This chapter is dedicated to lousiemcdoogle. She's also read all the chapters I've pre-written and offered her invaluable comments and corrections to help me present the best story possible. As a resident of Oceania, she has great insight and interest in the setting I've chosen. Thank you for your excitement over this story and for loving it so much!
March 2010
Katherine Houghton Beckett.
Referred to as Kate Beckett in the newspaper articles.
Afaitu recognized her name but knew little of her beyond the basic facts. She'd been on the doomed ship—one of two passengers when the boat sank. The passenger who'd not survived. Anything more about her had been completely overshadowed by the heroic tale of the rescued men and the grief over the death of a famous author.
"Kate Beckett? She is alive as well?"
Rodgers gave a sharp nod. "Yes. We were left behind. I was knocked unconscious when we wrecked, so I can't speak directly to what happened. I only know what really happened—why they abandoned us to die—thanks to Kate. She knows exactly how it all went down. And they know that, so she's a threat to them."
"Where is she?" Afaitu had heard all the accounts of Rodgers being found drifting alone. He'd been recovered by a Chinese crew with no motive to lie about whom, or how many, they'd rescued.
"Safe, I hope." Rodgers' voice cracked as his shoulders drooped. "She was fine the last time I saw her," he added, clenching his fist. "She was fine."
"How long ago was that?"
"About four months," Rick choked. A single tear tracked down his right cheek, unnoticed as he stared at the ground.
"You'd been with her all that time? The last ten years?" Afaitu asked in a gentle voice.
Rick gave a quick nod, afraid he'd start sobbing if he tried to speak.
"Where were you two?"
Silence was the only answer until the prisoner shifted in his chair and looked up at Afaitu, tears brimming in both eyes. "That—that's a story. A story for the ages. I've written it in my head so many times." He paused, lost in memories, before continuing. "We've talked about it so much; I could tell it to you from her standpoint alone if I had to."
"Well, Mr. Rodgers—Rick, if we're going to get you both out of this safely I need to know everything. And I have to be able to share it with others." He leaned down and reached in his briefcase, pulling out a laptop.
"What do you need?"
"You're an author. I want you to write your story. For me and for all that will need to see it."
"Is this safe?"
"As safe as we can be. No one in Nuutania is allowed to search the private briefcase of a lawyer, apart from an x-ray to ensure there's no weaponry inside. The drive in this laptop is encrypted and I've a secure safety deposit box that I'll use to store this flash drive. They'll not know the truth until we're ready to reveal it."
Rodgers frowned, fidgeting in his chair again. "I don't know what a flash thingy is, or an encrypted drive. In my day, laptops were much bigger and clunkier than this."
"I'm sure a lot has changed since you disappeared."
"More than I could've imagined. It feels like I was gone fifty years, not ten. It's a different world now. One I'd like to learn more about, someday. After she's safe. Finding her is my only focus right now. I'll do anything to help Kate, and if you say this is necessary then I'll do my best."
"Then I suggest you start typing."
November 1999
Rick woke early. He'd never been an early riser in his previous life, but now it was a necessity. Didn't mean that he liked it.
Screaming voices and the din of machinery were his incessant alarm while in port. And the smell, ye gods. Nothing like a busy shipping port with rotten fish, diesel, and sewage as its unavoidable perfume. He vastly preferred the open water.
Yet the port was where they restocked; gained valuable cargo. Passengers occasionally. Crew if they were lucky. They'd lost their last cook to a woman on Bora Bora, and they'd not found a replacement. So many were lured by the glamor of the tourist industry, and a job in a battered, rusty cargo ship plying the islands wasn't high on career lists.
"Hopo? You up?" Anapa's voice called from nearby, drowning out the screams of both sea birds and man alike.
Anapa always beat him up in the morning. He wondered if the old man ever slept.
"I'm up, I'm up." Rolling out of his bunk, he clambered into a t-shirt and jeans grabbed out of a drawer beneath the bed. The bunk was tiny; barely room for his six foot plus frame, but it had been home for months now. There were five total beds in the crew's quarters, all occupied when they were at sea. Sharing meant space was precious, and personal storage was paramount to prevent angry words over someone's mess.
He laughed now when he thought back on all the wasted space in his old apartment. Here, he was limited to just the basics. Of course, not needing seasonal clothing helped. Some shorts, t-shirts, and a pair of pants sufficed. He led a simple life now—a far cry from his existence in New York.
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he got out on deck. His heart lurched at the beauty of the South Pacific. It was a privilege to live and work amongst these islands—emeralds scattered on the surface of the ocean. They'd been a much needed salve for his soul.
Anapa was standing near the gangway. Dressed up, for him, which meant he was wearing a t-shirt and pants instead of his usual bare chest and shorts that served when out in the open water.
"I'm meeting with a rep for the next run. You keep your eyes peeled for a new cook. I don't want to suffer through more of that inedible crap you call ma'a."
Rick nodded. He knew the drill. He'd been crewing with the old man for almost 10 months now. He was no cook, and Anapa was correct; the food he'd thrown together when he'd taken his turn in the galley had been horrible.
"Wouldn't say aita to passengers, neither."
Rick nodded again. Saying no to a passenger wasn't the issue; finding one was. They both knew the likelihood of a paying passenger was slim to none. The Iriata was a good ship, but she wasn't a sleek sailboat like many passengers wanted for their adventures in the South Pacific.
She was, first and foremost, a cargo ship. She handled very well, needing only a crew of four besides Anapa. Five if they found their cook. Light and nimble, but solid against the sea when the waves rose up and pounded against her. Like her captain, she was at her best out on the open water, but the years of making deliveries amongst the islands had taken their toll.
"We need more fuel too. Don't let them cheat you on the price," Anapa warned.
"I know, I know. That was like eight months ago. Am I ever going to live that down?"
Anapa chuckled and swiped at Rick's head affectionately. "Aita, Hopo, probably not. I'll be back; this next run sounds interesting. Oh, and Hina left almost an hour ago. She might need help when she comes back. Nana." Without further discussion his bandy legs carried him down the gangway onto the dock, where he rolled as much as walked his way to the mainland.
Rick watched him go, affection for the kind, old man shining from his eyes. He'd met Anapa and Hina shortly after arriving in Papeete. At loose ends, without any idea about what to do with himself after escaping the hell of New York. He hadn't wanted a job, but Anapa had seen that Rick lacked something meaningful in his life. He'd needed a guide: someone to help him grow into the man he could be. Anapa had taken on the challenge without batting an eye.
Down a crewman to a stomach illness that'd ended up being more serious than anyone had anticipated, Anapa had been wandering around one of the docks trying to find a replacement. He'd seen the young American hanging about and knew sooner or later someone would take advantage of him. He'd approached him, struck up a conversation, and quickly found he liked the earnest young man. He'd offered him a job on the spot.
Rick had declined initially; he'd come to the South Pacific looking to flesh out the details of a new character he wanted to base a whole series on. A man who could survive nearly anything: a cross between James Bond and MacGyver. He hadn't been looking to become a crewman on a cargo boat. Plus he didn't know much about boats—or the ocean—in general.
He'd hoped he'd figure out what was missing from his life on the other side of the world. Yet, two months after arriving he'd found little to write about, had no insight into why he was so unhappy in general, and had been on the verge of going home. His desire to write was non-existent. Progression on character research was at a standstill. Nothing in his life was working the way it should.
Meeting the venerable Anapa intrigued him. Soon after saying no to the sailor he'd found himself reconsidering the job offer. When Anapa had asked him to just do a trial run—see how he liked it (or not)—he'd heard himself accepting the offer, much to his surprise. It'd turned out to be the most important decision in his life, until that point.
Once on board he'd met Hina, Anapa's wife and a native healer. She was nearly as old as her husband and travelled from island to island with him. It wasn't long before Rick had discovered just how valuable these new friends were. They were like living treasure troves. Between them, they knew everything about survival on remote islands: knowledge that had been handed down through their culture for generations. They'd became his teachers in the ways of the ocean, and in the ways of their people who lived with so very little—yet led a rich, happy life. It was a lesson plan that he never could've paid for with all his wealth; a lesson that would impact the trajectory of his life forever.
That first voyage had been a grand adventure, in his eyes, and he'd been eager to stay on as a crewman. He'd recognized how much Anapa and Hina could teach him. The old man had become a father figure to him, something he'd never had in his other life. He'd found a family, and a place to belong.
When Anapa had started calling him 'Hopo' Rick had swelled with pride; he'd earned a true Polynesian name with his hard work. That pride was diminished, a bit, a month later when he'd found out that Hopo meant 'great white albatross,' but by then he'd learned the nuances of Anapa's humor and recognized it was a term of affection between them. Plus, he had to admit he'd caused some problems for his employer in the beginning.
He hadn't had much of a grasp of the language, reo Tahiti, or French for that matter. Apparently just smiling and nodding when you didn't understand something was not the best strategy—either on land with unscrupulous vendors looking for an advantage, or on a boat with a crew that had no qualms about making the new guy uncomfortable. He'd ended up doing more than his fair share of the worst chores until he'd learned what they were saying.
The months he'd spent on the Iriata since, sailing cargo to and fro and helping Hina provide traditional medical care and advice on the islands, had been some of the best days of his life. He'd learned so much at the feet of Anapa and Hina, as well as the rest of the crew who were also all native Polynesians. He'd become much fitter, with the pure physical labor of loading and unloading both cargo and Hina's supplies.
He'd learned simple things, like how to read the ocean and the clouds. And more complex things, like basic navigation. How to start a fire without a lighter. What plants were useful and which were dangerous. Which ones Hina valued for medicines. He'd attended island funerals and assisted with nearly a dozen births. Helped set bones and tended to those who were dying.
In short, he'd learned the things that he thought his new character would know. If he himself knew how to do something it would be that much easier to write about it. But more importantly, he'd learned what it meant to be a man of honor and integrity. Anapa was revered throughout French Polynesia, and his example helped Rick mold himself into the man he'd always wanted to be but couldn't figure out how to achieve on his own. He'd discovered the missing piece of his life.
He was busy, but he also had time to write. If he wasn't on duty, he generally spent most of his time up on deck. There was a spot in the bow where he liked to sit and write. The other men spent their down time playing cards or sleeping, but Rick loved the feeling of the open air as the Iriata raced across the sea. His new life was inspiring, and he'd found it quite easy to start in on his unique character. The adventures Rick found himself living were incorporated into fictional life. He had written most of a complete novel now.
The weather was, of course, wonderful; even in the "winter" he was tanned and buff. He was in the best shape of his life. Yes, there was no doubt in his mind that coming to the South Pacific had been the greatest decision he'd ever made. And one that had maybe even saved his life.
It was a busy, meaningful existence. He had purpose. It was the opposite of what he'd left behind. Here, he helped Hina care for people. In New York his only care was having a good time. Here, he had a family with Hina and Anapa and his crewmates. In New York, there was only his mother, and she was usually too busy with her own complicated life to pay much attention to him.
He'd been lonely for so long, and nothing had changed once he was a successful adult. He'd sworn off women in New York. He'd no desire to change his status now. Women were part of the reason he was hiding in the South Pacific to begin with. No, here he was happy for the time in his life.
Rick jumped off the ship about thirty minutes later. He was the last one off; the other crewman had left last night just after they'd docked. They were eager to visit family in the few days they would have in Papeete, whereas Rick had no one to visit. Thus, he stayed with the boat. He didn't mind.
They were berthed in the slip that Anapa normally chose; everyone around them knew the old man and respected him. They wouldn't let anyone mess with the boat while Rick was gone. Just to be sure, he gave a whistle he'd learned months earlier at Gaston, the captain of the boat next to theirs. Gaston nodded at him and Rick walked down the dock towards the fuel depot to buy their needed diesel.
"Bonjour. Comment puis-je vous aider?" The majority of the people on Papeete spoke French, a language Rick learning. He'd picked up a lot of Tahitian in his months living in French Polynesia, but his French was improving too.
"J'ai besoin d'acheter du diesel pour le navire Iriata." Brief negotiations got them the promise of a full tank by the end of the day.
Rick left the fuel depot and headed for the post office next. Papeete was considered their home port; Anapa and Hina both had their mail shipped here. They didn't own a house, choosing to stay on their boat, but they did maintain a mail box which any of the crew was authorized to open. Rick normally took mail duty when they were in Papeete, as he kept a box as well. He grabbed Anapa and Hina's assortment first; neither usually received much.
His own box was stuffed full. Letters from Black Pawn, Gina, and Paula he pitched, just glancing at them to make sure there was nothing important. They had most of the manuscript, he wasn't coming back to New York anytime soon, and he had tons of ideas for the next book. Nothing they said would change those facts.
That left a few letters from his mother. He hoped she'd given up begging for him to come home. She worried about him; she was his mother after all. His continued absence from the greater world had hurt her, as she couldn't understand his desire to remain so far away. Or why he was working on a cargo boat. However, she was on her second marriage and most of her attention was given to her husband. Rick's presence wouldn't alter that, so he chose to stay where he was happy.
He hated reminders of his life in New York: who he'd been, what he'd done. What had been done to him. His previous life had been shallow: full of debauchery and people who only wanted something from him. The press had declared him an irreverent playboy and he'd done his best to live down to the reputation. He'd been a lost soul; desperately unhappy and completely clueless as to what his life was missing.
Women had been the worst part of it all. Sure, he'd been devastated by Kyra, and had spiraled into a party atmosphere to prove he didn't need her. But then, just as he'd become sober, he'd gotten involved with Meredith. That whole experience nearly killed him. Looking back now, he was grateful for all of it. After all, it was in fleeing his old life that he'd ended up where he was now. It was a journey of self-discovery that'd ended up saving him.
He'd embarked on this trip alone. Not certain where he was going, he'd told Black Pawn he needed to do extensive research for his new character, Derrick Storm. They'd not been thrilled, but once he'd finally started writing something they'd let up on their threats and collective gnashing of teeth.
As for the public, he'd simply disappeared. It didn't take long for his disappearance to grow stale, with new celebrity scandals pushing him out of the way. No one would lament the departure of Richard Castle, playboy extraordinaire.
"Ia ora na, Hopo. You're back in port! E aha te huru?" The now familiar Tahitian words startled him out of his reverie. A familiar voice saying hello to him and asking how he was doing.
He looked up to see Rahiti, one of Anapa's friends greeting him. He wasn't as old as Anapa and didn't spend as much time on the water, so he wasn't quite as wrinkled. Still, his hair was completely grey and, like many of the islanders' elderly, he was much shorter than Rick's six feet two.
"Ia ora na, Rahiti. Maita'i. Here just for a day or two. Anapa is negotiating for a run and Hina is off tending to someone," Rick returned the greeting and told Rahiti he was doing well.
"Where're you headed?"
"No idea. Anapa was somewhat mysterious this morning, though he said it'd be a good run."
"They say there's a cyclone brewing out in the south east. Below the Australs right now. Wouldn't want to run into that."
"I don't know. Sometimes I think he likes the challenge of bad weather. Or watching me puke my guts out over the side."
Rahiti gave a guttural laugh and slapped him on the back, hard. Wincing, Rick bid him nana, or farewell, after exchanging a few more pleasantries with the older man and headed into the market to pick up supplies and some of the herbs he knew Hina needed.
An hour later he was back on the docks, arms full. Gaston waved at him as he passed his boat, indicating nothing had happened while he was away. He climbed up the gangway with a practiced ease and slipped into the galley to stock the groceries. Hina had a small workshop on the deck above the crew's quarters. He put the herb packets on her counter; she'd square them away before they left.
Once all his tasks were done he retrieved his pen and notebook and went up to the top deck to do some writing before starting in on the never-ending chores. The breeze in the open was much pleasanter than the sweltering cabins.
Opening to a blank page, he smiled as he began to outline a new chapter. He liked writing longhand; it made him feel like an author from two centuries ago. Besides, seawater and sand were murder on electronics, so his laptop was in storage in Papeete. Gina had railed against the need to have his chapters typed up once they reached her, but there was no realistic way he could use a laptop in the open bow when they were at sea.
He'd been writing for about half an hour when he heard someone hailing the ship from the dock. A woman's voice, though not Hina, who did sometimes need help up and down the gangway. Eyebrows furled, he put down his notebook and made his way over to the bulwark nearest the dock to see who was shouting.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
The woman was turned away from him, looking intently at the other end of the ship. She had long, wavy brown hair worn down despite the heat, and legs that wouldn't quit. A pair of modest shorts and a t-shirt did nothing to hide her body, and he swallowed hard. He wondered for a brief second if she might be looking for a passage before squashing the idea before it took root. Lovely young women simply did not come to the Iriata for passage.
"Can I help you?" His voice was tinged with amusement as she continued to hallo at the top of her lungs.
She turned towards the sound of his voice and his breath suddenly rushed out of his chest as if he'd been sucker punched. She was drop dead gorgeous, even from his distant vantage point. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear anything but the swishing of blood through his ears. His heart pounded, wanting out of his chest, and his mouth was as dry as the Sahara. He suddenly hoped she had wandered by the boat by accident. He didn't think he'd make it being near her for very long.
Pictures of the cargo ships used as inspiration for the Iriata are on my tumblr, as well as maps of French Polynesia.
