Norfolk Broad
"On a houseboat holiday gone wrong, stranded businessman finds rescue from an unlikely captain—a woman whose broads knowledge is exceeded only by her curves."
The houseboat had seemed like a good idea when I'd booked it—a week cruising the Norfolk Broads, unplugging from the tech startup I'd just sold, finding whatever peace existed outside London. What I hadn't accounted for was my complete incompetence with boats.
Day two, I ran aground so thoroughly that no amount of engine work would free me. The sun was setting, my phone had no signal, and I was contemplating swimming for shore when a voice called out:
"Need a hand there, Captain?"
She emerged from the reeds in a working boat that looked older than me—a broad woman in waders and a captain's hat that should have been ridiculous but somehow wasn't. Her face was weathered by water and wind, her body substantial in ways that the practical clothing couldn't hide.
"God, yes," I admitted. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Clearly." But she was smiling. "Throw me a line. I'll pull you off."
It took twenty minutes, considerable expertise, and language I wouldn't repeat in polite company, but eventually my boat was floating free. She guided me to a mooring spot and threw her own anchor down beside me.
"You can't stay on the water tonight," she said, climbing aboard uninvited. "Storm coming. This mooring's not sheltered enough."
"I didn't see any storm forecast."
"I don't need a forecast. I can smell it." She looked around my rental with undisguised contempt. "When did you last check the bilge pump?"
"The what?"
"That's what I thought." She sighed. "Right. New plan. You're coming with me to proper shelter. I'll tow you."
She towed me two miles to a hidden inlet I never would have found, sheltered from what did indeed become a significant storm. Her boat, tied beside mine, rocked gently while rain hammered the roofs.
"I'm Grace," she said eventually. We'd ended up on her boat—older, smaller, but infinitely more seaworthy—sharing whisky she'd produced from somewhere. "Third-generation Broadsman. Though they don't call women that."
"I'm Michael. First-generation disaster."
"Everyone's a disaster their first time on the water. The difference is whether you survive long enough to become competent." She refilled my glass. "So. Tech money, is it? You've got that look."
"That obvious?"
"You rented the fanciest houseboat available, brought clothes completely unsuited to boating, and didn't know what a bilge pump was. Either tech money or inheritance."
"Tech. Sold my company." I shrugged. "Thought I'd celebrate with a holiday."
"Some celebration. Nearly drowned before day three."
"The trip's been educational." I met her eyes. "Meeting you, for instance. Very educational."
Grace was a widow—ten years now, her husband taken by the same waters she loved. She'd stayed on the Broads because leaving would have meant admitting defeat.
"The water takes and gives," she explained. "Takes my John. Gives me peace. Gives me purpose." She gestured at the darkness outside. "Gives me idiots to rescue."
"I appreciate the rescue."
"You should. Not everyone would have heard you. Not everyone would have stopped."
"Why did you?"
"Because you looked lost." Her hand found my knee under the small table. "Not just on the water. Generally. Like someone who'd accomplished everything they'd set out to do and discovered it wasn't enough."
"That's uncomfortably accurate."
"I've got good eyes." She didn't remove her hand. "And I've been lonely long enough to recognize it in others."
I kissed her because not kissing her would have been cowardice. She tasted of whisky and rain and something I couldn't name—history, maybe, or the particular salt of Norfolk water. Her body against mine was all warmth and strength, and when she pulled back, her eyes were bright with something that might have been tears.
"It's been a long time," she said.
"We don't have to—"
"I want to." She stood, pulled me toward the tiny cabin's bed. "Life's too short for hesitation. The water taught me that."
The cabin was cramped but private, the storm providing its own soundtrack. Grace undressed with practical efficiency, revealing a body that was weathered like her face—marked by years and work and a life lived fully. She was beautiful in ways that required experience to appreciate.
"You're staring."
"You're worth staring at."
"Flatterer." But she smiled and pulled me down. "Show me what tech boys know about pleasing a woman."
I showed her everything I knew, and she showed me plenty I didn't. We rocked with the boat, finding rhythms that the storm couldn't disturb, and when she came—twice, three times, I lost count—it was with sounds that mixed with the rain and the wind and the water slapping against the hull.
"Stay," she said afterward. "Not just tonight. The storm'll last days."
"And after the storm?"
"After, you can decide." Her hand traced patterns on my chest. "Whether you want to learn the Broads properly. Whether you want company while you're learning."
I learned the Broads. Stayed weeks, then months. Sold the rental and bought a boat Grace approved of. Learned to read the water, smell storms, navigate channels that didn't appear on any map.
And every night, I came home to a woman whose knowledge of these waterways was exceeded only by her capacity for making them feel like home. The tech money sits in accounts I rarely check. The water gives everything I actually need.
Some people find purpose in building things. I found mine in learning to float—to surrender to currents, to trust a woman who'd saved me from drowning and kept saving me in ways neither of us expected. The Norfolk Broads aren't paradise. They're something better: they're real, and they're mine, and the woman who showed them to me is the best thing the water ever gave.