldon Friday evening. Depending on the weather and tides, I'd either sail or just camp out in the boat. During the summer, I got quite far afield, exploring the local rivers; Crouch, Colne, Stour, Orwell, Deben, Ore and Alde. I could live in that little boat quite comfortably for a week at a time, especially if I was able to get a shower every few days in a marina or sailing club.

The sailing season ends, or tapers off, sometime in October. Of course, there's nothing to stop a hardy soul from making the most of the short, cold days, and I intended to do so, but the need for some heat in the cabin necessarily limited things. Also, a visit to the boat every so often to make sure the bilges were dry and everything okay was essential.

All I've told you so far isn't what made me a happy, instead of a grumpy, old man. I was content in a way I hadn't been for years, but not yet happy. The incident that really changed matters happened on my third check-up visit, in late November. Friday night, about nine; I parked the bike in the sailing club compound, making sure I'd locked the gate behind me, and picked my way over the rough grass to 'Joy', which was solidly set in the mud, the tide being out. I climbed on board, opened the cabin doors and stepped down into the cabin.

I flicked the switch – a small solar panel kept a leisure battery topped up, even in winter – and dumped my kit-bag on one of the bunk-seats. I then remembered I needed to turn the gas on, and had to climb out again to go to the lazaret.

On return to the cabin, I realised I was not alone.

A pretty face, marred by a serious black eye – apparent despite milk chocolate skin – framed by a halo of frizzy dark hair.

"I'm sorry." A mellow, contralto voice, a little slurred, from between swollen lips. Her body, wrapped in my cover-less duvet.

"Sit down." I filled the kettle and lit the burner under it, lit the little gas fire to take the chill off the cabin. She was still standing, so I repeated, "Sit." And waited until she had done so. "Tea? Coffee? Cocoa? Herbal?"

"Tea. Please."

We were silent as the kettle boiled and I made tea. "Milk?"

"Please."

I poured, and waved the sugar tin interrogatively; she shook her head. "No, thanks."

"So..." I drew it out, unsure of how to proceed. "I don't suppose I need to ask why you're hiding out in my boat."

"The boyfriend ... beat on me once too often."

I nodded, and we were silent again for several minutes. "Well, I'm not about to cut you loose..." I paused, and she gave a little sigh of relief. "But if you want to stay, the accommodation is limited. I only have the one duvet here, so we'll have to share."

I thought there was a bit of fear in her expression, but she nodded. "Okay."

"And, in the morning, we'll need to work out how best to make sure you're safe. I suppose, as we're going to sleep together, we'd better be introduced, don't you think? I'm Joe."

"How do you do, Joe. I'm Denise."

"How old are you, Denise? Do we need to get child services involved?"

She snorted. "I wish. But I thank you for the compliment. I'm thirty-four."

I was shocked. "Really?" I would have put her as early twenties at most.

"Oh, yes. It's a curse – the boyfriend and his mates really got off on imagining I was jail-bait."

I took a deep breath and shook my head, but said no more until we'd finished the tea. "D'you need me to go on deck for a bit?" There being no privacy for the toilet.

"Don't you mind?"

"No." I didn't say I was going to pee over the stern anyway. Happily, the wind was right for that.

When I'd done and had a bit of a look round, I called out before re-entering the cabin.

"One minute..." and, not more than a minute later, "Okay."

When I was back below, I could tell she was uncertain about something. "You okay, Denise?"

"Um..." pause, blush... "What do you do with all those levers?"

"Ah ... Well, there's no river outside just at the moment, so we can't use the toilet normally. But we can pump it out and flush with a little water from the basin." I showed her how, and explained how to use the taps and valves when Joy was afloat. "Don't even try when she's not floating. I don't want the hassle of clearing the inlet of mud."

I turned off the gas, then it was time for bed. Embarrassment, mostly dealt with by wearing clothes; not ideal, but...