After a long hiatus, Joss and John's travels in New Zealand continue. Thanks, Lady Sundiver, for reminding me about this one. Here's an extra-long chapter to make up for the extra-long wait!

Joss woke languorously, the sun shining in through the window. They had fetched up at a little boutique hotel housed in a quaint old wooden house. Only three rooms and usually booked out – they had been lucky that another guest had cancelled out only a few hours before their arrival. Their room's window looked out onto bush-clad hillside. She'd been briefly woken at dawn by the chorus of birdsong, but fallen asleep again. The sun was quite high in the sky now – maybe about ten in the morning? Ahhh, vacation… though it was going to be a shock returning to work…

John was lying beside her, his hands behind his head, gazing at the antique lamp hanging from the high ceiling. As she stirred he turned his head to smile at her.

"So, what's up for today, Carter?" he asked.

"You know, I have honestly no idea," she replied. His smile turned into a smirk.

"Well, I have a suggestion," he murmured, and moved closer.

"You are insatiable," she whispered back a moment later.

"When it comes to you, I am," he said, still smirking.

The rest of the morning passed pleasurably, and it was close on the crack of noon before they emerged, freshly showered and John's case shaved, to face the day.

Picton was a pretty little town, taking up the small area of flat land at the head of Queen Charlotte Sound whence the ferries departed for Wellington and the North Island. It was obviously a tourist town, dependent for its lifeblood on the travellers passing through. But it managed this with grace – cafés and souvenir shops accommodated in pretty wooden Victorian buildings. The information centre had stacks of brochures offering fishing expeditions – John looked mildly interested at some of these – and guides to the hiking trails thereabouts along with information on some activities further afield.

"What about this one?" Joss asked as she opened a pamphlet.

John looked over her shoulder. Some attractive young people were posed waving from inside a Land Rover, obviously parked atop a huge sand dune. Beach grasses framed the foreground, with more dunes stretching away into the distance behind. "Farewell Spit Tours", said the heading.

"Farewell Spit is one of the longest natural sandspits in the world, home to some unique plants and animals," Joss read aloud. "As a home to migratory birds, leopard seals and other marine mammals, this area is closely regulated. We are the only company licensed to explore this remote spot." She looked up at John.

"We didn't come here for the night life," he commented.

"We didn't come here voluntarily at all, remember? We were shanghaied."

"I had enough city life in Wellington. Yeah, let's go explore."

It was too late to make a start for Farewell Spit that day, so they walked around the little town, had a late lunch at a small café and strolled along the waterfront. Another ferry from Wellington arrived and performed its slow pirouette before backing into its berth. Further along the shoreline was the brown wooden bulk of the town's main tourist attraction, the Edwin Fox.

It was the looming hulk of a wooden ship, perched in drydock and attached to a small building. When they paid their money and went in it turned out to be a small museum devoted to the ship, one of the oldest remaining merchant ships in the world. It seemed she'd done a little of everything since her building in Calcutta in 1853. She carried British troops to Crimea, convicts to Australia and finally settlers to New Zealand. At last, outmoded and driven out of service by the faster and more reliable steam ships, she'd been towed to Queen Charlotte Sound and put to work as a refrigerated hulk storing meat for the export trade to the Mother Country. Eventually even that was no longer viable, and in 1950 she had been finally abandoned and left to rot at her moorings.

Reese gazed at the curve of the hull, visible through a window. The effort involved in moving and restoring the old girl must have been prodigious. But the stories of the new settlers crammed inside her, leaving homes and families with the hope in their hearts of a new life in a new country… his own ancestors must once have made such a journey to America, though it had never occurred to him before to think about it. Joss was looking pensive too, although for her, perhaps, the convicts forced aboard for a life of brutality in Australia might be a better parallel. He shook his head to himself. She had never talked to him about her own family's history – maybe didn't even know it in detail. He'd always vaguely assumed she was more interested in the future, onwards and upwards, than in brooding over the bitter past. But it came to him suddenly that that was pure assumption on his part.

As they passed out of the building and onto the remains of the ship – just the lower deck since the upper no longer existed – he ran his hand over the hard teak timber. What other hands had touched this wood? Sailors, soldiers, criminals, settlers. A lad who'd taken the King's Shilling and embarked for adventure in Crimea? A waif who'd stolen a chicken and been condemned to transportation? A little girl, embarking with her family for New Zealand (where is that, Mama?) and maybe clutching a rag doll in her other hand… he shook his head to dispel the images. Not at all like you to see visions, John, he thought to himself. Maybe some places did carry the ghosts of the past in some way, though, he thought as they wandered about trying to visualise the old ship's interior. Not in a bad way, or at least not exclusively badly. He drew in a long breath, feeling the jumble of fear and hope and excitement and despair those old timbers had witnessed. No, not bad, nor good exactly. Just the chaotic mix of human life.

POI*POI*POI*POI*

Dinner was pizza, eaten out of the box in a little park up the hill overlooking the Sound. As the sun dipped behind the hills the evening chorus of birdsong rang out across the still, slate-blue waters. Joss stretched a little and leaned back against John's shoulder. He slipped an arm around her.

"Penny for your thoughts," she said lightly.

"Oh, nothin' much," he said, drawling the words out. "Just thinking about journeys."

"Mm." She waited.

"All those people, getting on that ship. Leaving everyone behind to go to the other side of the world."

"Mm," she said again.

"Did it work out for them? Was it good or bad when they got here?"

"They made a choice, I guess. And then lived with the consequences," she said after a pause.

"The ones that got a choice," he pointed out. "Those convicts didn't so much."

"Eh, that's true."

There was another long pause. The wind was picking up, a warm sea breeze carrying the salt scent of the water.

"I was thinking about your people," he said at last. "Stuck on a ship, carried off to a new land, no say in it at all. And mine, I guess. Leaving everyone behind. But at least they chose it."

"Weeeellll," Joss drew the syllable out for a long time while she thought. "My family's time in the new land didn't start well, that's for sure." Actually at times it sucks pretty bad even now, she didn't say. "But… I guess we have the chance to build something better now. Even if the chance's been a long time coming. Taylor's doing okay."

"I never even thought much about my family. Maybe I should find out," he said doubtfully.

"You could get one of those DNA tests done," she teased. "That'd light up a few computer systems. John Reese alive! Again!"

He smiled at that. "Best let sleeping dogs lie," he agreed.

"Listen, though. It's something we all do. Leave the past behind, leave people behind. For good, or for bad. It's just how it is. Those settlers, I bet they looked up at these green hills and heard the birds singing and they thought, 'Well, I'm here now. Better get on with it.' And they did. And some of them did well, and some of them did poorly, but they were here. Made this new thing. A new nation. That's what you're doing now." She lifted her head off his shoulder and twisted to look him in the eye, just a little sternly. "Got it?"

He grinned at her. "Yes, Ma'am!"

Joss gave a little sigh of relief to herself and a little mental shake of the head. Yay, another bout of Reese-brooding averted.

They got up off the bench they were sitting on and dumped the pizza box in a trash can and picked their way downhill towards the township. Behind them, a long burst of liquid birdsong filled the air.

POI*POI*POI*POI*

Joss wound the window right down and enjoyed the sensation of the warm sea air as it caressed her face. It was two days later and they had made their way out of Picton, over the hills and down to the little town of Collingwood at the base of Farewell Spit. The ecotourism company which ran the tours up the Spit wasn't hard to find, and by eight in the morning they had been settled into a slightly battered four-wheel drive vehicle. The guy driving them was called Bruce, a stocky guy with deeply tanned skin and sun-bleached hair. He had a cheeky, slightly flirtatious air which John regarded with amusement when he saw it didn't offend her.

They made their way along first sealed, then gravel roads until even these gave out and they were driving along in baked mud ruts. Bruce explained as he drove that they were only allowed to drive on the dunes themselves in a few sections, to protect the wild life and the plants they depended on. But after an hour or so they came to a series of huge sand dunes, all covered with dry golden grass.

"We'll head up here," said Bruce. "The view from the other side's gorgeous." He winked at her and gunned the motor as they began a long, zig-zagging climb up the side of the dune.

At last the Land Rover crested the final rise, its engine working hard, and paused to allow them to enjoy the view – a sweep of sea and sky and pale yellow beach which stretched away until it was lost in a slate-blue haze in the distance.

The beach, oddly, was studded with big black boulders.

Then Joss blinked and realised - they weren't boulders. They were whales. Small pilot whales, from two or three yards long to bigger ones maybe five or six yards long. As she watched, one of the helpless creatures flapped its tail, hitting damp sand with a thump.

"Shit," said Bruce. He gunned the engine and they drove down onto the beach. They got out. Bruce led the way, and as they got closer they could hear the clicks and whistles of the distressed whales. John was counting. "Twenty-eight," he said.

"We're out of cell-phone coverage," said Bruce. "I have to report this."

"What can we do?" asked Joss helplessly.

"I can't leave you here," said Bruce.

"But there must be something we can do!" The air was filled with groans and clicks.

Bruce ran a hand through his hair. "Well...We have to keep them cool and wet. Don't step over their tails. Here..." He grabbed two plastic containers out of the back of the vehicle and passed them to John and Joss. "Pour these over them. Try to get sand away from their eyes and blowholes. Concentrate on their fins and flippers, that's where they disperse heat from." He scrambled into the seat of the Land Rover. "I'll be back as soon as I can!" The vehicle executed a tight turn and was away in a spray of sand.

Joss looked at the containers doubtfully. They were the gas can type, with moulded handles and a single, small opening. "These'll take a long time to fill," she said as they hustled down to the shore.

"Here," said John. He produced his knife and hacked away at the top of one of the cans, cutting a big hole but leaving the handle intact. He passed it to her to fill and attacked the other one.

Joss filled her can and lugged it up the beach to the nearest whale.

"Hey, whale. I'm coming to help you," she panted. She emptied the can carefully over its tail, trying to make the stream of water last. Then it was back down to the water's edge at a jog. Out of the corner of her eye she saw John doing the same for the next whale along. Impatiently she watched the water gurgling into the plastic can, and then it was off up the beach to the next whale. But this one wasn't moving or clicking. Flies buzzed about its blowhole. Dead. Damn. On to the next one. This was a larger whale, nearly five yards long, lying on her side with a much smaller one just next to it – a mother and calf, she realised. She gave the baby a good watering, but that left little for the mama. Back to the sea. It was hot, and she was getting thirsty herself. John had done a couple more whales, or maybe skipped some dead ones. She could see him further down the beach, just returning from the waves with a load of water. She filled the can again.

A small breath of a breeze wafted in from the sea, a bit of blessed coolness for her and the whales, Joss thought. The can was getting heavier in her hands as she lugged it up the beach. Mama Whale got a good shower. Down the beach again. Her jeans were soaked through, clinging clammily to her legs. The sea didn't seem so warm as she waded in and filled her container. She passed John. "How ya doing?" he asked breathlessly. She slowed down enough to say "Better than the poor damn whales!" and caught the white flash of his grin as she poured more water over another glossy black back.

Carry, pour, jog to the water, fill, carry, pour: this seemed to go on for a long time. The world contracted into a timeless limbo of glare off the water and whale clicks and her own breathing. She noticed she was getting cold. Her neck and shoulders were cramping. She and John had worked their way along the beach three, no, four times. Of the twenty-eight whales stranded, twenty were still alive, but a couple of them seemed to be in bad shape. The mama was one: Joss tried to give her a bit of extra water but with so many of the creatures in need…

At last there was another sound: an engine. The Land Rover popped over the top of the dunes and coasted down to the high water mark. Bruce and another man, no, three men, got out. They spent a moment collecting their gear out of the back: shovels and some big black trash bags. Bruce and one of the newcomers came down the beach towards Joss. The other two stayed by the Land Rover, changing into wetsuits.

"Gidday, Gorgeous!" Bruce called cheerily. Joss wanted to wring his neck, or slap him, or something. But she didn't have the energy.

"I'm Ian McClaren," said the new guy, a tall freckled fellow with red-blonde hair and a short beard. "I'm a marine mammal medic. What's the situation here?"

Joss drew her breath and then released it. Oxygen, that's what she needed. Also a drink and a pee. But first things first.

"We got twenty-eight whales. Eight are dead. There's three not looking too good, including one mama with a calf." She pointed.

"Okay," said McClaren. "There are more volunteers coming. We've got sheets and stuff in the black bags there. We need to get those wet and onto the whales. Then we can start trying to get them upright."

Joss was glad to abandon the damned water container. She found herself paired off with Ian, soaking sheets in the sea water and then carefully spreading them over the broad backs of the whales. The sheets would protect their delicate skin from the sun and slow down the evaporation process. After a little while a red SUV pulled up and some more people got out. They fanned out along the beach. John had been helping spread sheets too, but she saw him knee-deep in the waves filling his container again. Time to pour some more water and keep the sheets wet.

Ian walked back towards Mama Whale and her baby. Mama was still bravely clicking, trying to reassure her little one, maybe. But she seemed weaker.

"We need to get her upright," said Ian. "She's getting stressed."

A couple more volunteers were passing carrying shovels. Ian flagged them down and they set to digging a trench next to the whale, along with a deeper hole to accommodate her flipper. Joss found the accursed water container again and walked down to the waves. Maybe it was her imagination, but they seemed to be coming closer. She filled it up and then carted it back up the beach to Mama Whale and sloshed it carefully over her, saving the last little bit for Baby. She repeated the exercise for the next whale and was just turning to go back for another load when she saw a crowd gathering by Mama. Half a dozen volunteers on each side carefully rocked Mama Whale into the trench and then someone quickly shovelled out another hole for her other flipper.

Ian looked on with satisfaction. More volunteers were still arriving. Someone had set up a beach shelter with an ice chest full of bottled water. "Where do all these people come from?" she asked him.

"There's an organization called Project Jonah which co-ordinates whale rescues. We send out a text message to our volunteers and they drop everything and come," he said. "They provide the marine mammal medic training too."

"Does this happen a lot?" asked Joss.

"Around here, I'm afraid it does. The beach slopes so gradually that it messes with their sonar. They don't realise they're getting into shallow water until it's too late. And then one distressed pod member will draw all the rest in." He paused a moment and added, "Last year we had a mass stranding with four hundred whales, the biggest in decades. Most of them didn't make it."

"Oh." Changing the subject, she asked "So what happens now?"

Ian brightened. "Well, the tide's turning. In a little while it'll be deep enough that we can have a go at refloating them. Then it'll just be a case of stopping them from re-stranding."

"How do you do that?"

He gestured down the beach to where a group of wetsuit-clad people were prepping an inflatable boat. "We'll get some boats in the water. Try to herd them out. It can be a bit touch-and-go, though." He shook his head. "Sometimes they just seem to really want to strand."

John arrived, covered in sand and looking sunburnt. He had begged a spare wetsuit from someone and put the bottoms on. "Here, Joss." He passed a bottle of water to her and she sucked on it gratefully.

Joss gazed down the beach. It hadn't been her imagination – the waves were definitely advancing up the sand a little further each time. The whales seemed to sense it too. In a few minutes the clicks and squeaks from them became louder. Tails flopped in excitement. As the first waves began to reach them the clicking turned to hoots and squawks. Mama Whale flapped her tail and honked as the water reached her – Joss was sure she wasn't imagining the joy in that sound.

Water surged around her ankles. The sun was way past the zenith – where in the world had the hours gone? Further down the beach John was waist-deep in water, clad in his wetsuit and working at the side of a whale as the volunteers tried to turn it out to sea. She could hear the sound of a couple of outboard motors as the inflatable boats manoeuvred carefully around a group of three whales, keeping between them and the shore, trying not to panic them. A large wave came in and she realised she was waist-deep herself, and best of all Mama Whale was afloat. Baby was clicking by her side, trying to nuzzle in. Joss backed away to give them room to turn. The group of three was forty yards out from the shore now, swimming strongly. John's whale had turned too and seemed to be trying to join them. The boats fell back a little to try to give them room. Mama Whale had turned, but seemed to be hesitating.

"Come on, girl, come on," Joss found herself muttering. She moved in closer, placing a hand hesitantly on Mama Whale's cool, rubbery flank. "Come on, you go girl..."

The calf plunged ahead of its mother, heading towards the open sea. Mama Whale made up her mind and followed. Joss stood in the waves, watching as they moved slowly at first to join their pod. She felt a hand on her shoulder. John was there. The skin on his nose and cheekbones was bright red but his eyes were sparkling. Another whale was turning in the waves, its helpers cheering as it plunged after its fellows. The sun was almost at the horizon, their shadows stretching across the sand as they walked up the beach. Joss took a big, deep breath of the sea air. She was sunburned too, she realised, but it didn't seem to matter. She looked back over her shoulder to the boats out on the sparkling water, trailing the black shapes of the whales as they swam out into Golden Bay.

A/N: Project Jonah is real and has a website where you can find out more and donate if you are so moved.