There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer.
There is no dis-ease that enough love will not heal.
No door that enough love will not open.
No gulf that enough love will not bridge
No wall that enough love will not throw down.
And no sin that not enough love will redeem.
It makes no difference how deeply seated the problem.
How hopeless the outlook. How muddled the tangle.
How great the mistake.,
A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all.
And if you could love enough, you would be the happiest
And the most powerful person in the world.
(Author Unknown)

2001…Brisbane
Although my children were only three and four when I left their alcoholic father, they continued to have a loving relationship with him until their early teens, spasmodic as that often was. Sadly, Steve’s escape into the booze continued and by the time the children reached their teens, they were understandably ashamed of the way he conducted his life.

Our son Bobby, who is almost twenty, hasn’t wanted anything to do with him for several years and our daughter Olivea, eighteen months older, was so repulsed by Steve’s drunken state when visiting him two Christmases before, vehemently declared she never wanted to see her father again.
Having experienced my own father’s progressive decline because of alcohol addiction, I empathized with their pain and shame. But unlike my father, who didn’t know how to express his love, Steve had been an exceptionally loving and doting parent. Therefore, I hoped the children would make their peace with him before he passed on and it was too late.

I had only intended staying in Brisbane for six months, yet I’ve been here for fifteen. City living no longer appeals to me and as I need to save some money, as well as finish writing a book I’ve been working on, preferably in a harmonious environment on an island, I buy a paper for the first time in six months, and scan the positions vacant section. When a new resort on Norfolk Island advertises for staff and department heads, I send off my resume. Because of my mature age, I apply for the head housekeeper position. Four days later I’m interviewed by Kym, the resort owner’s thirty year old daughter. Three days later it’s confirmed that the job is mine.

The next two weeks are extremely hectic, as I pack up and store all my gear at my mother’s place, and prepare for my new adventure. In the midst of it all, Steve’s concerned sister phones from West Virginia USA. She hasn’t heard from him in recent years and hopes I will shed some light on his whereabouts. I tell her that the last time I saw him was outside a bottle shop, prior to my leaving the Sunshine Coast, north of Brisbane two years earlier. At the time, he was renting a cheap motel style unit, having recently been evicted from a caravan park. I promise to make some enquiries and get back to her.
When I phone the motel manager, he tells me Steve was evicted more than a year before for failing to pay his rent and that he hasn’t been seen since. Not knowing whether he is dead or alive, I phone Centerlink to enquire if he still receives a pension. Despite explaining the purpose of my call, I’m told the Privacy Act prevents confidential information being disclosed. Time isn’t on my side to go to the coast and investigate further, so I promise his sister I will do so on my return to Australia.

Olivea has been in a dysfunctional relationship with another girl for the past six months. But it is Olivea’s addiction to drugs and the hold Sheena obviously has over her, and not her lesbian relationship that is of concern. Having said that, I am concerned for their safety, as they are both of slight build and have already been subjected to nasty insults by ignorant people, who sit in judgment of them because of their relationship. As always, Olivea makes all kinds of excuses for Sheena and I hope and pray they will soon go their separate ways. My parting gift to Olivea is a book written by Wayne Dwyer and my gift to Bobby is one written by Deepak Chopra.

.
Brisbane 2002

After six months on Norfolk Island and another six in the Bay of Islands in New Zealand, I arrive back in Brisbane on Easter Sunday. Olivea is at the airport to greet me. She and Sheena are still living together, and is spite of her efforts to convince me they are no longer addicted to drugs, I suspect otherwise. Sadly, Olivea is still playing to Sheena’s tune, and the somewhat tense week I stay with them is not without drama. I had been looking so forward to a holiday with Olivea and Bobby at a resort on Stradbroke Island the week after my return, and as I had also invited their partners, I’m relieved Sheena will only be staying with us for a few days, instead of the entire week.
Yet, when we arrive on the island, rather than enjoy her own company or that of Bobby’s and mine, Olivea is too busy worrying about Sheena, who isn’t arriving until the latter part of the week. And when Sheena does arrive, she creates such a nasty scene Olivea tearfully goes back to Brisbane with her. The incident upsets me immensely, but Bobby remains calm and philosophical; his honesty, integrity and insight qualities to be admired. Olivea possesses the same traits, and I pray for the day when drugs will no longer have a hold on her, and she will again be the self- assured young woman she used to be; full of optimism and ready to overcome whatever obstacles stand in her way.
Bobby and his girlfriend are going their separate ways. Struggling to get his business off the ground which he operates from home, he asks how I feel about him moving in with me for a while. Ever since marriage and motherhood I’ve taken care of everyone else, so putting my own needs first since he and Olivea left home has made for a welcome change. To do exactly what I want, when I want, and with whom, has given me an exhilarating feeling of freedom and not something I want to relinquish. Nevertheless, taking into consideration his spiritual quest and searching mind and, anticipating it will be a time of sharing and learning for us both, I agree.

I haven’t forgotten my promise to Steve’s sister and when I tell Olivea and Bobby that I intend making enquiries when I visit the Sunshine Coast, they’re pleased. Olivea recently contacted the Salvation Army in the hope that they can assist in finding him, and as Bobby has done a lot of soul searching and recently completed a ten day course at a Vipassana Meditation Center at Pomona on the Sunshine Coast, he wants to resolve whatever he’s been holding onto, with regards to his father.
Vipassana means ‘to see things as they really are’ and is a universal technique the Buddha taught. It doesn’t involve dependence on a teacher, but rather teaches those who practice it to be free of attachment to race, gender, religion and spiritual belief. The ten day course, accommodation and delicious vegetarian meals are free of charge and expenses are met with donations from students who have completed the course. Past students are encouraged to volunteer their services so that future students may also benefit. These days Vipassana is taught in some of India’s worst prisons with amazing results, not only in the prisoners who undertake it, but also in the prison guards watching over them.
For twelve months I’ve lived and worked with people on a completely different wave length to mine and as I’m in need of spiritual nourishment and have been experiencing difficulty stilling my mind, I phone the centre for an application. It so happens, there’s a cancellation for the next course beginning the week after I leave Stradbroke Island.

Ten days of ‘noble silence’ (silence of body, speech and mind) is challenging, as is sharing a room with someone and not even acknowledging her. Getting up at 4.00 a.m. poses no problem, but meditating sitting cross legged on the hall floor for a total of seven hours throughout the first day is. I wonder if I will last the distance.
On the seventh day of the course, Anzac biscuits are served for afternoon tea and this brings to mind it is the 25th April. Not only is it Anzac Day, it is also Steve’s birthday. During the break, I sit beneath a tree in full view of Cooroora Mountain and wonder where he is. Having abused his body to the extreme for years, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s passed on. But what if he hasn’t? Is he still on the coast, or has he moved elsewhere? Whilst meditating later in the day, it’s made very clear to me that if he is alive and in need of help, I will do whatever I can to ensure he receives it. Not just because he’s the father of my children, but because my soul compels me to.

After I leave Pomona I book into a noisy Noosa Heads Backpacker, which is quite a contrast to the peace and solitude I have just left. At dawn the next morning, in a secluded spot on the beach, I meditate to the sound of waves. I am very much at peace and am thankful for the ten days of Vipassana. The next seven days I stay with various friends is full of social activities. I consider moving back to the coast, but as I need to write my book without fear of distraction, I fill out an application for a unit on Bribie Island, promising to post my references as soon as I return to Brisbane.
Busy doing my own thing, I almost forget about Steve. When I phone his sister, it’s disconcerting to hear she was informed by someone at the Maroochydore police station six months earlier, that a man fitting Steve’s description was sleeping on a bench near a shop. Yet, when I make enquiries at the police station, no one knows anything about it.
I walk everywhere in search of a bench near a shop, but to no avail. At the caravan park where Steve used to live, new owners have taken over, and the one or two people he associated with have moved on. I enquire at the block of motel units where he lived when I last saw him, but leave none the wiser. In case he may have passed on, I phone the Births and Deaths Registry and when he isn’t listed there as being deceased, I phone Lifeline and other welfare organizations. Each time I come up against a brick wall.
By going to Centerlink in person and explaining the situation, I hope to achieve more then when I phoned the year before, but as with all government departments, everything has to be done by the book. The receptionist is sympathetic to my plight and suggests I write Steve a letter. If he’s alive and receiving a pension, she assures me it will be forwarded to his postal address. I write of his sister’s and children’s concern and enclose several phone numbers where I can be contacted. Having done all I can and assuming he’s left the coast, I walk a few blocks to a café and order a juice.
I’ve barely sat down at an outdoor table when an elderly, bare-footed man, his head bowed down as though carrying the world upon his shoulders, walks past at a snail’s pace. Thrown over his shoulders and trailing behind him on the ground are two blankets. In spite of shoulder length grey hair and a grey beard reaching down to his chest, I instantly recognize him to be Steve. I expected the worst, but nothing has prepared me for this.
Flashbacks of the countless times I had thought he reached rock bottom, only to be proved wrong each time come vividly to mind. Surely, he can’t go any lower than where he is now! As I watch him, I observe others also following his movements; no doubt wondering, just as I have done whenever I saw a homeless person, what could possibly have happened in his life to bring him to that level. Would they look in contempt, pity or judgment at his exterior and see a down and out drunk who deserves to be where he is, or would they look deeper into his soul and see a man who was once a loving and caring father and a mother’s precious son. Someone who had so much to offer but sadly never realized it. Whose only means of escape from the pain he felt at the loss of five children, three failed marriages and all his insecurities was to drown himself in alcohol.
Not wanting to approach him in view of everyone, I decide to follow him to where we can speak in private. At a car park behind a block of shops, I momentarily lose sight of him when he bends down behind some cars. Not until later do I realize he was looking for cigarette butts. Retracing his footsteps back to the footpath, he crosses the road and walks in the direction of the post office. Keeping my distance, I follow.
As if sensing my presence, he turns around. As he does so, he lifts his head and looks directly into my eyes. It’s so unexpected that I haven’t time to escape from view. He smiles. As we draw nearer, he asks what I’m doing on the coast. I’m surprised at how sober and coherent he is and that his body odour isn’t at all offensive. I find out later he showers several times a week at the council pool. I tell him I’ve been looking for him and that I had written him a letter less than half an hour ago. He’s aware that his sister contacted the police and I suspect shame prevented him from phoning. When I tell him that she will raise the money for his fare to West Virginia, and if need be I will also contribute, he says it’s too cold for him there, and the Sunshine Coast is his home.
He asks after the children and promises to phone when he receives his pension. Standing at arm’s length from a phone box, I suggest he phone Bobby there and then. He’s reluctant to do so, but I insist. Bobby’s on the internet and Olivea at work, so I phone Steve’s two sisters without letting onto him I am placing the call. It’s long past midnight in West Virginia, but I know they’ll be only too happy to hear from him. In response to his older sister’s concern, he replies he is sixty-one and capable of looking after himself.
After the phone call, we sit on a bench outside the post office. Aware of people staring, I suspect they think I’m a caring person taking time to speak with the ‘down and out’. I muse to myself, ‘if only they knew!’ I’m shocked to hear his shoes were stolen by youths six months earlier and that he was bashed in the process. Apparently, the story made the front page of the Sunshine Coast Daily. He says he eats well at the Chicken Shop as the owners give the day’s leftovers to the homeless. He receives $400 a fortnight from the government and I assume his sober state is because it’s Tuesday, two days before pension day and he hasn’t any money left.
He claims to want to get off the grog, but can’t because there isn’t a Deter Unit on the coast. I promise to make enquiries when I return to Brisbane the next day. I ask where he’s staying in case I need to contact him. I suspect it is pride that prevents him from telling me and asks me to send any information to the Cotton Tree Post Office. When I offer to buy him something to eat, he says he isn’t hungry and that he can always book something up and pay later. I know that any money I give him will be spent on alcohol, so I wish him well and go on my way. After walking a few paces, I know I can’t leave without getting him something to eat. I buy two rolls and some sliced ham - enough to tide him over.
I find him only metres from where I had left him, sitting on the curb outside an office block. Cigarette butts emptied from his pockets and scattered on the ground beside him isn’t something he would have wanted me to see and it tears at my heart-strings to see how low he has gone. Rain begins to fall and when he offers his umbrella, which I suspect is his only other possession, I tell him I’m fine and that I enjoy walking in the rain. Fighting back the tears, I continue on my way, my heart filled with sadness.

I want to be alone with my thoughts, so I walk the ten kilometers to my friend’s home. Along the way, I stop at a phone box to inform Steve’s sisters of my intentions. I then phone Olivea and Bobby. Whilst holidaying on Stradbroke Island Bobby had spoken intimately about his feelings and of the times he cried at losing his father to alcoholism. After listening quietly to what I say, I ask how he feels. Although it pains him to know Steve has been living on the streets, he’s pleased I’m doing whatever I can to help him
I suspect Olivea will react on a more emotional level, so I decide to wait until I see her in person before telling her Steve is homeless. She asks for his address and when I say I haven’t got it, she angrily accuses me of keeping things from her and playing mind games. It’s typical of what I’ve experienced with her since her involvement with drugs, and although she always apologizes, I still allow her negative reactions to upset me. In the comfort of a bed at my friend’s home that night as the rain pelts down, I know I can’t leave the coast until I get Steve off the streets.
The next day I make further enquiries and am informed of a Detox Unit at the Nambour hospital, a twenty-minute drive from Maroochydore. Unfortunately it’s only for outpatients and I’m given the phone number of the Detox Unit at the Royal Brisbane Hospital (RBH) as well as several rehabilitation places. Moonya in Brisbane, owned and operated by the Salvation Amy seems the best choice. Sadly, there are more people needing help than beds and I’m advised to phone again on the Friday.
It’s imperative I find Steve before he receives his pension the next morning and wipe himself out, and as he’s requested I post any information to the post office about two kilometres from where I encountered him, I assume he lives in the vicinity. I search everywhere I think a homeless person might seek shelter, but without success.
I begin searching again the next morning. At a picnic shelter by the river, I ask a guy who looks homeless if he knows Steve. He says that as it is pension day, I’ll probably find him at the bank when it opens, but in the meantime he could be at a number of places looking for dumpers, which he explains are cigarette butts. He suggests I try the car park shopping centre first. I do the rounds, but no Steve. Undecided where to look next, I run into Anne, an ex-customer from the vegetarian cafe I used to own. I tell her of my mission and appreciate her kind offer of assistance, if I should need it.
Concerned I may have missed Steve, I return to the park. A man and a young girl who are with the guy I spoke to earlier saw Steve fifteen minutes ago outside the bank waiting for it to open. By the time I get there, he’s gone. At the bottle shop inside the shopping centre, I enquire if anyone fitting Steve’s description has been in. No one has. I head for the hotel. As I walk towards the café where I bought a juice the day before, I’m pleasantly surprised to see Steve sitting there with a cup of coffee, eating a salad sandwich.
I share my news with him and promise to do whatever I can to get him into Detox and rehab, but only if he truly wants help. When I remind him of the many times he attended Alcoholics Anonymous (A.A.) and never stuck with the program, he assures me that he wants to get his life on track and be the kind of father Olivea and Bobby will be proud of. I arrange to meet him at the café the next day at three, when I will know if there’s a bed for him at Moonya. If there isn’t, the friend I’m staying with has kindly offered a roof over his head until I get him off the streets. Steve declines her offer.
Bobby is waiting to hear from him, so I suggest he call from the phone across the road while I order a juice. A male friend I haven’t seen for several years walks by and sits down to chat with me. Rather than go into great detail when he enquires about the blankets draped over the chair, I tell him I’m helping a homeless person get into rehab. Steve returns, claiming both phones out of order. He’s noticeably uncomfortable, and after introductions, he leaves to make the call from another phone around the corner. My friend is quick to remind me that the hotel is in the same direction.

Sure enough, when I follow five minutes later, Steve is at the bottle shop buying a 750ml bottle of Bacardi rum, a large coke, a plastic cup and a packet of tailor made cigarettes. Less than a fifty-meter walk back to the cafe, he stops to rest several times. He has cirrhosis of the liver and should be in hospital, but is adamant about not going. The sooner I get him off the streets, the better. He pours himself a drink and accompanies me to the phone. I dial Bobby’s number and when father and son speak, I am joyous at the connection being made.
I visit friends in the area and by the time I make my way back to where I’m staying, it‘s going on dark. Curious to know where Steve sleeps, I walk via Cotton Tree. Another homeless person recognizes me from earlier in the day and tells me Steve sometimes sleeps near the library. I look in every nook and cranny, but can’t find him. I pass the park where a group of homeless people are gathered beneath a picnic shelter. From where I stand, I can’t distinguish whether Steve is there or not, but by the sounds of the raised voices, it’s obvious they’re arguing. I keep walking.
Further up the road, a homeless guy I spoke to in the morning is about to enter the driveway leading to the back entrance of a block of shops. I assume it’s where he sleeps. After chatting a few minutes, I wish him a good night. Even as I say it, I wonder at the irony of it. At least I have the comfort of a bed, but what does he and all the other homeless people have to look forward to?
When I phone Moonya the next afternoon, I’m told there still aren’t any beds available and to phone again after the weekend. Thankfully, when I phone the Detox Unit at the RBH, I’m told to bring Steve in the next day.

The next day Steve is waiting at the café at the appointed time and I’m delighted to see he’s had a haircut and shave. The barber, fearful of accidentally cutting himself and getting hepatitis or AIDS neither of which Steve, has left him with two days growth. Even so, it makes a vast difference to his appearance.
The rum purchased the day before is finished and replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka. He also has a full packet of tailor made cigarettes. As I later discover, this is usual procedure for the first few days after receiving his pension. As the money dwindles, he resorts to buying sherry. Yet he continues to buy tailor made cigarettes until down to his last dollar. Only then does he go in search of dumpers.
I order a juice whilst Steve drinks Vodka and coke from a plastic cup. The owners of the café, a kindly couple turn a blind eye. They comment on how handsome he looks. It’s obvious they care and are genuinely pleased he’s getting help.
I suggest he buy a pair of shoes and change of clothes, and as it gives him less money to spend on alcohol, I accept the thirty dollars he gives me. He’s reluctant to accompany me to the shoe shop, and when I tell the shop assistant that the shoes are for an invalid who can’t get out of the car, she allows me to take the shoes and a pair of socks so that Steve can try them on. Four times I go back to the shop to exchange one pair of shoes for another, before finding a pair that fits, all under the curious gaze of passersby. Ever since his previous pair was stolen, Steve hasn’t worn shoes and to ensure he won’t be robbed again, he intends sleeping with them on in future.
I’ve organized a friend to take us to the train station next morning and tell Steve to be dressed and ready when we pick him up from the park the next morning at 10.00 am.

Steve and several other homeless people are at the picnic shelter when we arrive. He still has on his old clothes, so I tell him we’ll return in half an hour, giving him ample time to change. When he still hasn’t changed on our return, I insist he do so. Not because I care what others think, but because I want him to start feeling good about himself. A guy who looks as though he’s had a very hard life gives Steve a hug. His parting words of not wanting to see him back in the park couldn’t have been more sincere.
The near empty bottle of vodka is finished by the time we arrive at the train station. After a thirty-minute wait, the two-hour train ride, with Steve very much on edge, seems to take forever. In an effort to keep his mind off his cravings, I talk to him about the children. He tells me how much he misses me, and I tell him that when he gets better, he’ll find himself a good woman. When he says he doesn’t want another woman, I quickly change the subject.
There isn’t a taxi stand at the station, so we begin walking in the hope of hailing one. None comes along. The five-minute walk, with Steve walking at a snail’s pace and stopping every few minutes for a rest takes half an hour. He’s craving a drink and as he needs to be reasonably sober for his assessment, I’m relieved there isn’t a bar or bottle shop on the way. At the Emergency Ward, an abrupt and uncaring woman in her fifties gives me a form to fill out, and when that’s done, she directs us to the Psychiatric Ward for Steve to be assessed.
It’s almost five when I phone the children. Olivea offers to come over after work, but by then Steve should have been accessed and admitted. Awaiting the doctor’s arrival from another hospital, Steve becomes even more agitated and keeps going outside for a cigarette. In case the doctor arrives, I need to remain inside. I dash out every so often to ensure Steve doesn’t take off in search of a bar. Thankfully, the doctor, a kindly middle-aged man finally arrives. The assessment takes half an hour. When Steve returns to where I’ve been waiting for him, he claims to need further detoxing and is distressed because he’s been told he can only stay five days.
Later, when I converse with the doctor in private, he explains how extremely busy they are, and as beds are always needed, no one ever stays longer than five days. When he asks if Steve came willingly, I tell him everything from the moment I found him on the streets. It surprises him that Steve took it upon himself to go to the barbers. It’s a positive sign and not something he usually comes across.
Whilst waiting with Steve to be taken to the Detox Ward, I comment on how he must be looking forward to a bed with clean sheets, having slept for more than a year in the open. I’m shocked when he tells me he’s been sleeping on concrete. When a staff member takes Steve to the Detox unit, I give him a hug, which is something I couldn’t have done a few years ago. As I watch him walk away, I’m relieved he’s in a safe place and getting the help he needs.
His sister is of course pleased when I phone her and it goes without saying that both children are joyous. Bobby has received emails from cousins in America expressing their happiness, and Olivea can’t wait to phone a half brother from Steve’s second marriage, who lives in Arkansas. I still haven’t divulged to her that Steve has been living on the streets and will wait and see how I feel about doing so, when I see her personally the next day on Mother’s Day. Knowing what it means to her and Bobby that Steve is getting help, is by far the best gift I could be given.

Needing to put into words how I felt when I stayed with her and Jess, as well as the incident on Stradbroke Island, I write Olivea a letter and give it to her when we meet for a Mother’s Day lunch at my favourite restaurant by the river. It’s one of many letters I’ve written to her in the two years since she began her love affair with drugs and as always, I emphasize the importance of learning to love and accept herself and to go beyond the conditioning ingrained in her; the consequence of two troubled father figures and my negative reaction to them. She may not have read the books I gave her, but I know she read my letters, and I’m forever hopeful she’ll eventually take heed. She’s in good spirits, so I fill her in.

Family and friends aren’t permitted to phone the RBH Detox unit, but Steve can phone out. He speaks with Olivea and Bobby every night. Both are supportive and as Steve isn’t allowed visitors, they promise to visit him at Moonya as soon as he’s allowed visitors there. I’m staying with my mother and as I don’t want her knowing what’s going on, the doctor allows me to phone directly to the Detox unit where a male nurse keeps me informed. I phone Moonya and am advised to make an appointment as soon as I know when Steve is being discharged, but warned it doesn’t necessarily guarantee a bed.
I look at my options. Olivea has volunteered to have Steve stay with her, but because of her circumstances I don’t think it a wise move. Bobby is presently staying at his girlfriend’s parent’s house and as he isn’t in a position to put him up, I inspect several boarding houses in the vicinity of Moonya. I find one that’s clean and respectable, s, but as I can’t chance leaving Steve alone, I’ll stay with him if I have to. Therefore, I’m thankful when Bobby agrees to stay with him if the need arises.
As soon as I know when Steve is being discharged, I make an appointment at Moonya for 9.30am. But when a friend who’s taken a street kid there, tells me ‘it’s first in first served’, I organize to pick Steve up from the RBH at eight. As I soon discover, arriving at Moonya at 8.30 am before anyone else isn’t advantageous to Steve being interviewed.
Steve is very much on edge, yet tries to convince me he’s not craving a drink. He says he can stay sober without the aid of Moonya, and that only when in the company of others who drink, temptation beckons. I take it all with a grain of salt. Conversing is arduous. We speak mostly about the children. He repeatedly tells me how much he’s looking forward to spending time with them. He again tells me how much he’s missed me. He’s emotionally and physically fragile, and as I don’t want him to have false hopes, I tell him I’ll be living like a recluse until my book is finished, but promise to visit him at Moonya on the odd occasion I come to Brisbane. And as soon as he’s better, I’ll help him find a place to live.
He’s anxious about not being allowed contact with the outside world for several weeks. I tell him it’s for his own good and that Olivea and Bobby will keep in touch regularly by correspondence. Olivea has promised to take him on an outing as soon as he’s allowed a day out and Bobby is keen to do weights with him. He’s also told Steve that he would like him to teach him woodwork.
When nine thirty finally arrives and Steve is taken away for assessment, I wait anxiously. An hour later he returns with the person who assessed him. Just like Steve predicted, he needs a few more days detoxing, which thankfully can be done at Moonya, providing there’s a bed
We are left to wait. Time passes. Steve becomes more agitated by the minute. No sooner has he smoked one cigarette, he lights another. I leave him to find out whatever I can. A very caring woman remembers him from the Detox Unit at the RBH. Concerned he may not get a bed after a further two or three days detoxing, she’s of the opinion that the five days he’s already had at the RBH will suffice. At least that way he’ll be assured of a bed. After more anxious waiting and much bed shuffling, Steve is accepted at Moonya.

I had told Steve on the day we discussed his going to Moonya, that in order to get in there, he would have to pay $100 up front before being admitted. I had also explained that Moonya would keep three quarters of his pension for food and lodging, leaving him enough for toiletries and cigarettes. He had received his pension three days before being admitted to the RBH for detoxing and was with me for most of the third day, so I’m shocked when he tells me he has only $90 in his bank account. The Vodka, Rum and coke cost $60 at the most, food probably cost no more than $10, and all I took from him was $30. Surely he couldn’t have spent $300 on cigarettes!

When I go to pay the $100, comprising his $90 and $10 from me, I’m told that his account can’t be accessed until the necessary paper work has been taken care of. I haven’t been able to access my credit card since my return to Australia and as Steve doesn’t have access to an ATM and I can’t withdraw from his account without the required documentation, none of which he has, he’ll have to come with me to the nearest bank several suburbs away. The bus stop is a two-block walk up hill, and taking into consideration a possible half hour wait for a bus, the entire procedure could take two hours. After explaining the situation to the receptionist, a staff member offers to drive Steve to the bank after lunch. If he doesn’t have enough money in his account, I ask the receptionist to phone me and I’ll return immediately with the balance.
The pack of twenty-five cigarettes he had on him when leaving the hospital cost $10 and is almost empty. Even if he only smokes a pack a day, the cost is an astronomical $140 a week. And as everyone at Moonya is in the same boat, there won’t be any dumpers left lying around when the money runs out. A Moonya resident tells me a large $20 packet of Drum tobacco and two packets of papers provide him with 150 thinly rolled cigarettes. I calculate that if Steve limits his smoking to twenty-five a day, one pack of tobacco a week will suffice. Regrettably, I’m not aware that during the first few days of his pension he smokes as much as seventy-five tailor made cigarettes a day, and his addiction to nicotine is just as strong, if not more so, than his addiction to alcohol. However, he can book things up at the canteen at Moonya, but not until the next day. To put his mind at ease, I go to the nearest shopping centre and buy tobacco and papers. I also buy chocolate which he says helps him with his cravings.
When I phone Bobby on my return to Moonya, he says I should be proud of all I have achieved. I am of course exceedingly happy with getting Steve into a safe haven, but as I’ve felt a guiding hand from the moment I made up my mind to find him I give thanks to the Universal God/Energy Force connecting us all. I then hand the phone to Steve so that Bobby can give him last minute words of encouragement. Before leaving, I give him a hug and wish him well.
I catch a bus to where Olivea works and when I tell her that Steve has just been admitted into Moonya, she expresses great delight. She says that if her father can overcome his addiction, then so can she. It’s been quite a day, and as I make my way back to my mother’s unit by bus, I marvel at the healing taking place in all our lives. .
Believing my prayers answered, I allow my thoughts to drift back in time to the six months of serendipitous events which brought Steve and me together, two people as different as chalk and cheese, yet both holding onto unresolved pain from the past.


1978…New Zealand Tonga Samoa Hawaii

The month is May, the year 1978 and I am footloose and fancy free. Surrounded by friends and family at the airport bar in the days when Brisbane resembles a big country town, its airport small and personal, I look forward with eager anticipation to yet another overseas adventure.
Three years have passed since the car driven by Ian, who was my first partner, collided with a tree on a lonely stretch of road, near the mining town of Mount Isa. He was killed instantly. The male passenger miraculously survived with barely a scratch. Ian had lived life down the fast lane and as it wasn’t the first vehicle he’d written off, his demise in the prime of his life came as no surprise. That he passed his thirty-second birthday was due more to good fortune than to good sense.
During the five and a half years we lived together, most of our fights were the consequence of his over indulgence in alcohol. Far too many nights I waited anxiously for him to come home, forever fearful of a knock on the door by a policeman telling me Ian had either been killed or maimed, or even worse, that someone else had been killed or maimed as a consequence of his reckless drink driving.
I left Ian long before the accident, and in an effort to forget him, I lived almost three years in Europe, hitch hiking in various countries and picking up work along the way. Although I had other loving relationships before and after his untimely death, I never stopped loving him. Not until four months after my return to Australia did I see him for the first time and when he held me lovingly in his arms, all the old feelings came flooding back. One month later, he pleaded with me to go away with him, but as he had continued to live life down the fast lane, I wasn’t about to leave myself open to being hurt again. One month later, I took off for Cairns and landed myself a job as a cook/deckhand on a thirty-eight foot prawn trawler.
Divorced from the rest of the world, the six weeks in Princess Charlotte Bay in far north Queensland has given me time for reflection. After careful deliberation, I had written Ian a twelve page letter in which I expressed my love for him and that I wanted to give our love another chance. On the day of the accident, the trawler was homeward bound to Cairns. In my possession was the letter I had finished writing only days before and which I intended posting on our arrival
It goes without saying the devastation I felt, when notified of the tragedy shortly after the prawn trawler arrived in Cairns. Not only because I was cheated out of being with the man I loved, but because he passed on without knowing how I truly felt. As he had continued to remain a ghost in my closet, I hoped a change of direction and scenery would help fill an empty void.
……………

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

In Paihia, in the Bay of Islands, I stay several days with an ex-workmate before catching a ferry across to Russell. I stay two nights with Lani, the delightful Maori mother of Whetu who I was in a relationship with ten years earlier. Reuniting with other Maori friends is a wonderful wakeup call to living each day in the moment. Two days later, I return to Paihia on a large trimaran with two brothers I met at the swordfish club the night before. After a cold night in Auckland, I look forward to my stay in the South Pacific where I’ll be wearing sarongs instead of multi-layered clothing.
…………….

Waiting in line to board the plane to Tonga, I strike up a conversation with a good looking Tongan guy who introduces himself as Dan. He’s an Economist with Qantas and returning to his island home for one week. With him are his two children from a failed marriage to an Australian. On our arrival, he organizes a room for me at a friend’s guesthouse. I look forward to spending more time with him.
As I walk along the oceanfront next morning, a royal guard and his wife invite me to a picnic lunch. Wherever I go, adorable uninhibited children follow. The market, abundant with fresh fruit and vegetables is the height of activity, and ever so cheap. Tonga is a poor country with a basic wage of $2.50 a day, yet I see no signs of poverty.
Dan welcomes me into the home of his large family. His father is the head doctor at the hospital and his great grandfather the first commoner to become Prime Minister. I attend two large family gatherings. One in a cave where we feast on two suckling pigs, yams and other delectable island delights, the other is at his grandmother’s on Mother’s Day. The food is prepared by her son who is the king’s personal chef.
Before the Mother’s Day feast, I accompany Dan to church. Directly opposite and facing the congregation is the King of Tonga, a giant of a man. Sunday is a holy day and although it’s forbidden to swim, play sport or partake in any other activities, it’s okay to walk along the beach. It’s acceptable for Dan and me to walk together during the days unchaperoned, but it isn’t acceptable for us to hold hands, at least not in public. Yet it is okay for those of the same sex to hold hands.
I had suggested to Dan’s sisters we all go to the movies, and when they arrive without him, I’m told it’s frowned upon for a brother to go with his sisters. TV hasn’t as yet reached the island, so the two storey dilapidated wooden cinema is jam-packed with a very boisterous and appreciative audience.
The next evening at the Dateline Hotel, Dan and I dine with a nobleman married to a princess. I’m 5ft 6ins and as I dance in the arms of his 6ft 4in massive frame, I’m thankful to have packed my three-inch high heels. His two sisters have come along as chaperones and after taking them home, we break protocol and go to ‘Joe’s Place’, a popular nite club. Official closing time is midnight but the bar remains open until 3.00am for select clientele.
. I attend another family feast the night before Dan’s return to Sydney, ever so grateful he has shared his island culture with me, and to have known him, albeit so briefly.

To see more of the island, I travel on the local mode of transport, a truck with a canopy and benches on either side. It’s dirt cheap and unpredictable. Time is inconsequential. An American artist, a permanent at the guesthouse accompanies me to the spectacular blowholes along the terraced south west coast. We wait one hour for the ‘bus’ to arrive and another hour for it to fill up with people and their produce. With umpteen stops, the twenty-kilometer journey, on roads nothing more than dirt tracks takes another hour. From where we get off from the bus, it’s another hour walk to the blowholes. It’s worth it though as there are hundreds of them along an eight kilometre stretch of coastline; the largest spouts going as high as almost 30 metres into the air.
Whilst relaxing by the pool at the Dateline Hotel a few days later, I meet an American who claims to be investing millions in the island. He boasts it will help the islanders, but I suspect he’s more interested in filling his own fat pockets. I’m tempted when his colleague tries to persuade me to accompany him to Honolulu in a private plane, but as I don’t want to miss out on my planned stay in Samoa, I wave him good-bye, having dined the night before with him and the captain on board German ship.
After two weeks of the warmest island hospitality, I board a plane for West Samoa. It’s the 24th when I leave Tonga, yet two hours later I arrive in Apia one day earlier on the 23rd, having crossed the International Dateline.

…………….

At the Apia Guest House, I am soon on friendly terms with a Yugoslavian couple from Melbourne, backpacking with their children. Tracey, a twenty-one year old Queenslander I met briefly in Tonga, is another happy resident. She’s on her way to the States for a modeling assignment.
An Australian in the import/export business invites me to a Fia Fia at the famed Aggie Grey Guesthouse. The palusami, a traditional dish of creamed coconut baked in taro leaves is absolutely mouth watering. I’ve just finished reading ‘The Drifters’ and as Aggie Grey is a characters in the book, I’m thrilled when my dinner date invites her to join us for a drink.
I rise early to go snorkeling with an American couple. At night we eat freshly caught fish bought at the market. Beginning at sunrise, I set off to explore the island on foot. At Solo Beach I chat with Elinis, a teacher at the local school. I graciously accept her invitation to visit her village the next day, and to stay the night with her family.
The one room home she shares with her husband Peni, siblings and parents is the only one in a village of thatched roof and grass huts. On my arrival, I am given the warmest of welcomes. Except for a thin mattress placed in the centre of the room for my comfort, the house is devoid of furniture. Everyone else sleeps on mats which have been rolled up and placed against the wall during the day.
Later, we swim in pristine, crystal clear waters. On the beach, happy children throng around as I dance to the rhythm of their ukulele, melodious voices and squeals of laughter. That evening at the house, we sit cross-legged in a circle on the floor for our evening meal. Several dishes of food are placed in front of me, and after helping myself to the food, the dishes are then passed to the parents. The other family members wait until the parents and I have finished eating before helping themselves to what is left. Dinner is followed with prayers and hymns. I can’t understand the language, but I feel their love.
I invite Elinis to accompany Tracey, the Australian/Yugoslavian family and me on a chartered boat ride to Monona Island, where scenes from the movie ‘South Pacific’ were filmed. A torrential downpour lasts the entire trip, yet on our arrival, in what can only be described as paradise, the sun shines in all its glory. The toilets on the island resemble Aussie outdoor dunnies minus the flies, sawdust and stench, and are strategically positioned at the end of narrow rock paths above the ocean.
On our last night in Western Samoa, Tracey and I both stay the night with Elinis and her family. My restlessness at sitting cross-legged hasn’t gone unnoticed, and I’m deeply touched that Peni has obtained a table and two chairs from God only knows where. Before retiring, the family encircles our mattresses and for the next hour serenades us with Samoan songs wishing us a safe journey. Elinis gives me a lava lava (sarong) and her mother gives me a shell necklace. Over the moon with the Australian souvenirs I give them, I regret not having more to give. But then I realize it’s the exchange of friendship that’s paramount, and of course that’s priceless. 

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A half hour flight and Tracy and I are in Pago, American Samoa for a fourteen hour stop over. We hitch into town. The American influence is prominent with wider roads, big cars and houses replacing huts. At a luxurious resort catering to the idle rich, we make ourselves at home on its private beach. The exorbitantly priced menu is way out of our price range, so we give our bodies a cleansing by eating papaya bought at the markets.
We are the only occupants in a cable car on a steep, spectacular and breathtaking ascent across the harbour when it comes to an abrupt stop. Dangling precariously metres from the top for what seems an eternity, we finally reach safety. After our harrowing experience, and not wanting to chance a repeat performance, we make our way down the mountain.

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At Honolulu airport, Tracey boards a connecting flight to LA whilst I remain to explore Oahu. After booking into a hostel, I make my way to Waikiki Beach.
There’s no risk of attack by sharks in the water, but I’ve been warned of two-legged ones on land who prey off wealthy divorcees. Unfortunately I don’t fit that category, but I do have expensive tastes and could easily be mistaken for one. Sure enough, only minutes after I lie down to bask in the sun, I’m approached by a bronzed, good-looking blonde guy, no more than twenty-one. A smooth operator, he knows all the right things to say to make a woman feel good, and no doubt a lonely and unsuspecting female could easily be sucked in, as he does his utmost to persuade me to accompany him for a swim. I suspect that as soon as he entices me into the water, an accomplice will take off with anything of value left behind. Realizing he isn’t getting anywhere with me, ‘Mr. Smooth’ goes in search of his next victim.

A friend in Dubai has given me the address of a guy who used to work for him and believing Hawaii to be a safe haven like Tonga and Samoa, I hitch to Kaneohe on the west coast where he lives. A man I hitch a ride with, drives me right to the front door and as no one is home, he kindly offers to take me on a tour of the island.
Arriving at the most northern and isolated tip at dusk, I find myself in a precarious situation when he lets it be known his intentions aren’t honourable. Sizing up the situation, I play along and let him think I’m a willing partner, the same as I did in a similar situation in Greece. When he turns off the main stretch of road onto one void of traffic, houses and people, I conceal my fear as my mind races with a plan of escape. On one side is the ocean with miles of isolated beaches and on the other side is bush. Inside the confines of his car I don’t like my chances, and to jump out unless he slows down isn’t an option. He’s well over weight, so my only chance of escape is to make a run for it when the car is stationary.
We pass a phone box. A solitary car parked on the beach half a kilometre further back gives me the opportunity I’m looking for. Having convinced ‘my captor’ I’m a willing participant, I tell him I forgot I had made plans to go out to dinner with a girl from the hostel, and that I need to leave a message informing her of my delay. I must have sounded convincing, as he does a ‘U’ turn back to the phone box.
The phone system is alien to me and even if I could contact the police, my would-be-rapist is within earshot. Even if he wasn’t, we are miles from anywhere, and by the time anyone came to my aid, it will be too late. My only hope is to make a run to where I saw the parked car. With heart pounding, yet trying to remain calm, I make out as though I’m dialing the number, all under the creep’s watchful gaze. When he hears me ask a fictitious person to pass on a message, he lights up a cigarette. He then sits back in a relaxed position to savour what lies in store for him. It’s exactly what I hoped for. My heart beats faster as I make a run for it. Without once looking back, I run as fast as I can on the sand towards the direction of where I saw the car, ever so relieved it’s still there.
Not knowing whether I’m jumping from the frying pan into the fire, I approach the sole occupant with trepidation. But the Forces of Good are with me. Don Kelly, a Russian linguist with the US Army is not only an officer and a gentleman, but my angel in disguise. He’s staying at Schofield Army base for two days en route to Boston, having spent the past two weeks in Korea, and enjoying his solitude when I appear from nowhere, rambling on about my traumatic experience. He kindly offers to drive me to the hostel.
Somewhat shaken by the ordeal but feeling safe once more, I’m able to relax and enjoy the company of the stranger beside me, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He’s a happily married man, but he enjoys my company and wanting to prove that not all American men are bastards, he invites me to dinner at the officers’ club.
A band plays as we sip on cocktails in the bar before adjourning to the restaurant. The next night, his last in Honolulu, we meet for a farewell drink. I feel very fortunate to have known him and will remain eternally grateful for the kindness he bestowed on me.

A conglomeration of interesting travellers is booked in at the hostel, but there are also local desperados to be wary of. To get away from it all, Kathy, an English girl who’s hoping to hitch a ride to Australia on a yacht, American Bill and his thirteen-year-old son, both gorgeous and feeling the loss of a loving wife and mother recently passed on, English Andy and yours truly catch a bus to Waimanalo on the western side of the island.
It’s a clear night on our arrival and rather than share Kathy’s cramped two-man tent, I feel relaxed enough to sleep in the open beneath the stars. Unbeknown to us, the campground has the worst reputation for theft in Oahu. David, an Aussie I met in Western Samoa joins our little group the next day. Another guy stops to chat. In the half hour he stays talking, his car is broken into. Fortunately, he carries his valuables with him. Another guy, away for the day returns to find his tent gone! I continue to sleep in the open, but Kathy isn’t taking any chances and sleeps with her guitar tucked inside her sleeping bag!
David wakes to find a slit in the tent near his head. Fortunately, his money was in the money belt around his waist, but the airline tickets and passport placed beneath his pillow are missing. Kathy had sprung an intruder sticking his head inside the tent during the night, so the decision is made to leave. I had felt perfectly safe in the South Pacific and assuming it would be the same in Hawaii, it’s a huge let down to learn otherwise. Everyone, except Kathy and me return to the hostel. Kahana, a further seventy kilometres north is recommended as safe, but we are warned to be on our guard. We decide to chance it and catch a bus there.
At Kahana, Hawaiian families are camped on the beach in huge tents and tarpaulins for three months during summer, and that’s how we met Linda. We tell her of our ordeal and she invites us to camp close to her. She proves extremely helpful and a trustworthy friend.
In the ensuing days she tells me she used to be married to an Italian. After the youngest of her three children commenced school, she was accepted at the Honolulu University to study law, and it was there she fell in love with a fellow student, another big Hawaiian woman. Her husband took it badly when she left him, but when he realized she left him for another woman, his male ego suffered all the more. The children seemed to have adjusted, but he’s having a hard time coming to terms with it. He visits the campsite often and even more so after meeting Kathy.
We are on the windward side and despite the lousy weather, our little tent holds up against the elements of nature. The night Kathy gets high with ‘Wild Bill’, an intriguing American who is into yoga and meditation, I fall asleep reasonably early, oblivious to the rituals and paranormal taking place around me. According to Linda, Kahana is the sacred place where spirits congregate. As they’re out in full force that night, she sprinkles salt around Kathy’s tent and leaves offerings of food near the entrance. Kathy is so spooked out by what she experienced of the supernatural at ‘Wild Bill’s’ campsite further down the beach, she returns to the hostel.
With Kathy and the tent gone, I move my sleeping bag beneath Linda’s tarp. We have some wonderful in-depth discussions and I question how a woman who has never desired other women before, can suddenly find herself in love with one. Invariably, there is so much to be gained when people open up to each other without reservation. Travelling solo, as I have often done since leaving home at sixteen, certainly broadened my mind, and I’m thankful for that part of me which embraces people from all walks of life. Just by having known them has enriched my own

On my last night in Hawaii, four weeks after my arrival, Linda invites all her Hawaiian lesbian friends from university for a party. They’re all large and very butch, but that doesn’t worry me. Accepting those for who they are and not judging them for their sexual preferences is paramount. However, after a few puffs of a joint being passed around, I know it is time to bid them all goodnight when they begin to look even more like men.
After an exhilarating drive back to Honolulu next morning in Linda’s jazzy little sports car with the hood down, and later a farewell lunch at the university, I board a flight to LA.

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Jane, an American lady I met on the Greek island Tinos four years earlier, is at the airport to greet me. In her luxury cliff top home, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, in the prestigious Los Angeles suburb of Palos Verdes Estate, I am made most welcome.
A letter from my Egyptian friend Nardia awaits my arrival. I haven’t seen her since our London days, and when I wrote to her several months earlier that I was returning to Europe via America, she decided to take her holidays at the same time and meet up with me in Houston. Due to unforeseen circumstances in Cairo, she’s not arriving for another five weeks, and with limited funds to last me until I commence work in Europe, I’m anxious about not having enough money to see me through. I’m more than welcome to stay with Jane until Nardia arrives, but Palos Verdes is miles from all the action, and public transport almost non-existent. Jane offers me her car, but driving in heavy LA traffic on the opposite side of the road to what I’m accustomed to isn’t for me.
It’s disappointing to meet with subtle disapproval from my hosts for contacting Malcolm and Jeri, a black American couple I was asked to look up by some Kiwi friends. Concerned they won’t be greeted too warmly, I arrange to meet them in downtown LA. Malcolm is a private detective and his long time friend Larry, who he used to work with in the Narcotics Bureau, is Director in Charge of Securities at Universal Studios, and I’m over the moon when I realize we’re going there.
From Larry’s office, we have a bird’s eye view of the entire complex. In the hallway leading to his studio, black and white portraits of famous stars line the walls. It isn’t public knowledge that Rock Hudson is gay, so it comes as quite a shock to see the lips on his portrait painted red. In the Celebrity Room Restaurant, not open to the general public, we dine amidst stars, directors and producers. I try to act nonchalant when introduced to several of them. After lunch, two commentators and one driver take us and twelve visitors from various parts of the globe on a fascinating tour on the VIP bus. It’s hired out at $250 an hour which is more than the basic weekly wage in Australia. We pass one hundred and fifty passengers seated in half a dozen small carriages with only one commentator. When Larry takes us by car to show us more of what goes on behind the scenes, he drives through sections open to the general public. As curious eyes stop to look, hopeful of catching a glimpse of a famous movie star, I have an inkling of what it must feel like to be a celebrity.
I attend several cocktail and dinner parties, one at Bel Aire. As we sip martinis on the balcony our host points out a mansion, which he claims is in the process of being built for Mick Jagger. I’m introduced to a divorcee on the lookout for another wife, but as the talk consistently revolves around money, I find the whole scene boring and superficial.
Needing to be on my own and in a different environment, I make the decision to travel by train and bus to Central America until Nardia arrives. Cost of living is cheap south of the border and if I live frugally, I should have enough money for the rest of my stay in the USA. To ensure I won’t spend more, I leave the remaining travel cheques with Jean who has kindly offered to drive me to Long Beach. From there, I board a bus to Calexico on the Mexican border.


2002…Brisbane

I’m brought back to the present, when the bus taking me to my mother’s unit twenty-four years later, drops me off close to where she lives, having said goodbye to Steve as Moonya two hours earlier. No sooner have I taken off my shoes when the phone rings. My elation is short lived, when the caller informs me Steve walked out of Moonya an hour after I said goodbye to him. In response to my asking why no one tried to prevent him from leaving, I’m told it isn’t a jail and people are free to leave at any time.
Time hasn’t permitted Steve to be taken to the bank. Assuming he was telling the truth, he has $90 in his account, but no cash on him for a bus fare. Its five kilometers from Moonya to the suburban bank and not much less to the city, and as Steve is flat out walking five minutes without stopping, it would take him forever to walk to either place.
I try to remain optimistic. Hopefully he’s booked into a boarding house, having convinced himself he can remain sober without rigid rules imposed on him. But what if he hasn’t? To be a homeless person in the city isn’t the same as being a homeless person on the Sunshine Coast. And as he isn’t a well man, I can’t sit back and not do anything. I phone several boarding houses listed in the yellow pages. When he isn’t at any of them, I go in search of him.
I’m uncertain as to which direction to take. If he’s intent on drinking and managed to get to the bank closest to Moonya, he would have gone to a bottle shop. After that, he could be anywhere. Forty-five minutes and two buses later, I arrive at the bank. Steve is nowhere to be seen. I search two parks in the area. He isn’t there. I get a bus to the city. I check out the parks and do the rounds of the city bars. Upset and close to tears, I stay long enough in one sleazy bar to drink a glass of red wine. It helps relax my frazzled nerves. I phone Bobby to find out if Steve contacted him. He makes some comment about his father wanting the reward without even trying to put any effort into getting it.
Pedari House, owned by the Salvation Army is a place for homeless men, and a twenty minute walk from the heart of the city. I phone and ask if Steve is there. Because of the privacy act, the information can’t be disclosed. The only thing the receptionist can do is to page him. I hope my going there in person will be advantageous. It makes no difference. Although there isn’t any response when Steve is paged several more times, it doesn’t necessarily mean he isn’t there. If he’s in a deep sleep, he won’t hear a thing. I’m advised to leave a message on the notice board and if Steve is there, he’ll hopefully see it, if and when he goes to reception.
I phone Olivea. She volunteers to help me look for her father as soon as she finishes work. We arrange to meet in the city. I phone another shelter for homeless people run by St Vincent de Paul, a catholic organization. I’m confronted with the same red tape. When Olivea and I meet at six, we decide that it’s best for her to be at home in case her father phones. That way she can tell him to catch a taxi to her place and be there to pay the fare. In the meantime, I’ll have another look in the parks near the suburban bank. Before doing so, I phone Bobby. Steve hasn’t contacted him and when I tell him of my intentions, he suggests that maybe I need ‘to let go’.
Public transport isn’t the best in Brisbane at night and after a twenty minute wait, I find myself on the wrong bus. Physically and emotionally drained, I see it as a sign to ‘let go’, just as Bobby advised. After all, it was Steve’s decision to walk out of Moonya. His words of wanting his children to be proud of him keep ringing in my ears, and I can only hope and pray he is safe and sound in a boarding house. Later in bed, I pray for all the Forces of Good to be with him, and before falling asleep I ask for guidance. Regardless of the outcome, it’s comforting to know that even if he passes on in the night, he will do so knowing his children love him, and that I had reached out to him with love.

When I awaken several hours later, I know I have to do whatever I can to find him. To determine whether he’s in the suburbs, in the city or made his way back to the Sunshine Coast, I visit a branch of the bank in which his money is deposited. After explaining to the cashier why I need to know if and where Steve may have withdrawn money from, she is most apologetic, but regrettably, the Privacy Act prevents her from divulging such information. I dread to think what a parent is up against when trying to find a missing child, when the Privacy Act prevents those in a position to do so from giving out necessary information.
I phone the boarding houses again, but to no avail. I return to the city and check out the Mall. I return to Pedari House. The message is still on the notice board and Steve doesn’t respond when paged. Night is falling when I arrive at St Vincent de Paul. With so many lost and desperate souls waiting for the dining room to open, I’m not too fussed at being there. It’s probably pointless anyway. An alcoholic, possibly in his forties walks alongside me for several blocks. He claims to have been very successful in the music business, and if what he says is true, his ex-wives have taken him for every cent. For whatever reason, he isn’t receiving any government assistance and survives by rolling people for their money. It isn’t a comforting thought. Sadly, the several boarding houses I visit in the area turn out to be almost as depressing as the shelters.
Not wanting any negative input or added concerns, I haven’t involved my family. However, as my nephew is in the police force and can’t betray my confidence, I hope he can find out which bank Steve withdrew the money from, as well as ascertain if he’s booked into a shelter. But, all my nephew can do is to report Steve as a ‘missing person’.

Curious to know why Steve walked away from help, I speak to the person at Moonya who accessed him. He’s of the opinion that Steve saw me as a lifeline, and up until I said goodbye to him, was probably hopeful of me taking him with me. I suspected as much. But then again, it could be that the thought of four weeks of isolation from the outside world was too much for him, or that five days detoxing wasn’t long enough, and his cravings too strong.
When I question the doctor at the hospital, he suspects Steve is living in the past and hasn’t let go of me in his mind, not at all unusual for someone in his condition. He also suspects that he had made up his mind to leave Moonya before I even walked out the door.

I phone Anne, the woman who offered to help if I needed any. I ask if she would mind stopping by the park to see if Steve has returned there. She phones me that evening. When Steve wasn’t in the park, she enquired at the café where I first sighted him, and the owners told her they had sighted him on the other side of the road that morning.
When Anne returns to the park the following day, Steve is there. He says he isn’t hungry when she offers to buy some food, so she gives him ten dollars to buy some later. It’s a loving gesture, but I tell her the money will probably be spent on booze. She intends returning to the park for a barbeque and told Steve to invite his homeless friends. When she says she feels love for him, I think it wonderful she cares.
Disappointed he’s turned his back on help, I’m relieved he’s on the coast. Whereas Bobby is philosophical and intends putting into practice what he’s learnt on loving detachment, Olivea is angry and upset. I understand her feeling that way. In the past, I too had felt those very same emotions and had also acted upon them. The broken promises, the lies, the disappointments and heartaches have been prevalent in my life more times than I care to remember; not just with Steve, but with Ian and my father.

Too preoccupied with Steve to contact the real estate agent on Bribie Island, the unit I was interested in has been rented out to someone else. I return to do the rounds again. I find one to my liking, but as it won’t be vacant until the weekend, I make an appointment to inspect it on the Saturday.
Curious to know why Steve walked out on Moonya, I return to the Sunshine Coast. The sun has been up several hours when I find him with several other homeless people, at one of the picnic shelters in the park. I flippantly remark that he must like the park and the style of living it offers for him to have returned there. He says he doesn’t, but isn’t impressed with the Salvation Army wanting two thirds of his pension, and then expecting him to work as well. I had explained it all to him before we left the coast; the money covered food and lodgings, and the light duties would help him adjust to everyday normal living. A doctor would have diagnosed him first and if he wasn’t well enough to work, he would have received medical care, and if necessary, admitted to hospital.
It was a cold night. The blankets he owned prior to going to Moonya passed on to someone else, and the solitary one in his possession, very thin. I’m tempted to get him another one from the Salvation Army store, but as he managed to make his way back from Brisbane, I figure he’s also capable of walking the few blocks to the store. I tell him he has two choices; either keep on the way he’s going and more than likely die all alone in the gutter, or get help and hopefully have a few years of quality living ahead of him. I promise to find out what other rehabilitation places are available and get back to him before I leave for Bribie Island. I give him a hug and wish him well. As I walk away, I hear him say ‘I love you’. I fight back the tears and keep walking.

At the Nambour Detox Unit, I speak to a very compassionate young woman who tells me that most of the ‘out patients’ are drug addicts on the Methadone program. However, if Steve decides to get help, all he has to do is phone and make an appointment, and she will access him and make the necessary arrangements. She assures me I’ve done everything I possibly can and it’s now up to Steve. Having planted the seed in his mind, she’s of the opinion that it could be the catalyst for him getting help. I hope she’s right.
I phone the numbers given me. The Shangri-la at Cooroy on the Sunshine Coast hinterland, accommodating six men and boasting a large lake seems the ideal place for Steve. The Christian owner comes across as genuine and caring. He even takes the guys fishing and on other outings. It’s also miles from the nearest pub. Visitors are welcome to come at any time. As with every other rehab place I phone, a good portion of the pension is taken for food and lodging.

Before leaving the coast, I return to the park so that I can give Steve all the information and brochures I’ve accumulated. He arrives a few hours later, and I’m glad to see he’s wearing a very thick jumper and two blankets slung over his shoulder. In one hand he’s carrying a plastic cup with rum and coke, and in the other, a bottle of rum. Extremely red and bloated in the face, he looks much worse than four days earlier. I suspect he’s been drinking solidly since receiving his pension. I pass on the information about the Detox unit at Nambour and when he claims it’s too far to travel 20 kilometers there by bus to be accessed, I remind him that he made his way back to the coast from Brisbane okay. I strongly advise him to at least phone the guy at Shangri-la.
I promise to enquire about other rehabs in Brisbane and the Gold Coast and post the necessary information to him. And, if and when he changes his mind about getting help, and he no longer has the necessary information, he can always contact me via my mother and I’ll get the information to him.
It isn’t easy walking away, but having done all I can, it’s now up to Steve as to which road he travels. My belief in miracles hasn’t diminished, and I hope and pray that the road he chooses will be the one to sobriety.

I return to Bribie Island. The unit is ideal, but as the owners are overseas and it will take a week for the application to be approved, I return to Brisbane. The next day it starts to rain heavily and continues to do so for the rest of the week. I wonder where Steve sleeps and if he’s protected from the harsher elements of Nature. I pray for the Forces of Good to watch over him, and find comfort in knowing help is only a phone call away.

On the Sunday five days later, I receive a phone call from a man who introduces himself as Shayne. He recently befriended Steve and is most concerned about him living on the streets in such miserable weather, when he should be in hospital. Anxious he could die if he doesn’t get help, Shayne phoned the Salvation Army and demanded Steve be placed in care by no later than Monday. In case the Salvation Army doesn’t come to his aid, he hopes I will. I tell him why I divorced Steve and of the countless times I rescued him, not just whilst married but afterwards as well, and that my rescuing days are over.
Concerned Steve lacks nourishment, Shayne gave him fifty dollars the week before and twenty dollars more recently. I tell him Steve is an alcoholic and the money would have been spent on alcohol. Apparently, Steve admitted to being an alcoholic, but claimed to have been dry for some time.
Eleven days have passed since he received his pension of $400. In that time Anne gave him ten dollars and Shayne gave him seventy. No wonder he looked red and bloated in the face when I last saw him. To have convinced Shayne he’s been dry for quite a while shows me how conniving he can be. I wonder how many other people have given him money, believing it would be spent on food.
I tell Shayne that as I’m no longer married to Steve, I haven’t the legal right to admit him to a hospital or anywhere else. I fill him in on how I found him, and that I know for a fact he drank a bottle of Bacardi and a bottle of Vodka prior to going into Detox at the RBH, all in the ti