My mums book 'Someone’s Father, Someone’s Sun'... part one

Part One  

Someone’s Father, Someone’s Sun

                                       There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer.

There is no dis-ease that enough love will not heal.

No door that enough love will not open.

No gulf that enough love will not bridge

No wall that enough love will not throw down.

And no sin that not enough love will redeem.

It makes no difference how deeply seated the problem.

How hopeless the outlook. How muddled the tangle.

How great the mistake.

A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all.

And if you could love enough, you would be the happiest

And the most powerful person in the world.

(Author Unknown)

2002…Brisbane  

A

lthough my children were only three and four when I left their alcoholic father, they continued to have a loving relationship whenever they stayed with him, spasmodic as it often was. Sadly, Steve escaped even more into the booze and by the time the children had reached their teens, they were understandably ashamed of the way he conducted his life. At almost twenty, Bobby hadn’t wanted anything to do with him for several years. Olivea, eighteen months older was so repulsed by his drunken state when visiting two Christmases ago, she vehemently declared never wanting to see him again. 

     Having experienced my own father’s progressive decline with alcoholism, I empathized with their pain and shame. But unlike my father who didn’t know how to express his love, Steve had been an exceptionally loving and doting parent. Therefore I hoped they would make their peace with him before he passed on and it was too late.

The week before I was to commence work at a new resort on Norfolk Island, Steve’s concerned sister phoned from America.  Not having heard from him in recent years, she hoped I might shed some light on his whereabouts. The last time I had seen Steve was outside a bottle shop prior to my leaving the Sunshine Coast two years earlier. At the time he was living in a motel style unit, having recently been evicted from a caravan park. I told her I would make some enquiries and get back to her.

      I contacted the motel manager and was told Steve had been evicted more than a year ago for failing to pay his rent. He hadn’t been seen since.  Not knowing whether he was dead or alive, I phoned Centerlink to enquire if he still received a pension.  Despite explaining the purpose of my call, I was told the Privacy Act prevented confidential information being disclosed. Time wasn’t on my side to go to the coast and investigate further, so I promised his sister I would do so on my return.

………………..

After six months on Norfolk Island and another six in the Bay of Islands in New Zealand, I look forward to a time of sharing with both children at a resort on Stradbroke Island, a forty minute ferry ride from Brisbane. Before doing so, I spend a somewhat tense week with Olivea and Jess in the home they share.  It is of concern that Olivea is still addicted to drugs and playing to her partner’s tune and why I am relieved that Jess will only be joining us on the island for a few days towards the end of the week, instead of the whole week as originally planned.  

      Instead of enjoying herself or our company, Olivea is too busy worrying about Jess. And when Jess does arrive, she creates such a nasty scene Olivea leaves in tears. I am upset by the incident, but Bobby remains calm and philosophical; his honesty, integrity and insight qualities to be admired. Olivea possesses the same traits, and I pray for the day when drugs will no longer have a hold on her, and she will again be the self assured young woman she used to be; full of optimism, ready to overcome whatever obstacles stand in her way. 

Bobby and his girlfriend are going their separate ways. Struggling to get his business off the ground which he operates from home, he asks how I feel about him moving in with me for a while. Ever since marriage and motherhood I have taken care of everyone else; putting my own needs first has made for a welcome change. To do exactly what I want, when I want and with whom has given me an exhilarating feeling of freedom, and not something I want to relinquish. However, taking into consideration his spiritual quest and searching mind, I anticipate it to be a time of sharing and learning for us both. 

      I haven’t forgotten my promise to Steve’s sister and intend making enquiries when I visit the Sunshine Coast. When I tell the children they are pleased. Olivia had recently contacted the Salvation Army in the hope they could assist in finding Steve, and Bobby has done a lot of soul searching and wants to resolve whatever he’s been holding onto. He had recently spent ten days at a Vipassana Meditation retreat on the Sunshine Coast and found it very beneficial. 

      There isn’t any cost involved for the ten day course, not even for the delicious vegetarian food and accommodation. Donations are welcomed from those who have benefited. To give others the same opportunity, they are also invited to donate their time as servers, should they so desire.

Vipassana means ‘to see things as they really are’, and is one of India’s most ancient meditation techniques. These days it is taught in some of India’s worst prisons. In 2003 it was offered for the first time to inmates in a maximum security prison in North America. Not only did the prisoners benefit, so too did some of the prison officers. 

For the past twelve months I lived and worked with people on a completely different wave length, and am in need of spiritual nourishment, I am pleased there is a cancellation for the next course beginning the week after we leave Stradbroke Island.

      I find ten days of ‘noble silence’ (silence of body, speech and mind) challenging when dining with others at the same table without one word spoken. Sharing a room with someone and not even acknowledging her, even more so. Getting up at 4.00am poses no problem, but meditating sitting cross legged on the hall floor for a total of seven hours throughout the first day is. I wonder how I am going to last the distance. 

      Served Anzac biscuits for afternoon tea on the seventh day, brings to mind it is Anzac Day and Steve’s birthday. As I sit beneath a tree in full view of Cooroora Mountain, I wonder where he is. Having abused his body to the extreme for years, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had passed on. But what if he hadn’t?  Was he somewhere on the coast, or had he moved elsewhere?  Whilst meditating in the hall where the energy levels are high, it is made very clear to me that if he is alive and in need of help, I will do whatever I can to ensure he receives it. Not just because he is my children’s father, but because my soul compels me to do so.  

……………….

After Vipassana I book into a noisy Noosa Backpackers. It is quite a contrast to what I have just left. The next morning at dawn, in a secluded spot on the beach, I meditate to the sound of waves. I feel very much at peace and am thankful for having experienced the ten days of ‘noble silence’. After a fairly hectic week with friends, I consider moving back to the coast. But as I want to finish writing a book I have been working on for almost two years, I decide to live on Bribie Island where there is less chance of distraction. I fill out an application for a unit, and intend posting my references as soon as I return to Brisbane.

Busy doing my own thing, I almost forget about Steve.  When I phone his sister, it is disconcerting to hear she had been informed by someone at the Maroochydore police station six months earlier, that a man fitting Steve’s description had been sleeping on a bench near a shop.  Yet, when I make enquiries at the police station the next day, no one knows anything about it. 

      I walk everywhere in search of Steve. I go to the caravan park where he used to live. New owners have taken over and the one or two people he associated with have moved on.  At the block of motel units, I leave none the wiser.  When he isn’t listed at the Births and Deaths Registry, I phone Lifeline and other welfare organizations.   Each time I come up against a brick wall.  By going to Centerlink in person and explaining the situation, I hope to achieve more then when I phoned the year before. As with all government departments, everything has to be done by the book. The receptionist is sympathetic to my plight and suggests I write Steve a letter. If he is alive and receiving a pension, she assures me it will be forwarded onto his postal address.  I write of his sister’s and children’s concern and enclose several phone numbers where he can either contact me or them.  Having done all I can and assuming he has left the coast, I walk a few blocks to a café and order a juice. 

      I have barely sat down at an outdoor table when an elderly, bare-footed man, his head bowed down as though carrying the world upon his shoulders walks past at a snail’s pace.  Thrown over his shoulders and trailing behind him on the ground are two blankets.  In spite of shoulder length grey hair and a grey beard reaching down to his chest, I instantly recognize him to be Steve.  I had expected the worst, but nothing has prepared me for this. 

      Flashbacks of the countless times I thought he had reached rock bottom, only to be proved wrong each time come vividly to mind.  Surely, he couldn’t go any lower than where he is now!  As I watch him, I observe others also following his movements; no doubt wondering just as I had done whenever I saw a homeless person, as to what could possibly have happened in his life to bring him to that level.  Would they look at his exterior in contempt, pity or judgment and see a down and out drunk who deserved to be where he is, or would they look deeper into his soul and see a man who had once been a loving and caring father and a mother’s precious son.  Someone who had so much to offer, but sadly, never realized it.  Whose only means of escape from the pain he felt at the loss of five children, three failed marriages and his insecurities was to drown himself in alcohol. 

       Not wanting to approach him in view of everyone, I decide to follow him to where we can speak in private. At a car park behind a block of shops, I momentarily loose sight of him when he bends down behind some cars.  Not until later do I realize he is looking for cigarette butts. Retracing his footsteps back to the footpath, he crosses the road and walks in the direction of the post office. Keeping my distance, I follow.  

       As if sensing my presence, he turns around, and as he does so, he lifts his head and looks directly into my eyes.  It’s so unexpected that I haven’t time to escape from view.  He smiles. As we draw nearer, he asks what I am doing on the coast. I am surprised at how sober and coherent he is and that his body odour isn’t at all offensive.  I find out later he showers several times a week at the council pool.  I tell him I have been looking for him and written him a letter less than half an hour ago. He is aware that his sister contacted the police and I suspect shame prevented him from phoning.  When I tell him his sisters will raise the money for his fare to West Virginia, and if need be I will also contribute, he says it’s too cold for him there, and the coast is his home.  

      He asks after the children and promises to phone when he receives his pension.  Standing at arm’s length from a phone box, I suggest he phone Bobby there and then.  He’s reluctant to do so, but I insist.  Bobby is on the internet and Olivea at work, so I dial his sister’s number without letting on.  It is long past midnight in West Virginia, but I know she will be only too happy to hear from him. In response to her concern, he replies he is sixty-one and capable of looking after himself.

       After speaking to both sisters, we sit on a bench outside the post office. Aware of people staring, I suspect they think I’m a caring person taking time to speak with the ‘down and out’. I muse to myself, ‘if only they knew!’  I am shocked to hear his shoes were stolen by youths six months earlier and that he was bashed in the process.  Apparently, the story made the front page of the Sunshine Coast Daily.  He said he ate well at the Chicken Shop as the owners gave the day’s leftovers to the homeless. He receives $400 a fortnight from the government and I assume his sober state is because it is Tuesday, two days before pension day and he hasn’t any money left.

      He claims to want to get off the grog, but can’t because there isn’t a Detox Unit on the coast.  I promise to make enquiries when I return to Brisbane the next day. I ask where he is staying in case I need to contact him. I suspect pride prevents him from telling me. He asks me to send any information to the Cotton Tree Post Office.  I offer to buy him something to eat. He says he isn’t hungry and can always book something up and pay later. I know that any money I give him will be spent on alcohol, so I wish him well and go on my way. After walking a few paces, I know I can’t leave without getting him something to eat. I buy two rolls and some sliced ham, enough to tide him over. 

       I find him only metres from where I left him, sitting on the curb outside an office block.  Cigarette butts emptied from his pockets scattered on the ground beside him, isn’t something he would have wanted me to see.  It tears at my heart-strings to see how low he has gone.  Rain begins to fall and when he offers his umbrella, which I suspect is his only other possession, I tell him I am fine and that I enjoy walking in the rain.  Fighting back the tears, I continue on my way, my heart filled with sadness. 

Wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I walk the ten kilometers to my friend’s home.  Along the way, I stop at a phone box to inform Steve’s sisters of my intentions.  I also phone Olivea and Bobby.  Whilst on Stradbroke Island Bobby spoke intimately about his feelings and of the times he had cried at losing his father to alcoholism.  After listening quietly to what I had to say, I ask how he feels. Although it pains him to know his father has been living on the streets, he is pleased I am doing whatever I can to help him 

      Aware that Olivea will react on a more emotional level, I decide it best to wait until I see her in person before telling her Steve’s circumstances.  She asks for his address and when I say I haven’t got it, she angrily accuses me of keeping things from her and playing mind games. It is typical of what I have experienced with her since her involvement with drugs, and although she always apologizes later, I still allow her negative reactions to upset me.  In the comfort of a bed at my friend’s home that night as the rain pelts down, I know I can’t leave the coast until I get Steve off the streets.

      The next day I make further enquiries and am informed of a Detox Unit at the Nambour hospital, a twenty-minute drive from Maroochydore.  Unfortunately it is only for outpatients. I am given the phone numbers of the Detox Unit at the Royal Brisbane Hospital (RBH) and several Rehabilitation places. Moonyha in Brisbane, owned and operated by the Salvation Army seems the best choice. Sadly, there are more people needing help than beds and I am advised to phone again on the Friday. 

      It is imperative I find Steve before he receives his pension the next morning and wipe himself out. He had requested I post any information to the post office about one kilometer from where I had encountered him, so I assume he lives in the vicinity.  I look everywhere I think a homeless person would seek shelter, but to no avail.

I begin searching again the next morning.  At a picnic shelter by the river, I ask a guy who looks homeless if he knows Steve. As it is pension day, he tells me I will probably find him at the bank when it opens. In the meantime he could be at a number of places looking for dumpers, which he explains are cigarette butts.  He suggests I try the car park shopping centre first. I do the rounds, but no Steve. Undecided where to look next, I run into Anne, an ex-customer from the vegetarian cafe I had once owned. She works in a nearby clinic. I tell her of my mission. I appreciate her kind offer of assistance if I should need it. 

      Concerned I may have missed Steve, I return to the park.  A man and a young girl are with the guy I spoke to earlier. They had seen Steve fifteen minutes ago outside the bank waiting for it to open.  By the time I get there, he has gone.  At the bottle shop inside the shopping centre, I enquire if anyone fitting his description has been in.  No one has. I head for the hotel. As I walk towards the café where I had been sitting the day before, I am pleasantly surprised to see Steve there, eating a salad sandwich with a cup of coffee. 

      After sharing my news with him, I promise to do whatever I can to get him into detox and rehab, but only if he truly wants help. When I remind him of the many times he attended Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and never stuck with the program, he assures me that he wants to get his life on track and be the kind of father Olivea and Bobby will be proud of. I arrange to meet him at the café the next day at three. By then I will know if there is a bed for him at Moonyha. If there isn’t, the friend I am staying with has offered a roof over his head until I get him off the streets. I tell Steve, but he declines her kind offer. 

       Bobby is waiting to hear from him so I suggest he call from the phone across the road. I order a juice.  A male friend I haven’t seen for some time sits down to chat. Rather than go into great detail when he enquires about the blankets draped over the chair, I tell him I am helping a homeless person get into rehab. Steve returns claiming both phones out of order.  He is noticeably uncomfortable, and after introductions he leaves to make the call from another phone around the corner. My friend is quick to remind me that the hotel is in the same direction.

       Sure enough, when I follow five minutes later, Steve is at the bottle shop buying a 750ml bottle of Bacardi rum, a large coke, a plastic cup and a packet of tailor made cigarettes.  Less than a fifty-metre walk back to the cafe, he stops to rest several times.  He tells me he has cirrhosis of the liver. He should be in hospital, but is adamant about not going.  The sooner I get him off the streets, the better. He pours himself a drink and accompanies me to the phone. I dial Bobby’s number. When father and son speak, I am joyous at the connection being made. 

I visit friends in the area. It is going on dark when I make my way back to where I am staying. Curious to know where Steve sleeps, I walk via Cotton Tree. Another homeless person recognizes me from earlier in the day. He tells me that Steve sometimes sleeps near the library.  I look in every nook and cranny, but can’t find him. I pass the park. A group of homeless people are gathered beneath a picnic shelter.  From where I stand, I can’t distinguish whether Steve is there or not. By the sounds of the raised voices, it is obvious they are arguing.  I keep walking. 

      Further up the road, a homeless guy I had spoken to that morning, is about to enter the driveway leading to the back entrance of a block of shops. I assume it is where he sleeps.  After chatting a few minutes, I wish him a good night.  Even as I say it, I wonder at the irony of it.  At least I have the comfort of a bed, but what does he and every other homeless person have to look forward to? 

When I phone Moonyha the next afternoon, I am told there still aren’t any beds available and to phone again after the weekend.  Thankfully, when I phone the Detox Unit at the RBH, I am told to bring Steve in the next day. 

         Steve is waiting at the café at the appointed time. I’m delighted to see he’s had a haircut and shave. The barber, fearful of accidentally cutting himself and getting hepatitis has left him with two days facial growth. Even so it makes a vast difference to his appearance.  

       The rum purchased the day before is finished and replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka.  He also has a full packet of tailor made cigarettes. As I later discover, this is usual procedure for the first days after receiving his pension.  As the money dwindles, he resorts to buying sherry. Yet he continues to buy tailor made cigarettes until down to his last dollar.  Only then does he go in search of dumpers. 

       I order a juice.  Steve drinks Vodka and coke from a plastic cup.  The owners of the café, a kindly couple turn a blind eye. They comment on how handsome he looks. It is obvious they care and are genuinely pleased he is getting help.   

       I suggest he buy a pair of shoes and change of clothes. As it gives him less money to spend on alcohol, I accept the thirty dollars he gives me.  He is reluctant to accompany me to the shoe shop. The shop assistant allows me to take the shoes and a pair of sox to try them on with to where Steve is sitting on the steps, outside a block of shops across the road. Four times I exchange one pair for another, all under the curious gaze of passers by.  Ever since his previous pair was stolen, he hasn’t worn shoes. To ensure he won’t be robbed of his new pair, he intends sleeping with them on. 

The next morning a friend drives me to where Steve is waiting in the park.  With him are several other homeless people. He still has on his old clothes. I tell him we will return in half an hour, giving him ample time to change into the clothes I bought the day before. He still hasn’t changed on our return. I insist he do so.  Not because I care what others think, but because I want him to start feeling good about himself.  A guy who looks as though he’s had a very hard life gives Steve a hug. His parting words of not wanting to see him back in the park couldn’t have been more sincere. 

      The near empty bottle of vodka is finished by the time we arrive at the train station. After a thirty-minute wait, the two-hour train ride, with Steve very much on edge seems to take for ever.  In an effort to keep his mind off his cravings I speak mostly of the children.  In response to him telling me how much he misses me, I tell him that when he gets better, he will find himself a good woman. When he says he doesn’t want another woman, I quickly change the subject. 

        There isn’t a taxi stand at the station, so we begin walking in the hope of hailing one. None come along. The five-minute walk with Steve walking at a snail’s pace and stopping every few minutes for a rest, takes half an hour. He’s craving for a drink and as he needs to be reasonably sober for his assessment, I am relieved there isn’t a bar or bottle shop on the way.  At the Emergency Ward, an abrupt and uncaring woman in her fifties gives me a form to fill out. We are then directed to the Psychiatric Ward for assessment.

       Awaiting the doctor’s arrival from another hospital, Steve becomes even more agitated. He keeps going outside for a cigarette. In case the doctor arrives, I need to remain inside. I dash out every so often to ensure Steve doesn’t take off in search of a bar.  Thankfully, the doctor, a kindly middle-aged man finally arrives. The assessment takes half an hour.  Steve is distressed when told he can only stay five days. He claims to need further detoxing.

       Later, when I converse with the doctor in private, he explains how extremely busy they are, and as beds are always needed, no one stays longer than five days.  When he asks if Steve came willingly, I tell him everything from the moment I found him on the streets. He is surprised Steve had taken it upon himself to go to the barbers. It is a positive sign and not something he usually comes across. 

       Whilst waiting with Steve to be taken to the Detox Ward, I comment on how he must be looking forward to a bed with clean sheets, after sleeping more than a year in the open. I am shocked when he tells me he has been sleeping on concrete. 

       A staff member takes him to the detox unit. I give him a hug, something I couldn’t have done a few years ago. As I watch him walk away, I feel ever so relieved he is in a safe place and getting the help he needs.

      I phone his sister. She comments on my not having wasted any time. It goes without saying that both children are joyous. Bobby has received emails from cousins in America expressing their happiness, and Olivea can’t wait to phone a half brother in Arkansas. I still haven’t divulged to her that Steve has been living on the streets. I will wait and see how I feel about doing so when I see her personally on Mothers Day which is the next day.  Knowing what it means to her and to Bobby to have their father getting help, it is by far the best gift I could be given.

Needing to put into words how I felt when I stayed with her and Jess, as well as the incident on Stradbroke Island, I had written Olivea a letter.  I give it to her when we meet for a Mother’s Day lunch.  It is one of many letters I have written to her in the two years since drugs and alcohol became a part of her life.  As always, I emphasize the importance of learning to love herself and to go beyond the negative conditioning ingrained in her; the consequence of two troubled father figures and my negative reaction to them.  She may not have read the books I gave her, but I know she read my letters, and I am forever hopeful she will eventually take heed.  She is in good spirits, so I fill her in on all that has taken place since finding Steve.  

Family and friends aren’t permitted to phone the detox unit. Steve can phone out, and speaks with Olivea and Bobby every night.  Both children are very supportive and promise to visit him as soon as he’s allowed visitors at Moonyha.  I am staying with my mother and as I don’t want her to know what’s going on, the doctor makes an exception for me to phone direct to the detox unit. A male nurse keeps me informed. I phone Moonyha and am advised to make an appointment as soon as I know when Steve is being discharged. I am warned it doesn’t necessarily guarantee a bed.

       I look at my options. Olivea has volunteered to have Steve stay with her, but because of her circumstances I don’t think it a wise move.  Bobby is staying at his girlfriend’s parent’s house and isn’t in a position to put him up either. I inspect several boarding houses and find one that is clean and respectable and reasonably close to Moonyha.  I can’t chance leaving Steve alone, and if I have to, I will stay there with him. Therefore, I am thankful when Bobby agrees to do so, if the need arises. 

      As soon as I know when Steve is being discharged, I make an appointment at Moonyha for 9.30am. When a friend who has taken a street kid there tells me ‘it’s first in first served’, I organize to pick Steve up from the hospital at eight.  Arriving before anyone else at Moonyha isn’t to our advantage and we are in for a very long one and a half hour wait.  

Steve is very much on edge, yet tries to convince me he isn’t craving a drink. He says he can stay sober without the aid of Moonyha, and that only when in the company of others who drink, temptation beckons.  I take it all with a grain of salt. Conversing is arduous. We speak mostly about the children. He repeatedly tells me how much he is looking forward to spending time with them.  He tells me again how much he has missed me. He is emotionally and physically fragile, but I don’t want him to have false hopes. I tell him that I am helping him because he needs help and for no other reason. I also tell him that I will be living like a recluse until my book is finished, but promise to visit him at Moonyha on the odd occasion I come to Brisbane.

      He is anxious at not being allowed contact with the outside world for several weeks. I tell him it’s for his own good and that Olivea and Bobby will keep in touch regularly by correspondence.  Olivea had promised to take him on an outing as soon as he’s allowed a day out and Bobby is keen to do weights with him. He also tells his dad he is looking forward to him teaching him woodwork when he is better and moves into his own place. 

      When nine thirty finally arrives and Steve taken away for assessment, I wait anxiously.  An hour later he returns with the person who accessed him.  Just like Steve predicted, he needs a few more days detoxing, which can be done at Moonyha, providing there is a bed 

      We are left to wait. Time passes. Steve becomes more agitated by the minute. No sooner has he smoked one cigarette, he lights another. I leave him to find out whatever I can. A very caring woman remembers him from the Detox Unit at the RBH.  Concerned he may not get a bed after further detoxing, she is of the opinion that the five days he’s already had will suffice. At least that way he will be assured of a bed.  After more anxious waiting and much bed shuffling, Steve is given the okay.

I had been very explicit, that unless he pays $100 up front, he won’t be admitted. I had also explained that Moonyha would keep three quarters of his pension for food and lodging, leaving him enough for toiletries and cigarettes. He had received his pension three days before being admitted for detoxing, and was with me for most of the third day, so I find it hard to believe when he tells me he has only $90 in his bank account. The Vodka, Rum and coke cost $60 at the most; food probably cost no more than $10 and all I took was $30. Surely he couldn’t have spent $300 on cigarettes! 

      When I go to pay the $10 balance, I am told that Steve’s account can’t be accessed until the necessary paper work’s been taken care of.  He doesn’t have access to an ATM and as I can’t withdraw from his account without the required documentation, none of which he has, he will have to come with me to the nearest bank several suburbs away.  The bus stop is a two-block walk uphill. Taking into consideration a possible half hour wait for a bus, the whole procedure could take two hours. After explaining the situation to the receptionist, a staff member offers to drive Steve to the bank after lunch.  In case he doesn’t have enough money in his account, I ask to be contacted so that I can return immediately with the balance.

      The pack of twenty-five cigarettes he had when he left the hospital cost $10 and is almost empty. Even if he only smokes a pack a day, the cost is an astronomical $140 a week. And as everyone at Moonyha is in the same boat, there won’t be any dumpers left lying around when the money runs out. A Moonyha resident tells me a large $20 packet of Drum tobacco and two packets of papers provide him with 150 thinly rolled cigarettes. I calculate that if Steve limits his smoking to twenty-five a day, one pack of tobacco a week will suffice. Regrettably, I am unaware that during the first few days of his pension he smokes as much as seventy-five cigarettes a day, and that his addiction to nicotine is just as strong, if not more so than his addiction to alcohol. He is able to book things up at the canteen, but to put his mind at ease, I go to the nearest shopping centre and buy some tobacco and papers. I also buy chocolate which he says helps stop his cravings. 

      On my return I phone Bobby. I share with him the good news. When he says I should be proud for all I have achieved, I am of course exceedingly happy with the outcome. As always, I give thanks to the Universal God Force connecting us all. I hand the phone to Steve so that Bobby can give him last minute words of encouragement. 

      After giving Steve a hug and wishing him well, I catch a bus to where Olivea works. She expresses great delight that Steve is on the road to recovery and says that if her dad can overcome his addiction, then so can she. It has been quite a day and as I make my way back to my mothers by bus, I marvel at all the healing that has taken place in all our lives in just a matter of days.  

       Believing my prayers answered, I allow my thoughts to drift back in time to the six months of serendipitous events which brought Steve and me together, two people as different as chalk and cheese, yet both holding onto unresolved pain from the past.

1978…New Zealand  Tonga  Samoa  Hawaii  

T

hat was more than twenty-four years ago. The month is May and the year 1978 and I am footloose and fancy free. Surrounded by friends and family at the airport bar in the days when Brisbane resembles a big country town, its airport small and personal, I look forward with eager anticipation to yet another overseas adventure.  

      Three years have passed since the car my first partner drove collided with a tree on an open road near Mount Isa. He was killed instantly. Miraculously, the male passenger survived with barely a scratch. It wasn’t the first time Ian had written off a vehicle, so his demise in the prime of his life came as no surprise. That he had even surpassed his thirty-second birthday was more good fortune than sense. 

      During the oftentimes tumultuous five ad a half years we lived together, most of our fights were the consequence of his over indulgence with alcohol. Far too many nights I waited anxiously for him to come home, forever fearful of a knock on the door by a policeman telling me Ian had either been killed or maimed. Or worse, that someone else had been killed or maimed as a consequence of his reckless drink driving. 

      I had left him long before the accident and although there had been others before and after his untimely death, I had never stopped loving him. Only two months before the accident, he had pleaded with me to go away with him. But not wanting to leave myself open to being hurt again, I had strongly resisted. 

      On the day of the accident, I was on a 38 ft prawn trawler on its way back to Cairns.  I had in my possession a twelve page letter which I had finished writing only days before. It was addressed to Ian. Divorced from the rest of the world, the six weeks in Princess Charlotte Bay in far north Queensland had given me time for reflection, and after careful deliberation, I had put pen to paper. Without reservation I wrote of my love for him and that I was prepared to give our love another chance. I intended posting the letter in Cairns.     

      It goes without saying how devastated I was when notified of the tragedy on our arrival. Not only because I had been cheated out of being with the man I loved, but because he had passed on without knowing how I truly felt. As he had continued to remain a ghost in my closet, I hoped a change of direction and scenery would help fill an empty void.  

My friend Clare and her partner managed a hotel on the Swiss/French border, and were keen for me to manage the disco during the skiing season. And in Holland, a former boss had offered me the executive housekeeping position in a large new hotel on the dunes of Holland’s seaside resort, commencing in spring. But before arriving in Europe, I had New Zealand, the South Pacific islands and the USA to look forward to.

....................

In Pahia in the Bay of Islands, I stay several days with an ex-workmate before catching a ferry across to Russell. Reuniting with Maori friends is a wonderful wakeup call to living each day in the moment. I return to the mainland on a large trimaran with two brothers I met at the swordfish club the night before. After a cold night in Auckland, I look forward to the South Pacific where I will be wearing sarongs instead of multi layered clothing. 

Waiting in line to board the plane to Tonga, I strike up a conversation with a good looking Tongan guy who introduces himself as Dan. He is an Economist with Qantas returning to his island home for one week. With him are his two children from a failed marriage to an Australian. On our arrival, he organizes a room for me at a friend’s guesthouse. I look forward to spending more time with him.

      As I walk along the oceanfront next morning, a Royal Guard and his wife invite me to a picnic lunch. Wherever I go, adorable uninhibited children follow. The market, abundant with fresh fruit and vegetables is the height of activity, and ever so cheap.  Although a poor country with a basic wage of $2.50 a day, I see no signs of poverty.  

      Dan welcomes me into the home of his large family. His father is the head doctor at the hospital and his great grandfather the first ‘commoner’ to become Premier. I attend two large family gatherings. One is in a cave where we feast on two suckling pigs, yams and other delectable island delights. The other is at his grandmother’s on Mother’s Day. The food is prepared by her son who is the king’s personal chef. Earlier in the day I accompany Dan to church. Directly opposite and facing the congregation sits the King of Tonga, a giant of a man.  Sunday is a holy day and although forbidden to swim, play sport or partake in any other activities, it is okay to walk along the beach.

       It’s acceptable for Dan and me to walk together in the daytime unchaperoned but it isn’t acceptable for us to hold hands, at least not in public. Yet it is okay for those of the same sex to hold hands. I suggest to Dan’s sisters we all go to the movies, but when they arrive without him, I am told it is frowned upon for a brother to go with his sisters. TV hasn’t as yet reached the island, and the two storey dilapidated wooden building is jam-packed with a very boisterous and appreciative audience. 

       At the Dateline Hotel, Dan and I dine with a ‘Nobleman’ married to a princess. As I dance in the arms of Dan’s massive frame, I am thankful to have packed my three-inch high heels. His two sisters have come along as chaperones and after taking them home we break protocol and go to ‘Joe’s Place’, a popular nite club. Official closing time is midnight but the bar remains open until 3am for select clientele.      

.      The night before Dan’s return to Sydney I attend another family feast. I feel blessed that he has shared his island culture with me, and to have known him, albeit so brief. 

        With Dan gone, I see no harm in accepting his cousin’s invitation to a toddler’s pageant at the Dateline Hotel. I would have liked to go to the Red Cross Ball, a gala event he invites me to, but decline as I don’t think it in good taste to show up on the arm of another man, especially since Dan’s family will also be there. 

Relaxing by the pool at the Dateline Hotel, I meet an American who claims to be investing millions into the island.  He boasts it would help the islanders, but I suspect he is more interested in filling his own fat pockets.  His colleague tries to persuade me to accompany him to Honolulu. I decline, but accept an invitation to dine with him and the captain on board a German navy ship in port 

To see more of the island I travel on the local mode of transport, a small truck with a canopy and benches on each side. It is dirt cheap but unpredictable. Time is inconsequential. An American artist, a permanent at the guesthouse accompanies me to the Blow Holes. We wait one hour for the ‘bus’ to arrive and another hour for it to fill up with people and their produce. Umpteen stops later, the twenty-kilometer journey on roads nothing more than dirt tracks takes another hour. Even then, we still have to walk several kilometers to the Blow Holes.  

      After two weeks of the warmest island hospitality, I board a plane for West Samoa. It is the 24^th when I leave Tonga, yet two hours later I arrive in Apia one day earlier on the 23^rd, having crossed the ‘International Dateline’.  

....................

At the Apia Guest House I am soon on friendly terms with a Yugoslavian couple from Melbourne, backpacking with their children. Tracey, a twenty-one year old Queenslander I met briefly in Tonga is another happy resident. She’s on her way to the States for a modeling assignment.    

      An Australian in the import/export business invites me to a Fia Fia at the famed Aggie Greys Guesthouse; the palusami, a traditional dish of creamed coconut baked in taro leaves absolutely mouth watering.  I rise early to go snorkeling with an American couple. At night we eat freshly caught fish bought at the markets.

At sunrise the next day, I set off to explore the island on foot. At Solo Beach I meet Elinis, a teacher at the local school. I graciously accept her invitation to visit her village the next day and to stay the night with her family. 

      The one room home she shares with her husband Peni, siblings and parents is the only one in a village of thatched roof and grass huts. I am given the warmest of welcomes.  Except for a thin mattress placed in the centre of the room for my comfort, the house is stripped of furniture.  Everyone else sleeps on mats which have been rolled up and placed against the wall. .

      We swim in pristine, crystal clear waters.  On the beach, happy children throng around as I dance to the rhythm of their ukulele, melodious voices and squeals of laughter. 

      That evening we sit cross-legged in a circle on the floor for our evening meal.  Several dishes of food are placed in front of me, and after helping myself, the dishes are passed onto the parents.  The other family members wait until the parents and I have finished eating before helping themselves to what is left. Dinner is followed with prayers and hymns. I can’t understand the language, but I feel the love sent my way. 

      I invite Elinis to accompany me, the Yugoslavian family and Tracey on a chartered boat ride to Monona Island where scenes from the movie ‘South Pacific’ were filmed. A torrential downpour lasts the entire trip, yet on our arrival, in what can only be described as paradise, the sun shines in all its glory. The toilets resemble Aussie outdoor dunnies minus the flies, sawdust and stench and strategically positioned at the end of narrow rock paths above the water. 

      Tracey comes with me to spend our last night in the village.  My restlessness at sitting cross-legged hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I am deeply touched that Peni has obtained a table and two chairs, from God only knows where from. Before retiring, the family encircles our mattresses and for the next hour serenades us with Samoan songs wishing us a safe journey. Elinis gives me a lava lava (sarong) and her mother gives me a shell necklace.  Over the moon with the Australian souvenirs I give them, I regret not having more to give. But then I realize it is the exchange of friendship that is paramount, and that is priceless.    

A half hour flight and Tracy and I are in Pago, American Samoa for a fourteen hour stop over.  We hitch into town. The American influence is prominent with wider roads, big cars and houses replacing huts.  At a luxurious resort catering to the idle rich, we make ourselves at home on its private beach. The exorbitantly priced menu is way out of our price range, so we give our bodies a cleansing by eating papaya bought at the markets.  

      We are the only occupants in a cable car on a steep and spectacular, breathtaking ascent across the harbour when it comes to an abrupt stop.  Dangling precariously metres from the top for what seems an eternity, we finally reach safety.  After our harrowing experience and not wanting to chance a repeat performance, we make our way down the ten kilometre mountainous track.

....................

At Honolulu airport on the island of Oahu, Tracey gets a connecting flight to the mainland whilst I remain to explore yet another paradise. After a few hiccups with Immigration, I am given a three-month visa. I book into a hostel and make my way to Waikiki Beach. 

      There isn’t any risk of being attacked by sharks in the water, but I have been warned of two-legged ones on land who prey off wealthy divorcees.  Unfortunately I don’t fit into that category, but I do have expensive tastes and could easily be mistaken for one. Sure enough, only minutes after I lie down to bask in the sun, I am approached by a bronzed, good-looking blonde guy, no more than twenty-one.  A smooth operator, he knows all the right things to say to make a woman feel good, and no doubt a lonely and unsuspecting female could easily be sucked in. He does his utmost in persuading me to accompany him for a swim.  I suspect that as soon as he entices me in the water, an accomplice will take off with anything of value left behind.  Realizing he isn’t getting anywhere with me, ‘Mr Smooth’ goes in search of his next victim.

A friend in Dubai had suggested I contact a guy who used to work for him. I can’t reach him by phone. Believing Hawaii to be a safe haven like Tonga and Samoa, I hitch to Kaneohe on the west coast where he lives.  The man who gives me a lift drives me right to the front door. No one is home, so he kindly offers to take me on a tour of the island. 

      Arriving at the most northern and isolated tip at dusk, I find myself in a precarious situation when he lets it be known his intentions aren’t honourable.  Sizing up the situation, I play along and let him think I am a willing partner, the same as I had done in a similar situation in Greece. When he turns off the main stretch of road onto one void of traffic, houses and people, I conceal my fear as my mind races with a plan of escape.  On one side is the ocean with miles of isolated beaches and on the other side there is bush.  Inside the confines of his car I don’t like my chances, and to jump out unless he slows down isn’t an option. He is at least two stone overweight, so my only chance of escape is to make a run for it when the car is stationary.

      We pass a phone box. A solitary car parked on the beach half a kilometre further back gives me the opportunity I am looking for.  Having convinced ‘my captor’ I am a willing participant, I tell him I forgot that I had made plans to go out to dinner with a girl from the hostel and need to leave a message informing her of my delay.  I must have sounded convincing, as he does a ‘U’ turn back to the phone box.

      The phone system is alien to me and even if I could have contacted the police, my would-be-rapist is within earshot.  Even if he hadn’t been, we are miles from anywhere and by the time anyone came to my aid, it would be too late.  My only hope is to make a run to where I saw the parked car.  With heart pounding, yet trying to remain calm, I make out as though I’m dialing the number, all under the creep’s watchful gaze. When he hears me ask a factitious person to pass on a message, he lights up a cigarette. He then sits back in a relaxed position to savour what lies in store for him.  It’s what I had hoped for. My heart beats faster as I make a run for it. Without once looking back, I run as fast as I can on the sand towards the direction of where I saw the car, ever so relieved it’s still there. 

      Not knowing whether I’m jumping from the frying pan into the fire, I approach the sole occupant with trepidation.  But the Forces of Good are with me. Don Kelly, a Russian linguist with the US Army is not only an officer and a gentleman, but my angel in disguise.  He is staying at Schofield Army base for two days en route to Boston, having spent the past two weeks in Korea, enjoying his solitude when I appear from nowhere, rambling on about my traumatic experience.  After hearing me out, he kindly offers to drive me to the hostel.  

        Somewhat shaken by the ordeal but feeling safe once more, I am able to relax and enjoy the company of the stranger beside me, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time.  He is a happily married man. But he enjoys my company, and wanting to prove that not all American men are bastards, he invites me to dinner at the officers’ club.

      A band plays as we sip on cocktails in the bar before adjourning to the restaurant. The next night, his last in Honolulu, we meet for a farewell drink.  I feel very fortunate to have known him and will remain eternally grateful for the kindness he bestowed on me.

A conglomeration of interesting travellers are staying at the hostel, but there are also local desperados to be wary of.  To get away from it all, Kathy, (an English girl who is hoping to hitch a ride to Australia on a yacht) and I decide to get a bus to Waimanalo on the western side of the island. American Bill and his thirteen-year-old son, both gorgeous and feeling the loss of a loving wife and mother recently passed on, decide to come with us.  English Andy also comes along.  

      It is a clear night on our arrival and rather than share Kathy’s cramped two-man tent, I feel relaxed enough to sleep in the open beneath the stars.  Unbeknown to us, the campground has the worst reputation for theft in Oahu.  David, an Aussie I met in Western Samoa joins our little group the next day. Another fellow traveller stops to chat.  In the half hour he stays talking, his car is broken into.  Fortunately he carries his valuables with him.  Another guy, away for the day returns to find his tent gone!  I continue to sleep in the open. Kathy isn’t taking any chances and sleeps with her guitar tucked inside her sleeping bag!  

      David wakes to find a slit in the tent near where his head has been. Fortunately, his money was in the money belt around his waist, but the airline tickets and passport placed beneath his pillow are missing.  Kathy had sprung an intruder sticking his head inside the tent during the night, so the decision is made to leave.  I had felt perfectly safe in the South Pacific and assuming it would be the same in Hawaii, it is a huge let down to learn otherwise. Everyone, except Kathy and me return to the hostel.  

Kahana, a further seventy kilometres north is recommended as safe, but we are warned to be on our guard.  We decide to chance it and catch a bus there.  Hawaiian families are camped on the beach in huge tents and tarpaulins for three months during the summer, and that is how we meet Linda. 

      Hearing of our ordeal she invites us to camp close to her. She proves extremely helpful and a trustworthy friend.  In the ensuing days Linda tells me she was married to an Italian and after the youngest of her three children commenced school, she was accepted at the Honolulu University to study law.  It was there she fell in love with a fellow student, another big Hawaiian woman.  Her husband had taken it badly when she left him, but when he realized she had left him for another woman, his male ego suffered all the more.  The children seemed to have adjusted, but he was having a hard time coming to terms with it. He visited the campsite often and even more so after meeting Kathy.

      We are on the windward side and despite the lousy weather, our little tent holds up against the elements of nature.  The night Kathy gets high with ‘Wild Bill’, an intriguing American into yoga and meditation, I fall asleep reasonably early, oblivious to the rituals and paranormal taking place around me.  According to Linda, Kahana is the sacred place where spirits congregate, and as they are out in full force that night, she sprinkles salt around Kathy’s tent and leaves offerings of food near the entrance.  Kathy is so spooked out by whatever she experienced of the supernatural at ‘Wild Bill’s’ campsite further down the beach, she returns to the hostel.

      With Kathy and the tent gone, I move my sleeping bag beneath Linda’s tarp.  We have some wonderful in-depth discussions and I question how a woman who has never desired other women before can suddenly find herself to be in love with one.  Invariably, there is so much to be gained when people open up to each other without reservation. Accepting those for who they are and not judging them for their sexual preferences is paramount, and why I have never felt threatened in their presence, be they male or female. Travelling certainly broadened my outlook and I am thankful for that part of me which has embraced people from all walks of life.  Just by having known them has enriched my own

       On my last night in Hawaii, four weeks after my arrival, Linda invites all her Hawaiian lesbian friends from university for a party. They are all large and very butch. After a few puffs of a joint being passed around, I know it is time to bid them all a goodnight when they begin to look even more like men. 

      After an exhilarating drive back to Honolulu in Linda’s jazzy little sports car with the hood down, and a farewell lunch at the university the next day, I catch a flight to L.A. 

………………..

Jane, an American lady I met on Tinos, a Greek island is at the airport to greet me.  In her luxury home situated on the cliffs over looking the Atlantic Ocean, in the prestigious Los Angeles suburb of Palos Verdes Estate, I am made most welcome.  

      A letter from my Egyptian friend Nardia awaits my arrival. Due to unforeseen circumstances in Cairo, she isn’t arriving in Houston for another five weeks. With limited funds to last me until I commence work in Europe, I am anxious at not having enough money to see me through.   

      I am more than welcome to stay with Jane until Nardia arrives, but Palos Verdes is miles from all the action, and public transport almost non-existent. Jane offers me her car but driving in heavy LA traffic on the opposite side of the road to what I am accustomed to, isn’t for me. 

It is disappointing to meet with subtle disapproval from my hosts for contacting Malcolm and Jeri, a black American couple I had been asked to look up by mutual friends. Concerned they wouldn’t be greeted too warmly, I arrange to meet them in downtown L.A.   Malcolm is a private detective and his long time friend Larry who he used to work with in the Narcotics Bureau, is Director in Charge of Security at Universal Studious.  I am over the moon when I realize we are going there. 

      From Larry’s office, we have a bird’s eye view of the entire complex. In the hallway leading to his studio, black and white portraits of famous stars line the walls. It wasn’t public knowledge at the time that Rock Hudson was gay, so it came as quite a shock to see the lips on his portrait painted red. In the Celebrity Room Restaurant, not open to the general public, we dine amidst stars, directors and producers. After lunch, two commentators and one driver take us and twelve other visitors from various parts of the globe, for a fascinating tour on the VIP bus. It is hired out at $250 an hour which is more than the basic weekly wage in Australia.  We pass one hundred and fifty passengers seated in half a dozen small trains with only one commentator. When Larry takes us by car to show us more of what goes on behind the scenes, he drives through sections open to the general public.  As curious eyes stop to look, hopeful of catching a glimpse of a famous movie star, I have an inkling of what it must feel like to be a celebrity.   

I attend several cocktail and dinner parties; one at Bel Aire.  As we sip on drinks on the balcony, our host points out a mansion he claims is in the process of being built for Mick Jagger. I am introduced to a divorcee on the lookout for another wife, but as the talk consistently revolves around money, I find the whole scene boring and superficial.  

      Needing to be on my own and in a different environment, I make the decision to travel by train and bus to Central America.  The cost of living is cheap south of the border and if I live frugally, I will still have enough money for the rest of my stay in the USA. To ensure I won’t spend more, I leave the remaining travel cheques with Jean who has kindly offered to drive me to Long Beach. From there I board a bus to Calexico on the Mexican border.

2002…Brisbane 

 I

 am brought back to the present when the bus taking me to my mothers, drops me off close to where she lives, having said goodbye to Steve as Moonyha two hours earlier. No sooner have I taken off my shoes when the phone rings.  My elation is short lived when the caller informs me Steve walked out of Moonya an hour after I said goodbye to him.  In response to my asking why no one tried to prevent him from leaving, I am told it isn’t a jail and people are free to leave at any time. 

      Time hasn’t permitted Steve to be taken to the bank. Assuming he was telling the truth, he has $90 in his account, but no cash on him for a bus fare. It is five kilometers from Moonyha to the suburban bank and not much less to the city. Steve is flat out walking five minutes without stopping, so it would take him forever to walk to either place. It doesn’t enter my head that he may be able to withdraw money when buying cigarettes from a newsagent. 

       I try to remain optimistic. Hopefully he has booked into a boarding house, having convinced himself he can remain sober without rigid rules imposed on him. But what if he hasn’t?  To be a homeless person in the city isn’t the same as being a homeless person on the Sunshine Coast. And as he isn’t a well man, I can’t sit back and not do anything.  I phone several boarding houses listed in the yellow pages. When he isn’t at any of them, I go in search of him.  

      I am uncertain about which direction to take.  If he is intent on drinking and manages to get to the bank closest to Moonyha, I suspect he would have gone to a bottle shop. After that, he could be anywhere.    Forty-five minutes and two buses later, I arrive at the bank.  Steve is nowhere to be seen. I search two parks in the area. He isn’t there. I get a bus to the city.  I check out the parks and do the rounds of the city bars. I seldom drink alcohol, but upset and close to tears, I stay long enough in one sleazy bar to drink a glass of red wine. It helps relax my frazzled nerves.  I phone Bobby to find out if Steve contacted him. He makes some comment about Steve wanting the reward without even trying to put any effort into getting it. 

      Pedari House, owned by the Salvation Army is a place for homeless men and a twenty minute walk from the heart of the city.  I phone and ask if Steve is there, but because of the privacy act, I can’t be told. The only thing the receptionist can do is page him.  I hope my going there in person will be advantageous. It makes no difference. Although there isn’t any response when Steve is paged several more times, that doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t there. If he’s in a deep sleep, he wouldn’t hear a thing.  I am advised to leave a message on the notice board. If Steve is there, he will hopefully see it, if and when he goes to reception.  

      I phone Olivea. She volunteers to help me look as soon as she finishes work.  We arrange to meet in the city. I phone another shelter for homeless people run by St Vincent de Paul, a catholic organization. I am confronted with the same red tape.  When Olivea and I meet at six, we decide it’s best for her to be at home in case her father phones. That way she can tell him to catch a taxi to her place and be there to pay the fare. In the meantime I decide to have another look in the parks near the suburban bank.  Before doing so, I phone Bobby.  Steve hasn’t contacted him and when I tell him of my intentions, he suggests that maybe I need ‘to let go’.

      Public transport isn’t the best in Brisbane at night and after a twenty minute wait, I find myself on the wrong bus.  Physically and emotionally drained, I see it as a sign to ‘let go’, just as Bobby advised.  After all, it had been Steve’s decision to walk out of Moonyha.  His words of wanting his kids to be proud of him keep ringing in my ears, and I can only hope and pray he is safe and sound in a boarding house.  Later in bed, I pray for all the Forces of Good to be with him, and before falling asleep I ask for guidance. Regardless of the outcome, it is comforting to know that even if Steve passes on in the night, he will do so knowing his children love him, and that I had reached out to him with love.

When I awake, several hours later, I know I have to do whatever I can to find him. To determine whether he is in the suburbs, in the city or has made his way back to the Sunshine Coast, I visit a branch of the bank in which his money is deposited.  After explaining to the cashier why I need to know if and where Steve may have withdrawn from, she is most apologetic, but regrettably, the Privacy Act prevents her from divulging such information.  I dread to think what a parent is up against when trying to find a missing child, when the Privacy Act prevents those in a position to do so from giving out necessary information.  

      I phone the boarding houses again, but to no avail. I return to the city and check out the Mall. I return to Padari House. The message is still on the notice board.  Steve doesn’t respond when paged. Night is falling when I arrive at St Vincent de Paul. With so many lost and desperate souls waiting for the dining room to open, I’m not too fussed at being there.  It’s probably pointless anyway.  An alcoholic, possibly in his forties walks alongside me for several blocks.  He has been very successful in the music business, and if what he said is true, his ex-wives have taken him for every cent. For whatever reason, he isn’t receiving any government assistance and survives by rolling people for their money. It isn’t a comforting thought. Sadly, the several boarding houses I visit in the area turn out to be almost as depressing as the shelters.

      Not wanting any negative input or added concerns, I haven’t involved my family. However, as my nephew is in the police force and can’t betray my confidence, I hope he can find out which bank Steve withdrew the money from, as well as ascertain if he has booked into a shelter. All my nephew can do is to report Steve as a ‘missing person’.

Curious to know why Steve walked away from help, I speak to the person at Moonyha who accessed him.  He is of the opinion that Steve saw me as a lifeline, and up until I said goodbye to him, was probably hopeful of me taking him with me.  I suspected as much. But then again, it could have been that the thought of four weeks of isolation from the outside world was too much for him, or that  five days detoxing hadn’t been long enough, and his cravings too strong. 

      When I question the doctor at the hospital, he suspects Steve is living in the past and hasn’t let go of me in his mind, not at all unusual for someone in his condition. He also suspects that Steve had made up his mind to leave Moonyha before I even walked out the door. 

I phone Anne, the woman who offered to help if I needed any. I ask if she would mind stopping by the park to see if Steve has returned there.  She phones me that evening.  When Steve wasn’t in the park, she enquired at the café where I had first sighted him. Aapparently the owners had seen him across the road that morning. 

      When she returns to the park the following day, Steve is there. He claims not to be hungry when she offers to buy him some food, so she gives him ten dollars to buy some later.  It’s a loving gesture on her part, but I tell her the money will probably be spent on booze.  She intends going back to the park for a barbeque and told Steve to invite his homeless friends. When she says she feels love for him, I think it wonderful that someone else cares and is keeping an eye on him. 

      Disappointed he has turned his back on help, I am nonetheless relieved he is on the coast. Whereas Bobby is philosophical and intends putting into practice what he has learnt on loving detachment, Olivea is angry and upset.  I understand her feeling that way. In the past, I too had felt those very same negative emotions. I had also acted upon them. The broken promises, the lies, the disappointments and heartaches had been prevalent in my life more times than I care to remember. Not just with Steve, but with Ian and my father. 

Too preoccupied with Steve to contact the real estate agent on Bribie Island, the unit has been rented out to someone else. I return to do the rounds again.  I find one to my liking. It won’t be vacant until the weekend. I make an appointment to inspect it on the Saturday. 

      Curious to know why Steve walked out on Moonyha, I return to the coast. The sun has been up several hours when I find him at one of the picnic shelters in the park. He is with several other homeless people. I flippantly remark that he must like the park and the style of living it offers for him to have returned there. He says he doesn’t, but isn’t impressed with the Salvation Army wanting two thirds of his pension, and then expecting him to work as well. I had explained it all to him before; the money covered food and lodgings, and the light duties helped him adjust to everyday normal living.  A doctor would have diagnosed him first, and if he wasn’t well enough to work, he would have received medical care. If necessary, he would have been admitted to hospital. 

      It was a cold night. The blankets he owned prior to going to Moonyha had been passed on to someone else and the solitary one in his possession very thin. I am tempted to get him another one from the Salvation Army store, but as he had made his way back from Brisbane, I figure he is capable of walking the few blocks there himself.  I tell him he has two choices; either keep on the way he is going and more than likely die all alone in the gutter, or get help and hopefully have a few years of quality living ahead of him.  I promise to find out what other rehabilitation places are available and get back to him before I leave for Bribie Island.  I give him a hug and wish him well. As I walk away, I hear him say ‘I love you’. I fight back the tears and keep walking.         

At the Nambour Detox Unit, I speak to a very compassionate young woman who tells me that most of the ‘out patients’ are drug addicts on the Methadone programme. However, if Steve decides to get help, all he has to do is phone and make an appointment, and she will access him and make the necessary arrangements.  She assures me I have done everything I possibly can and it is now be up to Steve.  Having planted the seed in his mind, she is of the opinion it could be just the catalyst for him to get help. I hope she’s right.

      I phone the numbers given me. The Shangri-la at Cooroy on the Sunshine Coast hinterland, accommodating six men and boasting a large lake seems the ideal place for Steve.  The Christian owner comes across as genuine and caring. He even takes the guys fishing and on other outings. It is also miles from the nearest pub.  Visitors are welcome to come at any time. As with every other rehab place I phone, a good portion of the pension is taken for food and lodging. 

      Before leaving the coast, I return to the park to give Steve all the information and brochures I have accumulated. He arrives a few hours later wearing a very thick jumper and two blankets slung over his shoulder. In one hand he is carrying a plastic cup with rum and coke, and in the other, a bottle of rum.  Extremely red and bloated in the face, he looks much worse than four days earlier. I suspect he has been drinking solidly since receiving his pension. I pass on the information about the detox unit. When he claims it is too far to travel 20 kilometers to Nambour by bus to be accessed, I remind him that he made his way back to the coast from Brisbane okay.  I strongly advise him to at least phone the guy at Shangri-la. 

      I promise to enquire about other rehabs in Brisbane and the Gold Coast and post the necessary information to him. I tell him that if and when he changes his mind about getting help and he has lost the necessary information, he can always contact me via my mother, and I will get the information to him. 

      It isn’t easy walking away, but having done all I can, it is now up to Steve as to which road he travels.  My belief in miracles hasn’t diminished, and I hope and pray that the road he chooses will be the one to sobriety.  Later, as I sit on the bus taking me to Bribie Island, my thoughts once more drift back to 1978 when I am on another bus and my circumstances very different.