Greater Than the Sum of Its Parts

by Mc Parrot

Damaged and grieving Steve has to fight his own limitations to rebuild his life. Assuming a new identity he literally sails off into the sunset. Years after leaving Hawaii he is at peace and happy with his life when he has a surprise meeting with someone from his past.

1. Chapter 1

Author's note: At the end of season 3 Steve was visiting Wo Fat in a scary maximum security facility when some people were attempting to break in. It looked as if Steve was somehow going to bust Wo Fat out of prison. That's what I assumed happened, and that's what this story starts from, the assumption that they would then be on the run. And that things then went very very wrong. Of course Ep1 S4 bust that out of the water about 30 seconds in - dammit. But for those that are confused, that's what this story was built from.

Written for 2013 H50 Big Bang. Also posted on AO3

H50 H50 H50

Even in the rehab hospital, with his thought processes working like a sludge pump full of sand, Steve worked out that he didn't belong anymore. He wasn't the man he'd been and he never would be again. He didn't want to be reminded, however kindly, of who he'd been, and he didn't want to be a burden, even though everyone protested that he wasn't. He couldn't stay and they, all the people who loved him, wouldn't let him go, so he had to disappear. They didn't love him anyway, not really. They loved the man he used to be. It was all the more reason to leave.

And precisely because he was head injured and nothing like himself, it never occurred to anyone to do anything to stop him.

The first thing he did was tell them to stop coming to visit. He told them forcefully and to his surprise, they did stop. Later he thought, they probably only did it to give him space to adapt to his circumstances. They probably assumed he would come around and want to see them again. Whatever they thought, it didn't matter. He had to move on. His old life had to go.

The rehab facility was very upmarket and expensive. It had networked computers available in all rooms, hooked up to the TVs so that movies and workout videos could be streamed. Social media was available to keep the patients integrated with the world. Or not. It was also easily hackable. Steve used the computer in his room to create his new identity. No-one within the facility had ever contemplated that any one on the inside might wish to hack into the medical records and all that was required was an easily stolen password. Steve could only process one thought at a time, but at night, in the long hours when sleep wouldn't come, he followed his own trail and created a false background using, ironically, one of Wo Fat's cover names. They'd been on the run together. He knew a lot about how the man operated.

He needed to keep notes of what he was doing and what he was going to do, so that when he logged in each night he could come back to where he'd been the night before. The process was long and laborious and the notebook was tucked under his pillow when he slept and carried inside his shirt during the day. In the sort of facility this was, no-one questioned this behavior, if they noticed it at all.

Also ironic, and Steve was aware enough to get the irony, his injuries, at least superficially, were remarkably similar to that suffered by his nemesis. The explosion that had caved in his skull and taken his eye had also left the left side of his face and upper body burnt and scarred similarly, if not quite as severely, as the other man. Before his escape Wo Fat had set up several new identities and had included descriptions of the injuries and various scenarios for how he'd obtained them because of the very real possibility that he would need to seek medical assistance when he was running. It would be easier, he'd told Steve, if he didn't have to explain how he'd gotten hurt. Steve just had to change a few details and the identities fitted him too. He chose one, a name close to European and nothing that could ever be connected to him. John Chung was the man he was about to become.

He had access to Wo Fat's escape fund money too and it wasn't like the gangster was going to ever come after it. His death was the one compensation Steve had for the awful way things had turned out.

He worked on his project steadily for nearly three weeks, aware that it was something his past self could have done in under a day. The staff noted that he seemed more alert and orientated to his surroundings. He knew, because he checked his file every night. Once he was done, the facility's archive held, not just the records of Steven J. McGarrett, but also a file on John K. Chung, who had suffered remarkably similar injuries. The rest of what he needed to do wasn't going to be so easy, but he had plenty of time.

Every night he wrote in his book with his plan for the next day.

Show an interest in world news

Find out the date

Ask Dr. Isabelle something about herself

Find a place to go

During the day he wrote down the answers so he could refer to them again. He was doing everything he could do show that he was a functioning adult. He kept getting positive comments in his nursing notes. He went back online and after weeks of searching and comparing makes and models, J Chung bought an ocean-going yacht.

When he was as ready as he could be, Steve packed all his gear that he wanted to take into a laundry bag. They were all he could find to put his stuff in. Then he went to sign himself out. He was appalled to discover that he couldn't sign himself out, that he didn't, apparently, have any control over his own destiny any more.

His mind betrayed him. He hadn't foreseen this, every other hospital he'd ever been in had let him sign himself out, with reservations he'd brushed off after signing away liability, even if he wasn't well. This one wouldn't and he couldn't think what to do. "But I have to go," he told the doctor, his body yearning to keep walking off down the driveway and go to his boat. "I'm better. I'm ready." The little lady doctor went to take his bag of belongings and Steve's synapses fritzed. He snatched his bag back and lurched into threat mode, his body automatically attempting to take out the enemy.

It took three burly orderlies and a truck load of sedatives to get him back to his bed. The violent activity set off an incapacitating headache like he hadn't had since he'd first woken up in the hospital two weeks after the explosion.

His mother and Chin and Kono and even Grace and Rachel visited him, his nearest and dearest, as he lay there too sick and sore and sad to move. He didn't remember much and he didn't get out of bed again for nearly two weeks.

All in all, it was nearly three months before he thought he was ready again. Doctor Isabelle was back at work by then, and Steve could tell that, in spite of trying to act like there was nothing different when she worked with him, she was very jumpy and never saw him alone anymore. He hated that he'd hurt her.

He didn't know what the criteria were for being judged a fit and capable person, but obviously he wasn't faking it as well as he'd hoped. He wasn't going to make the mistake of trying to talk his way out again. It was also obvious that he needed to be fitter. He started putting more effort into his physical therapy, really working on stretching the damaged muscles in his right arm and side and fighting them into some semblance of normal action. He took to the gym and started taking longer and longer swims in the pool. They wouldn't let him swim in the cove below the facility without a orderly with him but that did happen a couple of times. It was blissful being in the sea and left him feeling nearly normal again, although the sea water made his scars burn and itch. The physical exercise helped him sleep. His nursing notes showed great progress.

He could fake normality in emails. The recipient had no way of knowing that the message they read in moments had taken Steve three agonising hours to compose. He arranged with the yacht's previous owners to berth it in a nearby marina and to care for it until he could come and collect it. He made out that he had business dealings all around the world but was planning an around the Pacific cruise to get away from it all, as soon as it could be arranged.

When he was ready he sent an email to say he'd be there in the next few days and to ask them to provision the boat for a month long trip. They were happy to organise the provisioning for him but very sorry they'd be unable to meet him as they were off for a vacation themselves (paid for by the sale of the boat, so they thanked him very much), leaving the day after tomorrow. He just had to call in at the marina office and collect the keys. They wished him well and every happiness and that he would enjoy the yacht as much as they had.

Steve was relieved. He wouldn't have to meet them and try and talk like a normal person.

The morning before he was planning to leave, he suddenly realized something he'd overlooked. He climbed out of the therapy pool having managed half an hour doing continuous laps. It wasn't anything like he used to be able to do, Before, but it wasn't bad. He skirted back through the changing room to get his towel, coming literally face to face with his problem, his face in the mirror.

He didn't go out of his way to avoid mirrors, exactly, although he didn't have any in his room, shaving in the shower by feel, but it was uncomfortable to be reminded of the way he looked. Even so, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten just how noticeable his face was now. Even if he wore his eye patch, which was noticeable enough, people were going to stare at him. The other patients and staff were accustomed to him, didn't notice and so he didn't either. He'd actually forgotten how grotesque he looked.

Forgetting his towel, he ran in terror back to his room and flung himself onto his bed. He had to pick up his boat without leaving a trail, and he was running out of time. It was waiting for him and people were going to start wondering if he didn't pick it up soon.

It took a long time for his heart to stop thumping. He pulled himself up and managed to shower and dress as he worked his way through the problem. And came up with a plan.

John Chung sent an email to the marina manager. He had been detained, but he was sending one of his staff to collect the boat and ferry it across to the property he was renting on Maui. The man was handicapped but quite capable of sailing the boat. If the manager should assist him with fueling and anything else that he needed, John would be very grateful.

Sitting back from the computer, Steve felt a wash of relief. He pulled his notebook out of his shirt and ran through his checklist. Everything other than what he needed to do when he actually left was ticked off. He was ready.

After dinner Steve went back to his room. This wasn't unusual and wasn't remarked upon. He wasn't on any medication in the evening so he wouldn't be checked until lights out. With his door shut, Steve carefully packed his few clothes, his notebook and his small collection of photos and mementoes from Before and placed them in one of the plastic laundry bags, closing the bag with a knot in the top. He put the bag in another bag and tied another knot and then added a third bag and tied that off too. His things were now as waterproof as he could make them. He had already spent several evenings cutting more bags into strips and carefully plaiting them together to make a cord. He tied one end of that to the bag and that was it, preparations done. Hiding it carefully in the wardrobe he climbed into bed to rest and to wait for the lights out check.

When the door opened and a torch beam swung across the floor to the bed he raised his head and asked for a sandwich. Marla, the late shift nurse's aide snorted and agreed to come back with something when she finished her round. Fifteen minutes later he had two sandwiches, one cheese and one tuna, both wrapped in cling film, from the stash the kitchen staff left for anyone who might get the munchies in the night. He had to open up his bags, annoyed that he'd forgotten about that, and placed them in the middle bag, not with his clothes, not tuna. He didn't want to smell fishy. As an afterthought, and wishing that he'd thought of it sooner, he took the water bottle from beside his bed and added that too. Closing the bags again he slipped to the door, listening intently. He could hear the staff hand over going on at the far end of the corridor at the nurses' station. Racing back to his bed he did the classic pillows under the blanket stunt, he'd nearly forgotten about that too. There wouldn't be another check now until about 1am and it was only ever a cursory flick of the torch towards the bed. With any luck no-one would miss him until about 6 am.

There were alarms on all the exterior doors and windows but Steve had long since discovered the code and written it in his book. He'd written it on his hand earlier, before he put his book in the bag. Letting himself out the front door, chosen because it was near the alarm box and away from the patient areas where the night staff would be, he slid into the shadows at the side of the building and headed around the back. There was a locked gate in the fence where the path went down to the cove but Steve hadn't been able to find a key. It didn't matter. It was very little effort to throw his bag over the fence and then hoist himself after it.

There was a good moon and it was easy to drop down to the cove. Once there he stripped off, and cursing his lack of forethought, undid the bags again, to put his clothes inside. He paid very careful attention to tying them tightly and securely. He tied his cord back to the bags and made a loop in the other end, sliding his right arm into it and pushing it up to sit around his upper arm. Then he waded into the water and started to swim.

The marina was approximately two miles across the bay. He hadn't been sure he could safely swim that far in one go and had intended to stick to the coast, coming ashore when he tired and walking along some of the beaches. Once he started, however, he felt fine. The water here was sheltered and still, there didn't appear to be much tidal influence, and he was sure he could do it. He headed straight out across the bay, pacing himself, making slow but even strokes. His body sang with joy at being in the water again and he got his rhythm going and zoned, becoming one with the water, stroking on and on into the moonlight, arm over arm, gently kicking, his laundry bag bobbing along behind him.

After a long, long time, the sudden slop of a wave broke over his head. Steve choked and sank, his concentration broken. He floundered and sank again, fighting to get his head above the surface. Fatigue hit him like a truck, muscles that hadn't worked so hard in a year strained to near collapse. He was pretty sure he'd swum all night. Righting himself he fought down panic, treading water and looking around. A small chop had come up, rising above his head and making it hard to orientate himself. It took him a moment to work out that he had actually nearly made it. The waves were caused by water movement, the outflow of the small river that nestled the marina, chopped up by an incoming tide. Colored lights from the buildings on the shore reflected in the water. Not only had he swum right across the bay, he had, by some miracle, arrived directly where he wanted to be with only a hundred or so yards left to swim.

The feeling of relief was enormous, but it was overlaid by something else, a feeling of pride. He'd achieved what he'd set out to do. For the first time since It happened he had put together a plan, followed it through and achieved something. He wasn't washed up and useless. He had done it.

The last hundred yards seemed to take more energy than the whole swim. He swallowed a ridiculous amount of water. He angled to the south and brought himself in on the small beach below the breakwater. It was shadowed and dark and no-one was likely to see him land. When his feet finally touched the bottom, a wave of exhaustion hit him, so deep he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to pull himself ashore. For a moment as he hauled himself out of the water the sense memory of coming ashore after swimming at the beach at home was so strong that the disconnect nearly short circuited his brain. His eye was showing him a steep pebbly beach with scrubby vegetation leading to the marina's parking lot while his mind knew he should be walking up a sandy shore and heading over the grass to his house.

He dragged himself up onto the rough pebbles and lay there, hands over his face, trying not to cry out loud. He was never going home again.

After a while he came to enough to haul himself up off the beach and into the shrubbery. He was shivering violently and every muscle ached. Fighting for control of body and mind, he ripped open his bags and gulped down his water. Fortunately his careful packaging had worked and his clothes and everything were dry. He hadn't thought to bring a towel but he'd dried off a lot anyway. He fought his way into sweat pants and top and lay back down, arms wrapped around his body as he started to warm up. After a bit he found his sandwiches and devoured them, the food going a long way to help his recovery. He could have done with at least six more.

He wore no watch, hadn't had since Before, still had heavy scar tissue on his wrist where the watch had held the heat. He couldn't bear the thought of putting a watch back on. He'd had no need for one until now. Turning onto his back he tried to gauge the time from the sky. He didn't think he could see any lightening of the sky to the east, but it was hard to tell with the street lights and other lights through the trees. He needed to rest or he would never be able to function in the morning, so he pulled himself back into most secluded area he could find, hidden by trees from the sea and from the parking lot by some low shrubs. It was by no means ideal, but it was simply beyond his exhausted body to get himself anywhere else at the moment. Pillowing his head on his pile of belongings he let himself sleep.

Steve jerked awake when a foot, none too gently, poked him in his side. "Hey." He made a grab for the foot but stopped with a hiss of pain as his body froze up and the man wrenched out of his grasp.

"Whoa." His attacker leapt back, hands up, placating. "You always wake up like that, boy?"

Steve blinked at him. He was elderly, grizzled, mixed race Hawaiian. The man peered at him. "You all right, son? What you doing here?"

Steve's mind frantically sought for an answer. "I…" He tried to form words. "I come for the boat," he croaked, his throat narrowing with fright.

"Oh, yeah," the man answered. He waved his arm in the direction of the marina. "Plenty of boats here. Which one you after?"

Steve cautiously sat up, forcing himself not to show how much it hurt. He needed his book. Couldn't think what to say. He turned and rifled through his things, breathing a sigh of relief when his notebook was there. The man seemed content to wait him out and Steve found he had words for this. "I've come for Mr. Chung's boat. Uncle," he added respectfully, proud of himself for thinking to add the honorific.

"You're the person fetching Mr. Chung's yacht?" the man said incredulously. "He said you were disabled but… Why are you sleeping here?"

There were no words in his book for that. He'd intended to be up and cleaned up before the manager arrived at work. But he'd been so tired. He tried not to let his mouth gape as he tried out words in his head. "I got here early," he finally said.

"Didn't Mr. Chung organise somewhere for you to stay?" The man sounded really mad.

Steve shrugged, unsure of the correct response, mouth opening and shutting as he couldn't find words, close to panic.

"Come on," the man held out his hand. "You had breakfast?"

Steve shook his head.

"You got money?"

Steve blinked. He knew the answer to that. "I've got Mr. Chung's card." He pulled it out of his pocket and showed him.

The old guy grinned. "Have you now? Well I think your Mr. Chung can afford to buy us breakfast. A good one, since he let you sleep out under the trees for a night. You want to use the showers in the marina and clean up a bit first? Your hair's full of sand, and your uh… " he waved a hand at Steve's face, "your… eye, you might want to wipe it up a bit."

Steve gasped and slapped his hand over where his eye used to be. He'd forgotten. Again.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay," the old guy said gently. "What's your name, son?"

And Steve couldn't think of anything clever on the spur of the moment. "Steve," he blurted.

The old man's name was Charlie, and like Steve had guessed, he was the manager of the marina. He'd parked his car in his usual spot when he'd arrived at work that morning and had the fright of his life when he thought he saw a body in the bushes in front of the car. Steve's shelter had been completely useless in the light of day.

Charlie loaned Steve a towel and soap, they had plenty of stuff to loan out to people using the berths, and left him to shower in the marina's facilities. Steve was stiff and sore but felt better after standing under the hot water. His empty eye socket still created tears, and what with all the salt water and then a night lying in the dirt, it was pretty crusty and ugly, as Charlie had noticed. He cleaned it out carefully with fresh water and when he dressed he added the eye patch that he was going to have to get used to wearing. He felt a little overwhelmed. He hadn't seen any people other than staff and patients for months. He rehearsed his cover story and when he finally thought he was ready, he smoothed down his hair, and hugging his bag of clothes, went to find Charlie. He had no idea if Charlie believed his story or not.

Charlie was in his office at the entrance to the marina. He smiled when he saw Steve.
"Hey, kid, you look better. I was going to phone your Mr. Chung but I've only got an email. You want breakfast now?"

"Yes, please," Steve smiled back. It felt awkward. The scar on his face was stiff from so much time in the salt water but at least Charlie didn't seem to be calling the cops. "I'm not a kid."

"When you get to my age, everyone's a kid. Okay, then. Katy Ann's across the road. We'll have the full American with waffles on the side." He nodded towards his desk. "Leave your stuff under there. I'll lock the door. It's safe. How come you're carrying your gear in a garbage bag, anyway?" He hooked his arm around Steve's good arm, flipped a 'Back in Five Minutes' sign around, and dragged him out the door.

"Garbage bag?" he reminded Steve as they crossed the parking lot. "Lost your suitcase, did you?"

Steve hadn't thought about that at all. "Laundry bag," he gasped, then gratefully grabbed at Charlie's suggestion. 'My suitcase. Yes. I lost it."

"Uh huh."

Shit. Charlie wasn't believing him.

"Come on. Get yourself in here." He herded Steve in through the door of a diner and sat him down in a booth. "Two full breakfasts," he shouted at the woman behind the counter. "That what you want?"

Steve didn't think he could face grease and he had a bit of a panic as he tried to work out how to say what he did want. "Oatmeal," he ground out. "I like oatmeal." But this was supposed to be a celebration. "With syrup. Please," he added.

Charlie looked at him oddly. "Make that one full and an oatmeal with syrup, Katy Ann," he told the woman who was looking at him funny herself. "You can have whatever you like. Your Mr. Chung is paying for it, remember."

Steve grinned. Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten that. 'Mr. Chung' had more than enough money to spring for a couple of breakfasts. "I'll have pancakes too," he said loudly and was pleased when Charlie smiled at him. "With syrup."

"Good for you, kid. You worked for Mr. Chung long?"

"Uhh… yeah," he said cautiously. "A while."

"What do you do for him?"

Steve had learned this. "I look after the place. On Maui," he explained. "When he's not there. And I fix things."

Charlie sounded sceptical. "Do you?"

The woman brought their breakfasts and Steve fell on his. The warm, gloopy sweetness of the oatmeal was just what he needed to help him refuel. His muscles still ached but he was feeling stronger. Then she brought his coffee and it was heavenly. He hadn't had decent coffee since… Before.

"He treat you all right, does he?"

"Huh?"

Charlie leaned forward and stared intently at Steve. "Does he mistreat you?" he asked slowly and carefully, his chocolate brown eyes soft and concerned. "Your Mr. Chung."

"No!" Steve said, affronted. After all, he was Mr. Chung. Or he was going to be. "He's a good guy."

"So how come you were sleeping rough and carrying your clothes in a plastic sack like a runaway?"

Steve attacked his pancakes. "I came early," he muttered.

"And you never thought to use that card, to get yourself a bed?"

Steve hadn't. He blinked at Charlie.

"Okay, son. It's okay." Charlie sighed and chomped on a sausage. "And you really are capable of sailing a yacht to Maui?"

Steve grinned at him. "Yes, sir. I'm a good sailor, sir. I really am."

With his tummy full it would have been easy to give in to the lassitude that nearly overwhelmed him. But he couldn't give in, not yet. He had to get going before the care facility started looking for him.

He paid for the breakfast, carefully keying in the pin code for John Chung's credit card. He didn't need to write this one down, this was one number he remembered. It was his birthday. He turned to face Charlie. "Let's get the boat."

The boat was perfect. Steve couldn't believe how beautiful she was, sleek and shining in the early morning sun. She was a single-masted sloop, a little elderly but well kept. It wasn't large for a cruising yacht, only 23 feet, but it was fitted out to be handled by a solo pilot, a huge factor in Steve's choosing it. He just hadn't expected it to be so lovely.

"Oh," he said with delight as he hopped carefully down onto the deck. With only one eye he had no depth perception. "She's perfect." After a quick tour of the deck he patted the wheel and hurried below, bubbling with happiness as he took in the well set up galley, cabins and well maintained heavy-duty marine engines. He realized Charlie had followed him and tried to tone his response down but that was something else he had trouble with these days.

"She's not bad, is she?" Charlie said. "Mind you, I still think your Mr. Chung could have knocked them down a good $50 thou if he'd made a point of seeing the boat before he paid for it. She's in good shape but she's no spring chicken."

Things were well worn but neat and tidy. It hadn't even occurred to Steve that he might haggle over the price and he gaped at the man. "Don't get me wrong, boy, but seems to me your Mr. Chung's got more money than sense."

It took a long time for Charlie to leave and Steve didn't know what to do to make him go. He was getting more and more anxious. Eventually, with his words worn out, he just started the engine, which burst into life with a throaty growl, and started untying the lines. "I have to take the boat now," he told Charlie.

"I don't like…" Charlie was hanging over the side, holding onto the jetty.

"I'm a good sailor." Steve cast off the last line and jumped back on board. "Mr. Chung said to get the boat."

"Okay." Charlie leapt for the jetty. It was either that or leave with Steve. "Don't let him take advantage of you. Okay?"

Steve eased the throttle into reverse and backed out of the berth. "I get to sail the boat," he said, suddenly bursting with happiness. He waved and as he eased into the channel, turned the vessel's nose out towards the sea.

Steve eased his boat out between the marker buoys, observing the 5 knots inshore speed limit. The marina got smaller behind him as the coastline opened up, and he'd done it. He was nearly home free. He'd gone and done it. He let out a very uncharacteristic and unfamiliar whoop of sheer joy.

H50H50

Steve turned the boat left when he was out of the channel, just in case Charlie was watching, but then continued on around the coast. He would love to turn the engine off and set the sails but he was tired. He was so tired. He'd done more exercise and more interacting with people in the last twenty-four hours than he'd done in nearly a year. He physically hurt, every inch of him stiffening up from his big swim. He couldn't trust that he would be able to sail safely.

Thankfully, he'd anticipated the need to hole up and recover somewhere unnoticed. Many, many tourists hired boats just like this and sailed them around the islands, and many of them tied up overnight in the shelter of the State Seabird Sanctuary islands on the North Shore of Oahu. Steve thought the chance of him having messed up something or missed covering his tracks in some way was fairly high, but if they came after him, looking for one sailing sloop among many should be a needle in a haystack scenario. Especially since he could have gone in any direction, including straight out to sea. He would do that soon, but he'd give himself a chance to rest up and learn the boat first.

Just after mid-day Steve dropped anchor beside Mokulual Island, double checked that all his knots were tied and the boat was riding well. Then he went below, found the first aid kit and took two Tylenol with a large glass of water. He found sleeping bags in a locker, grabbed one and flung himself onto one of the bunks. He didn't wake again until 7 am the next morning.

He woke quickly, coming to sudden awareness of exactly where he was. He was also completely locked up, his muscles stiff and so sore. Everything hurt, his limbs, his back and his bad shoulder, all hurting like hell. He had no idea why that hadn't happened yesterday after his night in the trees, but probably he hadn't actually rested long enough. With a grunt of effort he managed to roll himself off the bunk and onto his hands and knees on the floor. From there he managed to pull himself to his feet and shuffle to the head.

My boat, he thought fondly as he pissed.

When he did finally crawl out of the hatch he was pleased to discover another four boats anchored in the bay.

He sat in the cockpit in the sunshine and worked through an arduous stretching routine, one movement moving into the next in a way his body just knew. He didn't have to remember how to do it; he'd done it so many times in the past. When he was finished he was still sore but he could move more easily. He went below for some water and then came back up, contemplated the sea for a moment and then dived in. His body loosened more as he swam, not far, just in towards the little beach on the island until he could stand in the chest deep water, and then he swam back. Climbing back onto the boat he was suddenly exhausted again and he rested in the sun, no hurry, no need to be anywhere or do anything. Best of all, no-one to talk to.

People on the other boats were waking up, breakfasting on deck, swimming, doing laundry, launching their tenders to row ashore. Some of them were close enough to hear their conversations. Steve zoned them out.

His scars started to feel tight and while his other muscles settled his shoulder was really killing him. He'd overdone it. And he slowly started to realize he was feeling hungry. He went below to see what provisions the previous owners had stocked the boat with.

And then found himself stuck in the middle of the cabin. He couldn't decide whether to take a shower first or look for food, overwhelmed by having the choice after so long having these things dictated for him. He was incapable of making the decision, nearly hyperventilating as he tried to work out what it would be best to do first. "Fuck." He stumbled slightly and banged his bad arm against the table, making the pain flare as he kept stumbling in that direction and then it was obviously a shower because he was standing in the tiny bathroom and after that things were easier.

The tanks were full with fresh water and as there was only himself to be using it, he could afford a slightly longer shower than he would usually take on a boat. The hot water felt good on his sore muscles and eased the ache in his shoulder.

He dressed in board shorts and tee shirt then sorted through the first aid kit looking for anti-inflammatories. There was the Tylenol, 'Sealegs', and an out of date bottle of anti-diarrhoea tablets and cold medicines, but that was the limit of medications. It was reasonably well supplied with dressings, a sling and bandages. He took more Tylenol.

The galley was well stocked with canned and dried food, herbs and spices, cooking oil, flour, sugar, teabags and instant coffee, while the small gas fridge, to his surprise, held an unopened carton of long-life milk, a loaf of bread, margarine, a dozen eggs and a bottle of champagne. Steve teared up at the kindness.

With a strange wobbly feeling in his stomach he made toast and scrambled eggs. Then he put on his eye patch and took his first meal of his new life and went and sat out on the deck.

Mid-afternoon Steve weighed anchor. He'd checked his charts and the weather forecast and he took his boat out to sea. He motored up to the northern tip of Oahu before setting the sails and letting her run before the northerly trade wind, angling to the west. He hadn't sailed a boat like this since he was a teenager, but he found he hadn't forgotten how. He'd never done it alone before, though, and it was very difficult to get things set just right. But when he did the boat sang. It was exhilarating.

It occurred to him that he didn't know her name. It was bad luck to change the name of a boat, so for now she would just have to be The Boat. He was fine with that.

Checking his position on the GPS he decided it was time for the real test and started tacking across the wind, heading northwest and coming into the wind shadow of the island of Kauai late afternoon. With some relief he lowered the sail and started the engine, motoring slowly along the coast until he found a sheltered spot to drop anchor.

He carefully stowed the sail and made sure the anchor was secure. Once again he was exhausted, but he felt more alive than he had all year. He was sunburnt, his body ached, his shoulder hurt, but it was so good. He was his own master. He could go where he liked, do what he liked. He could start to find who he was again. Before he could rest, though, he needed to write things down. He thought through how things ought to happen when he changed direction to tack into the wind and wrote it down. He'd noticed idiosyncrasies in the engine that might indicate the spark plugs needed attention. He wrote it down. He started a shopping list with anti-inflammatories and sunscreen and a hat that would stay on in the wind.

Steve ate a can of rice pudding for his dinner, dragged last night's sleeping bag into the double berth in the main cabin, gave the cabin wall a proprietary pat and went to sleep.

Steve didn't want to go ashore, he was too recognizable, but sunscreen and some meds for his shoulder were necessities. In the morning he prepared his list and untied the dinghy from the roof of the cabin. He rowed ashore at one of the small beach settlements, hoping they'd have enough shops to allow him to get what he wanted and that his face wouldn't be plastered all over the newspapers.

As it was, he got the odd looks he was starting to expect, the double take as people realized there was something wrong with him, followed by the rapid look away as they tried not to appear to stare. There was a small local store that could sell him bread and milk, the drugs, the sunscreen, some meat, chocolate, cookies and candy and other treats he was sure he deserved. It could even provide a hat. It was an ugly as sin, legionnaires' style cap in camo gray but it was actually perfect, covering not just the top of his head and his neck but most of the sides of his face, protecting the scar.

As long as he followed his shopping list and didn't try to engage too much in conversation he was fine. He paid with John Chung's card. Slightly spooked by the contact with people, he got back to the boat and got the heck out of Dodge. He was moored around the other side of the island by the end of the day.

Steve spent the next week resting, reading (there was a large collection of paperbacks on the shelves in the saloon) and learning his boat. Every day he sailed and by the end of the week he felt proficient and safe and pretty sure he could handle anything in any conditions. He'd covered all of the main Hawaiian islands and every night he changed moorings. He didn't go ashore again.

At the end of the week he was ready for the next stage. He spent two days doing a top to bottom inventory and inspection on every single thing on the boat. He started at the forward sail locker and ended up two days later at the rudder. He checked the contents of every storage area on board. Then he went over every rope, cord, cleat and piece of rigging. He practically dismantled the engine and put it back together. He checked the hand rails, radio and electronic equipment, compasses and GPS. He donned a mask and dived underneath, checking the hull, keel and rudder. He pored over charts and weather forecasts.

Finally satisfied that everything was literally ship shape, he sailed back to Maui. Heart in mouth, with his ugly hat pulled around his face, he motored into one of the big tourist marinas and very cautiously, because the lack of depth perception mattered when you were trying to line up a large moving object like a sloop with a stationary one, pulled in against the jetty. He fueled and watered the boat before tying her up and buying supplies at a supermarket in the town. People looked at him funny but no-one called his name. He went to one of the chain electronic stores and bought a laptop. He stopped at three different ATM cash machines. Mr. Chung's card had plenty of money on it, but ATMs had limits to how much cash could be drawn in one transaction.

After stowing his purchases he had one more thing to do. He pulled out his notebook and made sure he'd remembered the right names and places. He walked up to the gas station and went around the back to where a mechanic was working on a beat up Toyota. "I need to speak to Nick."

The mechanic pulled his head out from under the hood and wiped his hands on a rag. "That's me," he said, then he caught a glimpse of Steve. "Oh, shit."

"You've got something for me," Steve said.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure." The guy looked around, shifty, checking there was no-one there. "I didn't think you were coming. It's been months."

Steve didn't speak. He was learning it was easier that way. Made him seem tough, rather than stupid. He shrugged.

"Okay," Nick said. "I got it. Over here, in the office." The office looked like it could do with someone who knew how to file paper. Nick ignored it all and yanked open a drawer in an old wooden desk. The drawer looked like it had been used to store trash. Nick reached underneath the candy wrappers and pulled out a heavy envelope. He looked at Steve. "You got the money? My buddy ain't been paid for this yet."

Steve nodded and pulled out a fold of bills.

Nick handed over the envelope. Steve opened it and pulled out an American passport, drivers license and social security card. The name on the documents was John Chung and the photo used on them was the one taken on his admission to the care home. The documents looked good.

"Here," Nick said helpfully. "Black light," and he pulled one out of the drawer and waved it over the passport, showing the right seals and lines. "Got the right chip in it too. It's got an exit stamp," he showed him. "You left Hawaii last week. It's pretty damn good. You'll have no problems with that."

Steve grunted and handed over the money. He knew exactly where Nick's buddy had gotten the chips from but he wasn't going to mention that.

"Thanks." He tucked the envelope inside his tee shirt.

Steve never noticed the man watching him from the mezzanine.

In the morning when he weighed anchor, he set sail for Fiji. As the island finally disappeared over the horizon he cracked his bottle of champagne and toasted his new life. "I am John Chung," he said aloud. The champagne tasted sour. He poured it over the side.

H50H50H50

Steve sailed due west, following the well-used trade route across the Pacific. He intended to stay well north of the equator, using the trade winds, until he was nearly level with the Pacific Island group before dropping south. He had satellite, radio and GPS, up to date weather reports via the internet and his new laptop, and emergency locator beacons should things really go wrong. Many other sailors followed the same route at this time of year and yet he never saw another vessel. It was just him and his boat, alone on the ocean.

At first it was completely exhausting. This wasn't like sailing for a few hours and then mooring in a sheltered bay. There was no dropping anchor out here. He had to keep sailing and he had to keep thinking. He had to work to control the boat, rather than letting the sea and the wind control it. He had blisters and bruises from moving awkwardly or not getting out of the way in time. But over the course of a few days, moving around, making corrections, doing what needed to be done to ropes and sails; handling course corrections became automatic. When he became too tired he would set the sea anchor and let her sail herself, mainsail reefed right back, sailing on through the night.

Steve slept like the dead and it wasn't until the sixth night that he was actually able to stay awake long enough to see the stars. Then he lay on the deck and stared up at the huge dome of black and felt himself melt into the universe, just one of the many dots in the sky.

He couldn't stay on lookout all the time so he just had to trust to luck that he wouldn't run into any of the detritus that littered the oceans, such as containers that had fallen off ships and tended to float just below the surface. Or for that matter, trust that he wouldn't hit any whales. Both were things he'd heard of but could do nothing about. He was too tired to lose sleep over the possibility. If it did happen, well…

He ate well. The boat had a gas-powered fridge/freezer unit and he had plenty of food. He was running out of fresh fruit and green vegetables but had plenty of canned. He dragged two fishing lines behind the boat most of the time and generally caught something worth keeping every day, but he did have meat to eat if he got sick of fish.

Being on the boat gave him time to come to some sort of terms with what had happened to him. With no therapists, nurses, doctors or anyone expecting him to talk to them, he had the mental energy, finally, to grieve for his losses. He spent two days crying, sailing and crying, going about what he needed to do and crying until eventually it eased and he ached, but he also felt cleansed and new. Sailing the boat was all physical. It was reacting to what needed doing and doing it. If there'd been another person on board he would have had to try to explain what needed to be done and that would have been terribly difficult. Alone, he just saw what was needed and did it. Without the need to talk or communicate he felt normal and it was such a relief.

He checked the weather and adjusted his course to avoid storms, but sometimes he got caught in heavy seas on the edge of bad weather. Up to a certain level it was exhilarating. Too big and he furled the sails, secured everything, set the sea anchor and let her go.

Nearly three weeks into his trip a big tropical storm brewed up, several cells joining together to encompass a huge part of the Pacific. There was no way he could avoid it. As the wind got up he battened everything down and set the sea anchor. The boat turned her head into the sea and crashed and rolled with the swells. For the first time Steve felt afraid. This could get much worse before it got better and there was nothing he could do. He'd thought that if he got lost at sea, he wouldn't mind too much, but now he minded, he minded a lot. He thought of sending a position report over the marine radio as he heard another couple of boats doing but decided against it. He was too far from help. There was no point. No-one was following his journey. No-one knew he was here.

He stripped to his underwear (far easier to dry himself than wet weather gear), pulled on his harness, and hanging on for grim death made one last check of the deck, the rigging and the important link to the sea anchor before heading back below. The waves were the size of buildings and the boat seemed to climb the side of each one before plummeting into the trough.

Ducking back into the cabin, attempting to stop too much of the ocean from following him, he was hanging onto the hatch with his left hand, about to slam it shut above him when the boat lurched and he swung, most of his weight on that hand, twisting awkwardly backwards and wrenching and then crashing down into the edge of the galley bench with his bad shoulder. Steve screamed. Pain raced through him and he automatically curled into a ball. Bad move. He was bounced around the cabin, unable to get a hold on anything. Rain and sea water were streaming in through the hatch. He managed to wedge a leg around the table and haul himself up enough to attempt to close it. His left arm had no strength and he had to brace his body against the ladder and wrench the hatch shut one-handed.

Another rolling wave threw him back onto the floor, limbs akimbo. Something in his position caused a flash in his mind and he screamed again, this time in horror. His mind flashed to the dreadful image of Danny's body, flung ragdoll-broken and bloody on the warehouse floor.

Steve had been well aware that his team was tracking them, but he wasn't sure if Wo Fat knew. The team must have known that the meeting at the warehouse was a trap and Danny had followed them in, in spite of knowing what might happen. He'd been trying to save them and it was all Steve's fault. Steve deserved to be damaged as badly as this. It wasn't nearly bad enough.

It wasn't just the tossing of the boat that made it hard to get to his feet. He tried to towel himself off, severely handicapped by only having one working hand that needed to hang on to avoid being thrown around like a cork in a bottle. Now that he was sore, every lurch seemed to crash him into his bad side. It was only what he deserved.

Retrieving a sleeping bag, he wedged himself into one of the skinny bunks, bracing himself so he didn't crash into the walls. Steve decided against going any further above deck than the cockpit, simply checking the rudder linkage and the sea anchor twice a day before going back below. He ate power bars and managed water from a bottle, but he had no appetite. He hurt. He wasn't scared to die, but it was probably a good sign about his mental health, that he didn't want to yet.

He didn't think he was going to. He'd been through big storms at sea before, but that had been in big vessels, warships. This was entirely different. It took three days for the storm to blow itself out and Steve and his boat were completely at the mercy of the elements, but the boat was strong and she was built for this. All Steve had to do was trust her to get him through. She did. On the third day the weather eased and on the fourth night Steve was able to properly sleep, exhausted from the effort of bracing himself against the walls of the bunk so as not to crash into them. He woke to a clear sky and an arm that was an alarming shade of purple. The rest of him was showing an astonishing array of bruises too. He was sore and stiff and ravenously hungry.

The sea was still heavy but Steve decided it was safe enough to fire up the stove and make himself something hot to eat. A large potful of oatmeal loaded with half a jar of honey and washed down with three mugs of tea made Steve feel much better.

The forward hatch had a loose hinge, some ropes and bumper pads he'd foolishly left outside had washed away, but structurally the boat had come through just fine. The fridge door might have had a lock to hold it shut, but everything inside had been thrown around. Most of the contents of the galley and all the books and CDs had leapt off their shelves. He left her on the sea anchor and spent the day tidying and repairing and allowing himself to rest. The sea was still rough enough to make the thought of trying to sail unpleasant. He swallowed Tylenol and iced his shoulder, enjoying lying comfortably on his bed, the wider double bunk in the main cabin. He slept most of the afternoon, getting up to cook up some potatoes and add a can of stew for his dinner.

The storm had carried him south and he was now close to the latitude he needed to be to work his way west. The weather report showed no more storms on their route, which was just as well. The boat might be able to handle it, but he didn't think his body could.

Three days later, things were going really well and Steve was starting to anticipate arriving soon. Out of the blue, with no trigger that he could notice, a storm of another sort struck. He got one of his killer headaches. It came on fast, pain in his temple and behind his missing eye, going from vague discomfort to pick-axe-attack agony in the space of barely thirty minutes. He just managed to drop the sail and set the sea anchor. He crawled onto the closest bunk and curled up, whimpering with pain.

He didn't move again for another three days, which was eerily similar to the time he'd spent braced on the same bunk during the actual storm.

It could have been worse, he told himself, when he finally managed to drag himself out of the soiled, reeking bunk. It could have gone on for weeks, like the last one when he'd first tried to leave the hospital. It was terrifying that it had come out of the blue, giving him hardly any time to prepare. What if this happened when he wasn't in the middle of the ocean with nothing to run into? Shivering and weak, he stood in the shower until the small cylinder went cold, feeling a little better when he finally dressed. It was mid-afternoon and he needed to eat but he couldn't stand the stench in the cabin. He clambered out to lie in the sun on the cabin roof. His own personal storm scared him much more than the weather one.

There were hundreds of islands in Fiji. Many of them were coral atolls with barrier reefs and lagoons, making it difficult to moor close in. When Steve finally navigated into a safe mooring, nearly two weeks after his headache, he would have been pleased to stay there for a very long time. He had had quite enough of deep sea sailing.

Rowing awkwardly ashore in his little tender he staggered a good mile along the deserted, Robinson Crusoe beach, waiting for his land legs to kick back in. Anchoring the boat also meant he could swim again, something impossible to do without a tether to the boat while at sea. He'd hoped swimming would ease the stiffness in his shoulder, but if anything it made things worse. It wasn't just weak, it was actually sore. So he gave up swimming, threw on a mask and snorkel and just floated, enjoying the color and life of the reef below him.

He only stayed one night. He needed fresh water and fresh food. The way his shoulder was, he needed, at the very least, a physical therapist, and depending on what the therapist said, possibly xrays and doctors. Which meant, he had to make landfall at a place with decent infrastructure and facilities, something which also came with customs and officialdom. For the first time since he'd stowed it on leaving Hawaii, he pulled out the envelope with his new identity papers. Nick in Maui had said that the passport was 'a good one' but Steve wouldn't know how 'good' until he tried it. The worst that would happen if it wasn't accepted would be that he would have to reveal who he really was and wait for the American government to rescue him. Or, he thought morbidly, he could spend the rest of his life in a Fijian cell.

Steve tipped the contents of the envelope onto the saloon table. He investigated the passport. It certainly looked real, with the feel and weight of the real thing. And it had an exit stamp from Hawaii for the week before he actually left. He needed to get an entry stamp for Fiji before too long or it was going to look suspicious.

He was putting the passport back in the envelope with the cards when he noticed a folded piece of paper stuck in the glue joint at the bottom of the envelope. Pulling it out he unfolded the note paper and rocked back in shock.

'Steve,' the handwritten note started. Handwriting Steve hadn't seen in over a year, but recognised instantly.

Steve,

John Chung is as real as I can make him.

This is a valid US passport.

Don't pay this bozo.

He's already been paid, although he didn't do any actual work.

Travel safe and with love

CHK

"Chin," Steve whispered. He put his head down on the table and wept.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," he practiced.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," Steve told the bored looking native Fijian immigration agent in the capital, Suva. Steve's heart was pounding so hard he could nearly hear it. Years' worth of training kicked in and he doubted anyone else could tell. The man scanned and stamped the passport with barely a glance. "You come from Hawaii?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You been anywhere else on the way?"

"No."

He didn't ask about the length of time, he just stared, openly curious at Steve's eye patch. "You get caught in that big storm?"

He nodded, mouth dry.

"You lucky," the man said. "Know of three boats lost in that storm between here and Hawaii." He handed the passport back. "Ni Sa Bula. Enjoy your stay."

Steve guessed that Chin would be monitoring the passport. At least he'd know that Steve had made it okay.

He stayed two nights, catching a bus into the city and finding a market to stock up with food. He bought lots of fruit. He was constipated.

The price of the moorings in Suva annoyed him and the water in the river was brown and polluted. The city was teeming with people. He didn't like it.

He up-anchored. Steve headed north, intending to just stop when he hit somewhere nice at one of the many other islands of various sizes. He motored out of the shipping lane and started to raise the sail, hauling on the halyard, when something wrenched in his shoulder. He gasped as pain shot down his arm and across his shoulders. He couldn't use his arm, couldn't sail one-armed. He had to get it seen to.

But not in Suva. With a lot of struggle he got the sail up and worked his way around the main island, ending up coming in to a mooring in the marina at Lautoka. Lautoka was geared to tourists heading to and from the off shore island resorts. The marina was full of expensive boats, with mooring prices to match. Steve just had to suck it up. The town had a lot of hotels, a supermarket of sorts, several bars and a medical center.

"Hello. My name is John Chung," he told the physical therapist, a tiny Indian girl who didn't look to be older than twelve. Wearing a bright yellow sari, she looked like an exotic doll. Steve was, however, hugely reassured by her signed degree on the wall, from the University of Otago in New Zealand.

She smiled at him, showing even, white teeth. "Hello, John. I am Dona. What seems to be the problem?" She manipulated, pulled, massaged, wrenched and flung his arm around like someone three times her size, and it hurt. He wasn't as stoic as he used to be, a little embarrassed by the moans she wrung out of him. He couldn't believe that someone so small could do that to him, but she did. An hour later he was sore, but had a much greater range of motion than when he'd arrived. She set him some exercises to do and told him not to swim. Then she told him to come back in a week.

He didn't know what he was going to do for a week, but he'd had enough injuries in the past to know it was going to take more than one week to fix this.

He was pondering whether to motor out to an island not too far away or whether he should be trying to find work of some sort. He was striding down the jetty to collect his tender, which luckily had a small outboard and he didn't have to row it, when he overheard an argument on one of the large motor cruisers. A woman with a very shrill voice was telling a man, probably her husband, that he couldn't be trusted with a pair of scissors, let alone a screwdriver. He was a stupid old coot who needed to be locked away for his own good. And what was she supposed to do now, and she should just leave him there. She was shrieking so loud he was surprised no one else was looking.

By then Steve had spotted him. The 'stupid old coot' was a large, florid man, hanging upside down, tangled in the wiring of his expensive satellite unit, which was also hanging from its radio mast, right at the top of the flying bridge of a huge launch. Steve didn't think, he just reacted, leaping onto the boat and shinning up the outside of the cabin to stand beside the woman.

"Wire cutters," Steve said, nodding at the tool box on the deck. He reached up, bracing the upside down man's shoulder against his own right shoulder. This allowed just enough slack that the loop of wire that had been in danger of amputating the man's foot loosened and the wife could manage, at the end of her reach, to get the cutters in and release it. The man dropped and Steve managed to flip him so that he rolled onto his back, rather than his head, and they both collapsed, groaning, onto the floor of the bridge.

Steve had tried to protect his shoulder, but it still throbbed. Grunting, he pushed himself into a sitting position, hand clasped to his shoulder, to find the couple staring at him. The man was clutching his ankle while the wife had sat down heavily beside him.

"Thank you," the man said, a little shakily. He flexed his foot and winced. There was some blood, but it wasn't nearly as bad as Steve had been expecting. "What happened to your eye?" And Steve realized the stupid patch had come off.

He grabbed for the patch and shoved it on again. "Hello. My name is John Chung." He pointed at the guy's ankle. "Are you all right?"

The couple were Australian, John and Jayne Callihan ("Another John. Good name."), who had made their money in vitamins. Their boat was moored here in Fiji permanently and they came over frequently for holidays. Steve learned all about the vitamin business over a beer on their spacious aft deck. No one seemed to mind that he didn't talk much, and if he gave the impression that he'd been injured in Afghanistan, they didn't question it at all. "I don't suppose you know how to fix satellite units?" Jayne asked. "I'd like to know I'm not sailing into a reef anytime we leave port."

Steve thought about it. It would just be wiring and placement. It wouldn't even be too physical and shouldn't hurt his arm. "I can do that."

"Thanks, mate." John clapped him on the back. "You're hired."

So John Chung became a handy-man fixer of boats. It paid enough to cover his mooring and groceries, which was all he needed. He got work through word of mouth and there were always new boats coming in. In between times he fixed up his own boat, repairing the damage from the storm. He couldn't find anyone in Lautoka to replace the mattress he'd thrown into the sea, so that was going to have to wait, but he got everything else sorted and polished.

He overheard some kids on one boat calling him Pirate John. He kind of liked that.

Every week he saw Dona, the PT. She wore a different, primary colored sari every time he visited. He did his exercises religiously and was seeing a definite improvement in his shoulder. By week four he had close to full range of motion again, although his arm was still much weaker on that side. "You decide," she told him, "if you need to see me again or not?"

Reluctantly he shook his head. He liked seeing her. As she worked, she talked. She'd seen him looking at her diploma and so she told him about studying in Dunedin, in New Zealand, where it was so cold that snow fell to sea level in the winter. She told him about growing up Indian in Fiji, where Indians were second class citizens while actually owning more businesses than any other nationality. She talked about her mother who wanted to marry her off in an arranged marriage. She never really stopped talking. It was inconsequential and she didn't expect him to talk back, in fact there wouldn't have been space for anyone to get a word in. She was really nothing like someone he'd once known who used to talk a lot. He felt included in her world, her very different world. He liked it.

He rotated his shoulder. "It's nearly better now."

She leant forward and kissed him on the forehead. "You are lonely. You need to find someone."

"I'm fine," Steve said, and he was.

He'd started running again and was up to five miles every day. His bowels had sorted themselves out, thank goodness. He felt more like himself than he had since the explosion. As long as he didn't have to talk to anyone.

The marina held a transient population of boat owners and renters, usually Australians or New Zealanders. They were all on vacation, although they called it a holiday, having a good time, relaxing. Occasionally someone arrived who had sailed here, as Steve had, from Hawaii, the west coast of America, or some of the other Pacific Islands. Pirate John offered assistance, repairs and local knowledge.

He decided to explore Fiji himself. With the number of islands it was possible to enjoy a day's sailing with a different, beautiful island mooring every night. One night, in a bay alongside a boat full of drunken teenagers using someone's father's yacht, he joined them for drinks and ended up having enthusiastic sex with a girl who was probably underage. She was a cuddler and kept close, asking him to stay the night with her. He was happy to oblige until, when she went out to the head in the night, he overheard her laughing with her friend, about how much they owed her for going through with the dare.

It was like a kick in the gut. Hurt and humiliated, he didn't approach other people for weeks, sailing willy-nilly between the islands, fishing, snorkeling, and now that his shoulder was nearly back to normal, carefully swimming again.

After a month he worked his way back to the marina at Lautoka. The marina manager welcomed him back with a list of people who needed small jobs done. He'd become enough of a local that vendors at the local market knew him, and one day an elderly native woman waved him over enthusiastically and pressed a jar of cream into his hands. When he looked puzzled she launched into an incomprehensible explanation in Fijian. It sounded so close to Hawaiian that his confused brain hurt trying to translate what she was saying. Taking pity on him she took his hand, pushed his teeshirt sleeve up and proceeded to rub the cream into the burn scars on his arm, smiling and nodding all the time. He hated the look of the scars and mourned the loss of his tattoos but her touch felt good and the cream smelled nice, sort of sweet and nearly like honey, so he thanked her and bought a pot.

At bed time he rubbed more cream into his arm and then did the same to his face. It didn't sting like other creams he'd tried, so he worked it carefully into the lumps and bumps. For the first time in ages his skin didn't feel too tight. After two days he could smile and move his mouth without the scars pulling. He hadn't even realized that they usually did.

He wanted to give the Fijian woman something to say thank you. The natives, particularly around Lautoka, lived in poverty, and he had no idea what he could give her that wouldn't insult her. He was so grateful for the cream that he really wanted to give her something. He hadn't realized how uncomfortable his face had felt until it didn't anymore.

It was Sunday when he had a brainwave. On Sunday the islands came to a standstill as the devout Native population dressed in their best clothes and went to church. The women's dresses were beautifully white and frilly, freshly pressed, and on their heads they wore elaborate straw hats dressed with flowers. On Monday Steve caught the bus all the way back to Suva, a journey of several hours. He went into one of the weird department stores and bought the biggest, frilliest hat he could find and had it carefully wrapped.

On Tuesday he went racing into the market. The lady was there, cross-legged, her wares spread out around her on a tapa mat on the ground. Steve skidded to a halt in front of her and then, overcome with shyness, found he couldn't speak. He held out the package to the startled woman. She recognised him and beamed, putting the parcel down and grabbing hold of his ankle, before he could run away. She pulled him down to her level and investigated the scars. She ran her hand gently over his arm and then just her fingertips across his face, tracing around the eye patch. Steve found himself blinking back tears. The next thing he knew, she was pulling him in, wrapping him in her arms, holding him against her warm, ample bosom.

On Sunday Steve stood outside the church, his own face split into a wide smile as the congregation came out and his friend was wearing the hat. He was about to melt back into the bushes beside the road when she looked up and spotted him. She dropped the hand of the small girl beside her and made for Steve. He was frozen to the spot as she advanced on him like a galleon in full sail. The next thing, she grasped his arm, tucked his hand into the crook of her elbow and towed him home with her for Sunday dinner.

The Pepe family treated Steve in much the same way as they treated the myriad of toddlers that swarmed through the small home. They were grandchildren, Steve thought, but he couldn't be sure. There were half a dozen burly men and two buxom women, obviously all related but who was actually married or otherwise related to whom, Steve again couldn't be sure. It didn't matter. Mrs. Pepe ruled the roost with a quiet velvet voice. Her word was law. There was a huge haunch of roast pork, more than enough to feed a dozen extra waifs and strays. Steve suspected it was actually food for the entire week.

Most of the family spoke English, but didn't seem concerned when Steve was disinclined to talk much.

The following Sunday Steve was startled when someone leapt onto the deck of his boat, just as he was about to fix himself a sandwich for lunch. It was the little girl he'd first seen at the church last week, one of the Pepe grandchildren. She offered him a sunny smile. "Nana says, plenty for everyone. She says you're too skinny." She held out her hand. "Come on."

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He'd wanted to buy Mrs. Pepe a present. Now she was feeding him, but it gave him a warm feeling inside. Sunday dinners grew into quite a considerable amount of time at the Pepe's. He went fishing with the son-in-law. He helped Mr. Pepe reroof the little house. He carried Mrs. Pepe's goods to the market and helped her set up her stall twice a week. He started bringing groceries and beer and was bossed around like one of the boys. If he was there, he was fed. If he didn't turn up for a couple of days in a row, one of the grandchildren would be sent to fetch him for a meal. Mrs. Pepe kept pinching his arm, judging whether he was gaining weight to her satisfaction. She was a mother like he'd never had. She enveloped him with hugs.

Steve went fishing with Josefa, one of the sons; and Joni, who might have been adopted, taught him how to mend fishing nets. Sometimes he helped prepare the herbs that Mrs. Pepe added to a manuka honey cream she imported to make her magic herbal honey cream. If Steve had no work at the marina he would often come to sit on the Pepes' porch and mend nets or do whatever was needed. And if sometimes he needed to sleep, as he still did occasionally – right now – no-one blinked when he curled up with a pillow on the tapa cloth mat on the floor. Mrs. Pepe would have a cool drink and a hug ready for him when he woke up.

Steve was healing mentally as well as physically. It helped that he wasn't Steve McGarrett anymore. The Pepes thought he was Pirate John and they liked him just fine.

His brain had trouble with the similarities between Fijian and Hawaiian. Hearing the language gave him a headache. It was the one drawback to the amount of time he spent at the Pepe house. It seemed churlish when he'd been welcomed so warmly, but he was starting to realize that he didn't like Fiji. The political situation was awkward and people were generally unhappy about it. The dissonance with the language added to the odd feeling the place gave him. Fiji was like Hawaii, but only on the surface. There was a huge disparity between the standard of living between the local people who lived in shanties and the tourists who flocked to the resorts and the owners of the super yachts in the many marinas. It felt wrong and Steve felt unhappy being a part of that. He had enough money to buy the Pepes groceries for the rest of their lives and then some. Not that they'd let him.

And he was getting restless. He was physically fit again and his brain seemed to be working alright, as best as he could tell. He needed another challenge. It was a bit of a surprise to realize he'd been in Fiji nearly ten months. He started thinking about sailing somewhere else and the other pacific islands didn't appeal, for the same reason Fiji didn't any more. Most of the people in the marina came from Australia or New Zealand and somehow Dona the PT's chatter all those months ago came back to him. She'd grown up in the islands and she'd liked New Zealand. For no other reason, Steve decided to go there.

H50H50H50

Auckland's Waitamata harbor was guarded by a round, dormant shield volcano. Steve felt right at home. John Chung cleared customs and had to give a thorough accounting of his intentions while visiting, to which he answered, "Sailing." He had to show his bank account details and prove he had enough money to survive on and was eventually given a two year visitor's visa. He didn't think any more about it, other than noting that everyone in the customs house, visitors and staff, was of European extraction.

He hoped Chin was still watching John Chung's passport and that he'd be aware, after seeing him leave Fiji, that he had safely arrived somewhere else.

Steve had organised moorings online, because it was still easier than face to face, and discovered that he was tying up in a small bay, just around the corner from the expensive Westhaven Marina where all the fancy boats were. His mooring was nearly literally underneath the Auckland Harbor bridge. Auckland was much closer in size, population make up and demographics to Honolulu than anything in Fiji was, and as it was summer when he arrived, Steve felt comfortable and at home.

He spent his first week recovering from the long trip. He'd had no storms of any kind this crossing, although the sea had been rough when he left. Even so, he was exhausted, sick of being cooped up, and once again constipated. He pulled on his running shoes and set out to remedy the situation.

After his week resting he rowed himself around to the marina and started asking people if they needed any work done. As in Fiji, he didn't need to work, but he felt better busy, he had a purpose and something to do. He also spent time getting on buses and traveling all over the sprawling city. Just after Xmas, which he'd tried to ignore, when the city was sweltering in a January heat wave, he caught a bus across the isthmus and ended up on the West Coast. Hills clad in subtropical rainforest dived into a wild ocean. It was similar in a way to Hawaii. There were surf clubs. Steve stood on the wild Piha beach watching the surfers and felt a wave of homesick longing. It had never happened to him, not really, not since he was first discharged from the hospital but not allowed to go home.

He got on the next bus back to downtown and hurried back to his boat. He wanted his old life back and he couldn't. It wouldn't. He couldn't. That life was over.

Two days later he caught the bus back to Piha and hired a board from a small shop by the surf club. He couldn't go back, but he could still surf.

And he did. As long as he didn't actually think about what he was doing and what he needed to do, if he relied on muscle memory he could catch nearly every wave. If he stopped to try and calculate the best approach, when to make a run or how he should stand, he was lost and wiped out. He had the best and most exhausting day.

He was working on a large ocean-going yacht owned by couple from Iowa. "Couldn't get further from the sea if you tried," the man had boomed. "So of course I took up sailing. Needed a crew, though," he had admitted. "We'd have sailed off the edge of the world if it was left to me." Steve was busy sanding back window surrounds in preparation to varnishing them when someone hailed him from the jetty.

Steve had to turn right around to see the caller as he was on his blind side. The man was dressed in a suit, but that wasn't completely unusual here where many of the boats were owned by high flying business men. "You Pirate John?" the man asked. "The one that does odd jobs?"

"Yep." Steve nodded, working out in his head how much longer he'd be working here and wondering if the cruiser that had said they might want their galley remodeled was likely to follow through. "I can't work for you this week."

The man folded his arms. "You American?"

"Yep." The man didn't look like he knew bow from stern. "What do you need doing?"

He pulled out an ID badge. "I need to see your work visa," he said.

Steve's brain froze. In the face of officialdom all his hard fought normality left him completely. Nausea slammed through him. His tongue disconnected from his thoughts. The man looked at him like something he'd scraped off his shoe.

Steve thought he might throw up. He couldn't make words.

"Have you got a work visa?"

Numbly Steve shook his head.

"I need you to cease and desist." He glared at Steve who was still frozen with a block of sandpaper in his hand. "Right now."

Steve dropped the block which bounced on the deck and over the edge to splash into the water.

The man turned. "If I hear of you working here again you'll be prosecuted."

Steve sat staring after him, hurt and furious at himself for his inability to deal with the situation. Eventually he collected his tools and rowed home. The Iowa sailor would think he was unreliable as well as an idiot, but it was too hard to try and explain.

He didn't know what to do. He needed to work to feel normal, to feel that he could take care of himself even though he didn't need to. He was gutted, sick and exhausted and distressed.

He needed help.

Luckily there were some people who might help him. He had an address on a piece of paper given him by Mr. Pepe. Some relatives of the family lived in Auckland and Mr. and Mrs. Pepe had urged him to get in touch with them if he needed anything. He didn't know if they could help. He didn't know if they would even be interested in seeing him, but he had nothing else to do now. He might as well go and see them.

Otara was a simple bus trip away and yet it was like moving back into a Pacific Island world. The city of Auckland actually had the greatest concentration of Pacific Islanders in the world, and most of them lived in and around the suburb of Otara. The Pepe relations were a little surprised at Steve's arrival, but as warmly welcoming as their kin. And they knew all about immigration hassles. Steve stayed with a cousin for a week, sleeping on a too soft single bed in a room decorated with tapa cloth and hibiscus print sarongs. There was a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. It was the first time he'd seen more than just his face in a mirror in over a year. The long-haired, heavily tanned, wiry reflection bore very little resemblance to the person he thought he should see standing there. The eye patch was only a very small part of the difference.

The relations fed him familiar Fijian food like taro and pork with watercress and they talked. They talked non-stop in the Fijian tinged pidgin that once again made his brain ache. At the end of the week it had been decided that Steve should go to work on the fishing boats. It was hard work but good wages and the fishing company helped their employees get visas. Several of the cousins had done this. Decision made, a cousin drove him into the offices of the fishing company and John Chung signed on.

That night he went back to his boat, pleased after a week surrounded with people to be alone. He went back to the offices the next day with his passport. He was starting to wonder why he stayed John Chung, but he didn't have his own passport with him and it would be too hard to explain why the passport he'd entered the country under wasn't him. The fishing company clerk didn't know any different. He was quizzed on his background and his ability to work at sea for up to six weeks at a time. The thought held no qualms. He told the recruiting officer that'd he'd been in service in the Navy and that seemed to clinch the deal. He signed on as a deck hand and the recruiting officer handed him over to a nice lady who helped him fill in an application for a work visa. It would take a couple of weeks to come through, if it were approved. The lady couldn't see why it wouldn't be. She said to come back when he had it.

The next day he opened a local bank account and a post office box, then he took the bus back over to Piha to go surfing. After a couple of days surfing he took his boat out and explored the harbor, from the civilized latte community on Waiheke Island to the other worldly wildlife reserve of Little Barrier Island. After ten days he came back to the mooring, already anticipating his new life.

It took another week of mucking around to get the right stamps in his passport. When he finally made it to the fishing company there was a whole new round of clerks and officials who simply grunted and handed him papers to say the company took all care but no liability for injuries sustained in the course of dangerous work in open waters, sign here. John Chung signed.

He'd naively thought the boats sailed from Auckland, but they didn't. They were huge factory ships that plied the southern ocean, right down to the Antarctic, and they operated out of Christchurch in the South Island. Steve was handed a plane ticket for two days' time and that was that, he was a fisherman.

H50H50H50

A fishing factory ship is a small enclosed society that relies on all members of its crew to keep things ticking over. The deck crew baits the huge long lines and raise and lower them from the deep. Fish caught is dropped straight into the bowels of the ship where the processing line gut, fillet and pack the fish before they've barely stopped flapping. The galley produces food at regular intervals to feed everyone and the bridge crew takes the boat where it needs to go. And all of it happens in the heaving southern latitudes among some of the strongest winds and biggest seas in the world. It's a hard life and anyone who gets seasick isn't going to make it.

Steve loved it.

He loved working on the deck in all weathers. He wore heavy weather gear and heaved lines and fish around, enjoying the strength in his body. The cold was bracing and exhilarating because at the end of the shift there was a good hot shower to warm up and good food to fill his belly. You had to be a certain sort of person to work like this and Steve fit right in. His bunk was the top bunk in a tiny room barely big enough to turn around in. His bunk mate was a stringy teenager who worked on the engines and Steve never saw him without ear buds in his ears. If he talked it was all about the doings of celebrities and plot twists of soap operas that Steve had never heard of. They were hardly ever in the cabin at the same time and when they were it was easy to tune him out.

Albatross often followed the boat and Steve never got tired of watching the majestic birds effortlessly surfing the air currents above the waves. The ship practiced albatross avoidance techniques, weighting the fishing lines with their hundreds of hooks so that they would sink quickly behind the boat, well beyond the depth to tempt the birds from trying to eat the bait. Even so, one day, pulling in the enormous long line heaving with hoki, Steve saw an albatross, its beak caught on a hook, its magnificent body limp and dead, drowned. He nearly wept.

It only took a few days for Steve to learn the ropes of what was required of him. He could tell that his supervisor, Mike, wasn't sure of him in the beginning. It was the eye thing. But he quickly proved himself to be fast and strong. He was careful. It was a dangerous environment with winches, hooks and machinery, and that was without the ocean trying to throw them around, but Steve was well used to moving with a ship and adapted well. He had enough to do to challenge him and he wasn't bored. Things changed minute by minute. No one expected more from him than he could give. No one gave a damn that he didn't talk. Hell, he wasn't even the oddest person on the boat. One-legged Hemi, the bosun, got that title. Especially since rumor had it that Hemi, who was built like a Sherman tank, had actually once upon a time been Henrietta.

Steve was happy and his six week tour was over before he knew it. It was with some regret that he packed his duffle and lined up with the rest of the crew to leave the ship and be taxied to the airport to fly home to Auckland. He was booked on with most of the same crew for the next rotation in six weeks' time.

Coming back to his boat was like coming home. He'd paid a man who lived in the bay to keep an eye on it and he'd told him when he was coming back, so he'd put milk in the fridge and fresh water in the tanks. Steve threw his duffel onto his bed and felt the smile spreading across his face. It felt odd to sleep on a bed that was wider than his shoulders, and the barely discernible motion of this vessel, moored in the inner harbor felt nothing like the heaving ocean-going ship he'd become used to. The next day he checked his mailbox and discovered a large package from Fiji. Mrs. Pepe had sent him another supply of her magic ointment. He felt a huge surge of love and missed her dearly.

He stocked up the boat and sailed her out of the harbor, exploring the northeast coast of New Zealand. It was the end of summer but the weather felt incredibly warm after his time in the south. He spent a week enjoying sailing, enjoying making his own routines, before mooring up at Great Barrier Island, back near Auckland. It was a pretty place and enough like some of the more remote islands of Hawaii to make him a little homesick. He was restless and didn't know why. He was doing exactly what he wanted but it didn't seem like enough. He didn't know what he wanted, but sadly, somehow, it wasn't this.

It occurred to him, just after he gave up and headed back for his mooring under the harbor bridge, that he didn't want to live on a boat anymore. Because of working at sea and living at sea, so yeah, that had to be the problem. Didn't it?

He spent the rest of his leave time taking the bus to Piha and going surfing.

The company sent out a mini-van to collect the employees to take them to the airport to fly south for their next shift. There were some new faces and a few familiar ones who greeted him with enthusiasm. Steve felt like he belonged.

Because he was no longer the newbie, Steve was upgraded to a slightly bigger cabin. There still wasn't room to swing a cat, but the two bunks were side by side instead of on top of each other, so at least there appeared to be more space. It also had a porthole, high on the wall above the dresser between the beds. He had a new roommate too, Henry, an enormous Samoan who filled all the space in the room.

Henry carefully sticky-taped a photo of his wife and three daughters on the wall above his bunk, grunted hello and headed for the mess. Steve slung his duffel on his bunk and followed. Around 60% of the crew were on the last trip and it felt good, the way they all slotted together without effort. People knew him. He was asked about his time off although no-one expected long answers. People told him about their leave and only the newbies stared at his eye patch. It was good to have meals prepared for him again too.

Three days steaming took them to the edge of their fishing grounds on the Chatham Rise and work began in earnest. It was really cold this time. Winter was coming on and down in the southern latitudes the temperature was brutal. Even so, Steve still enjoyed the work.

Henry was a deck hand too, a company veteran with ten years working on the boats. He was also nominally Steve's boss when they were working, but it wasn't a problem. They quickly slipped into a routine and worked together easily. Neither of them talked much. Being on the same shift made it a bit hard to find privacy, but Steve'd spent years living on ships. He liked spending time with Henry so it wasn't too bad.

Even so, there were some things a man doesn't want an audience for. He had the hots for one of the new factory hands, a raven-haired young woman with plenty of spunk and the sort of fit, well defined, well cared for body that he really liked. She was also, if the rumors in the mess were anything to go by, working her way through the entire crew, male and female. If it was true, and he didn't think it actually was, there was going to be trouble. But it wasn't his trouble and he could enjoy the fantasy that one day she would work her way through the crew and get to him. He saw Henry heading into the shower at the end of their shift and took the opportunity to indulge in some of his fantasies in comfort, lying on his bunk. He imagined the girl riding his cock, her hair falling in a curtain, sweeping across his chest, and did a pretty good job of not remembering any of his previous lovers. He was close, hand pumping, hips lifting, rocking his cock into his fist, when the door opened.

"Shit!"

Henry did a double take. Then he laughed. He was still damp, moisture beading on his broad chest, towel wrapped around his middle. He walked in and shut the door. Steve lay there frozen.

"Don't stop for me." Henry smirked, showing his missing canine tooth, and groped his own crotch through the towel. Steve couldn't look away. Henry's hand worked inside the towel as he leaned back against his bunk. "Bit short of girls on this boat," he said casually. Then he stared straight at Steve. "Suck my cock?"

"Uhh?" His brain was like molasses but his body wanted, wanted so bad. Steve could suck cock. "Yeah. Okay." He turned his head to the side. Henry dropped his towel, bent his knees a little and fed his rapidly stiffening cock into Steve's mouth. It was thick and full and smelled clean with over notes of musk. Steve closed his eyes and took it. It had been a long, long time since he'd had another man's cock in his mouth and he loved it. Really loved it. He sucked and licked and fisted his own cock as Henry pumped into him. Steve came fast, barely managing to avoid doing Henry harm with his teeth, overwhelmed with the smells and sensations of another man's cock. Henry thrust a few more times, then pulled out, grunting and jerking, painting Steve's chest with warm spurts of come.

Henry's hand was braced on the wall above Steve's head, leaning over Steve as he panted, catching his breath. His eyes were closed. Steve stared up at him, scared stiff that he'd just ruined everything. That Henry would come to his senses and never want to see him again. They were barely a week into their time at sea and had no choice but to live and work in close proximity. Things could get really bad.

Henry suddenly staggered back the less than one step to sit on his own bed. He opened his eyes and smiled. "By god, boy. We'll keep you on." He flopped over onto his back and flung his arm over his eyes. "That was just what the doctor ordered." He rooted around and pulled his bedding up and over him. "You'd best go shower. Turn the light out on your way, would ya?" He gave a great yawn. "Christ. I'll sleep well tonight."

With a feeling of relief Steve realized that everything seemed to be okay. He wiped himself off with Henry's towel, wrapped it around his own waist and headed out to the shower. He paused in the doorway, trying to work out if he should say something but no words appeared in his head. "Turn out the bloody light," Henry said fondly. "Don't wake me when you get back."

Remarkably, nothing was different in the morning.

They still worked out on the deck together. Henry still sat with the other Samoan crew in the mess hall. Sometimes he sat beside Steve when they watched movies, most times he didn't. Some nights and even some early mornings before their shift, Steve sucked Henry's cock. Henry never reciprocated, but Steve hadn't ever expected him to.

Sucking cock was good, but he wouldn't be human if he didn't want more. One afternoon, warm again and freshly showered, on the high of surviving a hard shift, they crowded into their cabin, already hard. This time when Henry dropped his towel Steve did the same, turned his back to him and offered Henry his ass. "What?" Henry said stupidly.

Steve pressed up against him, carefully worked out words once again lost. "Please," he moaned, bending forward and bracing himself against the dresser. "Henry, please." His heart was pounding as he waited staring at the heaving sea outside the porthole, too scared to look at the other man. He nearly jumped out of his skin when two meaty hands landed on his hips then Henry's warm body plastered itself to his back. He shivered.

"Okay," Henry said. His cock pressed against Steve's butt and the two of them stood there, close, but not that close, automatically braced against the movement of the ship while they got used to the idea.

Steve widened his stance as his cheeks were pulled apart and Henry pressed the head of his cock up and down the crack between them. He could feel the trail of wetness Henry left. Scrabbling in his drawer he pulled out his tub of Mrs. Pepe's ointment, because it had never occurred to him to pack lube. Henry got the idea and after a bit of awkward fumbling he was sliding in and Steve was shoving back to meet him and the heavy rolling of the boat just added to the sensation. It was fantastically good but it didn't mean anything and they both knew that.

One night Steve woke, flailing in terror from a nightmare of guns and telephones and helplessness, to find strong arms lifting him out of his sweaty wrecked bed and pulling him in against a warm, strong chest on the other bunk. "Shhhh," Henry said. "Shhhhh. It's all right."

"You doin' anything 'bout those dreams of yours?" Henry asked the next morning, still spooned tightly round him. "'Cause I know they happen lots."

Steve shuddered. "I'm all right." And he was. He had a job he liked that he could do well. It kept him busy so he didn't have time to think about anything from the past. No one was depending on him. He was as fit and healthy as he'd ever been physically and he hadn't had a headache in well over a year. So he was never going to be as mentally fit as he'd been in the past, but he was functioning well and this was pretty much as good as it was going to get. A few nightmares were nothing. "I'm good."

Henry grunted and let it go.

Several times a week Steve would wake up in Henry's bunk with no memory of getting there. It felt nice to be cared about. It was a completely different thing to the sex.

When their stint at sea ended, Steve, Henry and about a dozen others caught the flight back to Auckland together. When they went through the door into the arrivals hall Henry was mugged by three small brown children who threw themselves into his arms. The beaming smile on his face brought tears to Steve's eyes. A round, pretty woman in a bright print dress looked indulgently on before holding her arms open and being crushed into her own Henry hug. It was the sort of homecoming due to any sailor home from the sea. Henry gave Steve a happy smile. "See ya in six weeks." The crew all waved and dispersed.

Steve refused to admit he was lonely. He had the life he wanted. He had a life he could manage and was actually doing well at. He had a bank account that was looking quite healthy. He lived in a boat.

Winter was on its way and while Auckland had a mild climate, it was still a heck of a lot colder than Hawaii or Fiji. It was considerably warmer than the southern ocean, but unlike the factory ship, Steve's boat didn't have heating. He lay on his bed with an extra sleeping bag spread over him and stared at the ceiling that was barely two feet above his face. He didn't want to live on a boat any more.

The internet is a wonderful thing. By the next morning Steve had thirty-three houses to consider. He had a few things he was looking for. The place had to be affordable, it had to be able to be left for six week time slots and it had to be near a beach.

He used a bit of deductive reasoning on real estate double speak and weeded out half of the list. Then he picked out three he really liked the sound of, with a short list of another three, worked out the bus route to find them and went for a look. He wasn't going to bring in real estate agents until the very last minute. As soon as they started their sales pitch he knew he'd lose all ability to make things happen his way.

What was advertised as a 'Flat with a sea view' in Blockhouse Bay turned out to be a small but new apartment unit behind an older house. It would be easy care with no garden to speak of, but the only way it had a sea view was if you stood on the roof. It was interesting, though, how much Auckland's suburbia resembled Honolulu's. Cities built on volcanic Pacific islands and settled by British missionaries around the same time had tended to grow in similar directions with similar architecture.

The apartment in Takapuna was exactly that, an apartment on the second floor of a block that did have a fantastic sea view. Sadly the rent reflected the view of the entire Hauraki Gulf, huge. While he could actually afford it, Steve didn't want to live on top of too many other people.

The third place was actually for sale rather than for rent and Steve found himself on the familiar bus to the west coast. The cottage was above KareKare beach, the next beach to the south from Piha, his happy surfing beach. He got off the bus at the top of the hill and walked down the winding road through native bush and birdsong until he found the address. 15a shared the same gravel driveway winding out of sight into the trees as 13, 15 and 17. Steve wandered down the drive and melted into the bush when houses came into sight. He worked his way through what was nearly a jungle until he found himself on a cliff top, the mighty Tasman sea pounding onto rocks way below him. He smelled the familiar coastal scent of salt, seaweed mixed with leaf mulch, and felt at home. With baited breath he worked around, getting an idea of the layout of the place. He spotted it. The little house matched the photos on the for sale ad but it was so much better, a small cottage with wide glass doors opening out onto a wooden terrace decorated with driftwood and sea wrack. There was a chimney poking out of the roof with a seagull shaped weather vane on a pole above it. The other houses were close but not too close. "Oh," he said quietly. He was already in love.

He could buy a bike and cycle over to Piha. He'd buy himself a new board.

There was no point in looking at anything else. Steve went home, emailed the real estate agent and paid the asking price without haggling at all.

The agent was rather bemused. She also felt it to be nearly unethical to sell a property without the buyer actually viewing it. It was an argument he'd never have won over the phone but by email Steve stuck to his guns. He couldn't say he'd already seen it so he didn't say anything. He wanted it, he'd have it.

It felt like it was really meant to be when it turned out to be an estate sale. The cottage was already empty so he didn't have to wait for possession. He could take occupation as soon as the funds cleared, and if he was interested he could have the previous owner's furniture thrown in.

Steve packed down the boat. He wouldn't sell it yet, in case the house turned out not be what he wanted. He collected the keys two weeks before he went back to work, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and caught the bus.

Once again he seemed to have bought well. The house was small, really only three rooms, but it didn't feel small at all (and especially not compared to the boat). He stood in his living room, turning in a circle, taking it in, feeling a huge smile stretch his face. An open plan living room and kitchen made up the main room. A log-burner stove in the corner was already laid with paper and kindling in the grate. An old leather sofa and even more battered recliner snuggled around the fire. A large sliding glass door opened onto a wooden deck where a wooden table and two Adirondack chairs were placed to take in the view. The chairs made something funny happen in his chest.

Two doors led off the living room. One led into a passageway that ended at the back door. There were a washing machine and laundry tub in an alcove and an old revolving clothes line at the end of a little concrete path on the back lawn. A door opposite the tub opened into a poky little bathroom. It was adequate: shower, hand basin and toilet. Whatever the bathroom lacked was made up by what was behind the other door off the living room. That door led into a sun-drenched bedroom nearly as large as the main room. There was an old double bed, saggy and well used, and a tired chest of drawers and wardrobe. He'd organize new bedroom furniture but it would do for now. He barely glanced at it. Large picture windows looked out to sea. Steve flung open the windows and felt like he'd just arrived home.

He was sitting on the deck making shopping lists when a rustle in the shrubbery made him jump. Purple hair preceded an elfin face, and an androgynous teenager popped through the hole in the hedge. The kid grinned and came and plonked into the other chair. "My name's V and we live over there." That was the house on the other side of the scruffy row of shrubs the kid had come through. "This was my granddad's cottage." The tone was slightly sulky. Skinny arms crossed over a skinny chest. A tongue stud made a brief display. He wasn't sure if that was supposed to look tough. "I told Dad I'd come and say hello."

"Hello," he said, trying to figure out what he ought to reply. "I'm John Chung. I'm sorry about your granddad."

"Yeah," the kid said and sighed. He couldn't see an Adam's apple when the kid swallowed, but maybe they weren't quite old enough to have one. He turned away and gave his visitor time to collect her/himself.

He continued with his list and added tea towels and dish cloths. "I really like it here."

"You're American," V said accusingly.

"Yes?" He turned his body so he could see her easier. There were no real clues but he just felt V was a girl. "Is that bad?"

"Do you surf?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Yes. I surf."

"Okay, then."

V took him inside and showed him the idiosyncrasies of the hot water heater and how to work the various remotes needed to get the TV to actually show TV. Then V came to a halt in the center of the living room. "I suppose I should go." The tongue stud was flicked against slightly crooked white teeth. "Homework and stuff."

"You used to spend a lot of time here?" he asked. "With your granddad?"

"Yeah. Me and Dad…" The skinny shoulders shrugged. "It was better here."

He understood that feeling of sadness. "Can you look after the place for me while I'm away?"

V nodded. "You know, you're the first person who hasn't me how to spell my name."

"You're the first person who hasn't asked me about my eye."

A shy smile spread across the kid's face. V made something that might have been a peace sign, or possibly a rude gesture. "Just the letter."

"I was a soldier," he said. It was close enough.

"Cool."

As he got ready for bed that night he discovered there was a full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He was taken completely by surprise, not having seen anything other than a small shaving mirror since he'd stayed with the Pepe relatives in Otara nearly six months ago.

The man in the mirror wasn't quite the stranger the reflection had shown that time. He was thin and sinewy, strong and weathered. He looked like a fisherman, or a pirate. Pirate John. Intrigued he dropped his towel. The house was warm from the fire he'd lit when the sun set. He'd already taken off the eye patch when he'd undressed for the shower and now he stood and cataloged the man he'd become. The scars were still there, still prominent, but weathered, part of the fabric of his body in a way he'd never thought they'd ever be. His face was vaguely crooked, the damaged cheekbone and eye orbit making his face narrower on the left. But he didn't look bad, wouldn't scare children in the street. He tried to take a more objective look. He could do with putting on a bit more weight, bulking up a little. That was hard. On the ship the food was good but it was physically hard work and he burned off everything he ate. That was the difference in his body, even when he'd been in the service, he'd worked at keeping fit, keeping his body in tip top shape because the job demanded it and because he liked it. This body though, this body — he flexed his triceps, pulled a pose — this body had happened when he wasn't looking. It was honed by what it did. This body did what he asked of it and it did it well.

He looked at himself from every angle. This man was not Steve McGarrett. It was good to know that his external and internal perceptions matched.

"Goodnight, John," he told the man in the mirror.

Tomorrow he'd go into the mall in Titirangi and buy bedding, a new bed and groceries. Satisfied and at peace he turned out the light and climbed into his sleeping bag. Even this high up he could hear the waves pounding on the cliffs way below.