Passport: A Novel of Adventure and Intrigue

By Michael R. Häack

Recovering from a broken marriage, schoolteacher Mike Stanton has decided to abandon his life in California and immigrate to New Zealand. With high hopes, a large backpack, money, and documents in hand, Mike boards a Pan Am flight from San Francisco bound for adventure.

Trouble arises immediately when his flight develops engine trouble and is diverted to Hawaii. During the days of waiting for another flight to take him onward, Mike falls in love with the beaches, surf, and island girls but is still content to leave when the time comes. Upon his arrival in New Zealand, however, he is informed he cannot immigrate after all. With only three months until his visa expires, Mike decides to explore the stunning countrysideand soon finds himself caught up with a gang of passport counterfeiters. He is stalked and mistaken for an FBI agent, and in the serenity of this South Pacific paradise, he is kidnapped, the first in a series of treacherous events that the wayward teacher may not survive.

In this thriller, one man on an extended vacation in New Zealand finds himself out of his depth, mixed up with international criminals, and facing dangers that could end with his death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456733711

Michael R. Häack

The author resides in Modesto, CA, and is an artist working in mixed media, graphics and fabric art.

Book preview

Prelude

The pilot flew the Cessna, an older 172 with high wings and fixed landing gear, directly at the top of the mountain. There was no doubt in my untrained mind; a crash was inevitable!

Hey, look out, that mountain… I yelled.

No fears mate, he said calmly. Those tracks across the top of that ridge, see?

I looked ahead then, and down through the airplane windshield at what appeared to be an area the size of a competition swimming pool. It was complete with three distinct wheel ruts rippling through the skree of high altitude debris and ice that capped 11,400-foot Mt. Cook.

When we can’t get enough lift some days, he continued to look ahead this time, we taxi across the top of that ridge and fly off down the backside. He waved a practiced hand to indicate how simple the maneuver would be.

You mean to tell me we’re going to land there? I asked nervously, eyes focused ahead in fear and now my mouth and throat took on the exact same sensation which I recognized fear out of control. The crest appeared to be angled rather steeply downhill, was not very smooth, and dropped directly off the back side into snow, automobile-size boulders, trees, and steep nothingness.

The pilot turned his head and grinned, No fears. Said in an almost arrogant voice, designed to ease doubt and tension in a sweat-filled cockpit, it did precious little good for the two of us. I do this all the time. Jeff turned then and faced forward.

I gave a quick look at the only other passenger who was seated behind me. He was a dark-skinned gentleman, sporting a most professional-looking bandage on his left hand, a very poor ‘rug’ and a face which screamed, ‘Disguise.’ He introduced himself as U.S. Navy Doctor John Ashley and he was all navy, from the electric blue dress uniform with ribbons, to his spit-shined shoes, to even detailed buttons in polished brass. I glanced with a look of what I hoped was mutual doubt though. No other passengers being on board, I sat beside the pilot in the right front seat. Ashley, seated in one of the back seats, showed some concern, but in light of what I considered certain disaster, remained stoically indifferent to the surroundings as well as to us. I suspected he was either drunk or on some form of medication.

Er… and just how often do you fly this route? I asked the pilot.

Oh, all the time, he replied confidently sharing a well satisfied grin with his passengers.

All the time? How often could that have been? The pilot, Jeff, had told us he was all of 23-years-old. Dressed in casual shorts, a badly faded brown company shirt with logo applied and tennis shoes, he was not the picture of any pilot I had seen or envisioned. Still, the company, Southland Aviation, had said they only flew in the summer months, and then only if no storms appeared on the horizon. We had been lucky, as mild weather had been moving south from the Banks Peninsula now for a solid week.

The elderly Cessna had a dull coat of paint, mostly streaked with oil stains from some past adventures yet unnamed, well scratched plastic windows (educated guess would be wiped too often with a dry cloth), and an interior which said hours of sweating bodies with very poor quality antiperspirant, left the cabin forever smelling like a cheap hotel room including dingy seat covers and well worn floor mats. Still, if it goes up in the air on command, and comes back down again, also under control, then that’s the definition of a safe flight after all. A pilot friend once told me, A good landing is one which you walk away from; a great landing is one where the aircraft is usable again afterward.

Here we go then, hang on. His words shed a casual certainty on what appeared to be desperate circumstances.

I pulled my seat belt into strangle mode, listened to my heart race up past 120 beats per minute, swallowed three times (a known cure for nausea), and hung on. We seemed to hover over the peak of the steep ridge, and then, engine racing with a well used roar, and the prop pitch set tightly in a scream, we touched down, one bounce, two, three, and as Jeff accelerated the engine into a maximum roar we raced downhill, bumped and swayed across the ridge, and in what I considered aircraft desperation, flew off the backside. True to his word he did it again. Only this time — it didn’t work!

Following what I later recalled sounding like a large door being slammed hard there was a rather unnerving eruption from forward in the engine room. With all the glory of a fireworks stand going up early on a quiet morning, something inside that engine blew up in our collective faces! Hot oil filled the plastic windscreen and blew around the side windows. All forward vision went from about a 270 degree field of view to all vision being blacked out for a split second; time enough to glance at my shocked companion. Then, in sharp contrast to the black smug of oil, angry orange-red tongues of fire whipped past the left side of the cockpit. In an obsessed manner they appeared to struggle to enter the pilot’s airproof window, slither around the vent opening and flow on past toward the back of the aircraft. Jeff, silent and seemingly unconscious, artistically slumped forward and discharged a sort of muffled gasp.

We, that is myself, terrified and shrieking, Jeff, quietly unconscious, and the good doctor, yelling in an impossible to decipher foreign tongue which to that point none of us realized that he spoke, left the backside of the ridge in a manner which would have sent the Wright Brothers scampering back to their drawing boards, and then with us all still contained inside, the dying aircraft dived down the icy cliff face into waiting boulders, ice, snow and silent old pines.

I had time to notice that a small flock of birds, bright yellow in color, were disturbed by our raucous morning invasion and scattered for safer lodging.

Jeff, Jeff, do something, do… My eyes swept past his slumped figure and fell on the dash-mounted radio microphone. I tried to think, with a brain on full scream, and a heart in the 220 bpm range, and hands that matched the nature of the trembling aircraft, I tried to recall, had Jeff used the radio at all this flight? Do ‘they’ even know where we are? I suspected not. And, as the plane impacted with snowy ice and boulders, it lost wheels, blades ripped off the prop, portions of the horizontal stabilizer were swept aside and the engine uttered a final smoldering sigh while the three of us, still encapsulated inside the fuselage edged off the backside of the peak. At that moment it dawned on me to yell in a dry, scratchy, and remarkably dead sounding voice,

Mayday! Mayday!

No one heard.

ONE

He saw me as soon as he entered the office. With a sigh and a smirk, which offered me precious little of the confidence I so desperately needed, he slammed the door and slapped his imitation alligator file case on the desk. I tried to remain calm, and sat with my legs crossed, and forced a smile.

I can’t believe you came here today anyway. Tall, dark, and arrogant, Mark had a way with words. The way was called control and seemed to go well with his job as a counselor. I already told you there is little need.

In a disconnected manner, my face continued to smile, while the rest of me fought to overcome the urge to cry out, and I replied, You said, maybe. You said we should take some time and consider, er, things. You gave me some hope. I wanted to scream now!

He ruffled his perfect long black hair, pushed black rimmed glasses up a Roman nose, and stretched out in his fine leather office chair, black of course, with arms crossed and legs pointed my way. His total body language said, Crawl insect! You haven’t a hope.

Look, ah, Mike. Had he forgotten me or my name? I was still the same tall skinny blond guy in shorts who had been in his office only two days ago. We spoke again this morning. She and I spoke. There is nothing more to say on the subject.

Desperation now. No, but, she said maybe. She said we could take some time and try…

No! That is not what was said.

But wait, I have tried all the things you suggested…

No, Mark was big on interruptions. You are compulsive, obsessive, you clean house all the time, always have to work in the yard, you’re not spontaneous. Basically, you do nothing to further the life of the marriage. My client has spoken. There will be a divorce!

I tried once more. All I wanted was to be told maybe, perhaps in time. She said that if I tried…

Mark continued. The discussion was if she wanted reconciliation, which she does not. The matter is closed. You will be served the papers within a week. Now, are there any questions you have for me? If not I have further needs to attend to; my waiting room, as always, is filled.

Oh, gosh no. No questions at all. I mean, after all, you just slapped the lid on ten years of marriage with a coldhearted and businesslike shrug. No, I have no questions for you.

I mentally surveyed the waiting room. Who was next out there? If I held out long enough, would they all solve their problems, without the interference of dear Mark, and go happily home, together?

So Mike, what are your plans? Perhaps a girlfriend in the future? He was such an arrogant rat and his manners always ran to the cheap, sleazy and banal.

I refused him his moment of glory, stood up with what I considered a combination of scared anger, and angry dignity, crossed the room and closed the door carefully behind me. I mentally wished the sad souls in the arm-chaired waiting room good fortune.

Outside the weather was mild, the traffic passed at a brisk five o’clock stampede, and pedestrians charging by were indifferent to a broken heart. I decided to make the move at once. Closing my eyes I dashed into the street. Dead on the paving stones was exactly how I saw myself. That would end it all and I would have no need to face the future. Astonished and intact I touched a parked car across the street.

Hey, you stupid … you wanna get killed?

Well yes, that was the idea.

Dazed, I fished out keys, started the car, and automatically drove to what had been our home. This house during the past three years had been a lovely place, ‘til today. Today I arrived at an impersonal box, alien to me. Who would live there now? Perhaps the boyfriend from the south would move in. Name unknown, yet surely he must have been the one to encourage this abrupt end to life, hope and love.

She was there, and as much to insult as to isolate, was locked in the spare room. That room, which was to have been a children’s room, had fallen far short of that goal as time wandered past, and no giggling brood arrived. I scooped up Adolph the cat, and went to sit in my domain, the garage.

In the soft garage light sat what would become her car, our precious Lotus Élan, and my old German Krobbelwagen. The place was clean, spotless as always, and quiet, way too quiet. I removed the gun from the closet and checked for shells. Now it was time to decide, where and how.

Shooting yourself in the head with a shotgun is never easy. The trigger is too far away for most arms. I was the exception. Six foot one inch tall and weighing the usual 145 pounds I had unusually long arms and would have been a great backstroke swimmer but chose to swim breaststroke in college instead. Still, it helped now as I could easily reach that trigger and planned to, but not here, not in the clean garage. Besides, the mess could get on the spotless white Lotus. Perhaps my compulsion with cleanliness saved my life that bleak evening in February of 1978.

Further plans for self-destruction abated as the door opened and she paraded out, grabbed the gun and remarked, You can’t be trusted with this. I’ll take it! That last night the cat and I slept in the car, not the Lotus of course. No good getting cat hair on the fawn-colored leather.

In the darkness of an early morning I gathered my clothes, the old car, and settled in with my brother.

I would continue to teach school for a while. I worked, without a contract and with very poor pay, at a middle school as a sports instructor.

My few friends, mostly guys I ran with on a cross-country team, lent precious little support for the times.

Hey we’ve all been divorced. It’s not a big thing. Life goes on. To them it was no big thing and we continued to run daily. I continued to run, ignored their mostly useless advice, and took up sulking and worrying on the side.

As time passed it appeared as if the world would revolve as always with one small exception; I was no longer a partner in a marriage.

Then, without warning, I read the ad in a travel magazine. Within weeks I obtained passport, visa, and money, and gathered possessions into one large backpack. Early one morning, while life went on as usual, I boarded a plane for New Zealand. I planned to emigrate.

TWO

Ok, so I was a little overly excited, but then New Zealand was still wilderness country. Wilderness equaled exploration, which meant adventure. I was desperately in need of a change of life, thus, adventure. With a landmass the size of Colorado and a population of only three million, there was a lot of wide-open space.

New Zealand had some extremes to consider too. The top end of the north island is ‘so California,’ that a tiny town was even named after our over populated and polluted state. The countryside is fields of green, masses of trees, low hills, and beaches, beaches, beaches. The north island boasts New Zealand’s two largest cities: Auckland, population one million, and Wellington, also one million. The remaining one million citizens are spread over the 45,300 square miles of the tiny South Pacific country.

The south island of New Zealand is a mixture of the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, the fjords of Norway, and the ice fields of nearby Antarctica. Throw in such lovely cities as Christchurch, Queenstown and Dunedin, and such scenic spots as Cape Farewell, Lake Te Anau and the snowfields of Mt. Aspiring, and you have one of the most beautiful places on earth. The peace of a country with a small population and an amazingly low crime rate, the pasturelands of gentle sheep herds, and the musical falling waters of mountain streams, make south island a sylvan pastureland, that flows from snow-capped mountains to the coves, then drops to the casting azure of the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea.

The width of this country of two major islands varies, from two miles to a whopping 130 miles in width, at the waist of the north island. This wide area is located around Waitara on the west coast and Gisborne on the east coast. The very tip of the north island is known as Cape Regina, which is approached by Ninety Mile Beach. This span of countryside, which is actually about 40 miles long, is only about one mile wide. All things considered, to a footloose adventure-driven young man, it sounded like heaven. It was, only things did not work out exactly as planned.

My flight on Pan Am left San Francisco for Auckland, but was diverted to Hawaii.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. The voice over the P.A. system on the plane caught our attention from dozing, reading, and relaxing. We have some smoke in the area of one of the engines. No doubt here as we’d been watching that out the starboard window now for some minutes. We will be putting down at Honolulu International for a quick check over. The weather is beautiful, 88 degrees with a mild sea breeze. You should not be inconvenienced at all. We expect to be back in the air within the hour.

For several years I had spent Christmas on the islands and knew well what lovely weather surrounded the lush palms, warm casting Pacific, and lovely brown maidens. I was not at all disturbed.

We were quickly and in quiet organization, marched off the plane and into a small waiting room. We anticipated a very short break in our travel and so brought out paperbacks, coffee cups, and sat in the hard crushed polyester and chrome chairs provided without complaint.

Time passed, pages turned, coffee vanished, I shifted in my seat.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? Another P.A. announcement. Pan Am Flight 462 passengers bound for Auckland, New Zealand should make their way to the Pan Am ticket counter in the main passenger terminal.

Great. We are on our way at last, three hours later.

The agent at the counter did not reveal good news.

We will be putting you up in the Reef Side Hotel for the night. This Pan Am agent was young, lovely, tan, and met with my idea of a Hawaiian island girl; all smiles. However… The plane will be replaced tomorrow with a different craft. Numerous problems have grounded the plane you arrived on. Your luggage will be moved to your rooms for you. Please queue up at the bus stop just outside the main entrance. Thank you for flying the wonderful world of Pan Am. Mahalo.

Blank stares. We were not on our way to New Zealand after all, rather, headed to some island hotel, and I would wager not an overly rated lodging at that.

Not what I paid for… typical of Pan Am… I want a refund… what in the heck do they think they’re doing with my vacation time?…voices in the crowd of passengers now offloaded and headed for something other than their planned stay in New Zealand filled the waiting zone around the booking area.

Crossing the tiled lobby and heading outdoors toward waiting rows of taxis and buses, I could not miss the angered voices of a crowd gathered around a short dark man, waving his arms in what could only be sharp displeasure. Speaking in a tongue foreign to my English, the message was nonetheless clearly anger.

What is the problem? I whispered the question more to myself than the crowd. Another tourist and I stopped to watch. While no help appeared in the sea of passing travelers I was moved to offer aid to a sobbing young lady, near hysteria by my judgment, standing alone and agonizing over a small handful of bills; foreign bills, not U.S. dollars.

Don’t get involved in foreign affairs. That’s none of your business. The voice of an airport official at hand, oblivious to human emotions I would think. However, I forged ahead into unknown waters.

Ma’am. Can I help you in some way? I asked gently. What I could do was beyond me; beyond her too it would appear.

No. Please, no. Go away, quickly, she urged me. She was of student age, Asian, lovely, and rather lost. I was not quick enough.

You, get out of here now. Now! Strong accent, possibly Middle Eastern, the man with the fluid arms and sharp voice came my way. This is not your business. Scat!

Scat? Scat is what you tell a cat or a small boy. I hesitated just long enough to receive a very hairy-armed shove and a close up look at angry eyes and a monobrow bent in a frown. Stay out of what does not concern you! Short, darkly angry, I would know this man in the future if the need arose.

I left then, walked on with a backward glance at his continued stare and angry-eyed surveillance. I was not soon to forget that face. Nor would I forget the lovely young lady in certain distress, isolated it would appear from provisions, both physical and financial.

At the exit, authorities asked me to show my Pan Am ticket, passport, and other photo identification; in this case my California driver’s license from my wallet, as proof that I was a passenger transferred from a delayed flight. Soon we were seated on an island bus and bound for the hotel. I was unable to shake off the feeling of fear and isolation I sensed in that harried young lady at the airport. What could have been going on? Had she lost money, maybe her passport? Also, I wondered why that hairy man was so rude, both to her and to me. I may as well have talked to the metal seatback in front of me. My mind refused to give me back any answers, so I looked out the window.

Hmmmm, so how come a Hawaiian Islands tourist looks so unexcited? The voice belonged to the middle-aged man dressed in a flashy floral shirt, sporting a well established suntan, and seated beside me. He seemed interested in my dilemma so I shared the drama, including the plight of being grounded in Honolulu for a day or so. About my age, middle 30’s, named Tad, and coincidently also staying at the lovely Reef Side Hotel, he was back to the grounded aircraft story; the more important issue of the Asian girl in the airport shouting match soon forgotten.

The trip from airport to hotel lasted far too long for an already impatient tourist, so we passed the time in general conversation.

Have you been to Hawaii before? You know, I actually live here. Tad was full of good advice. I drove taxi on the Big Island, got bored with the grind, so here I am just goofing off and looking for a new job. Tad laughed to himself. I suspect he was considering how likely it was that he would find any form of employment in tourist- jammed Waikiki. I would have offered a suggestion, but he was off again. You simply must visit Pearl Harbor and see the ships. You do plan to take the harbor tour, right? I hated to disappoint him, so I pumped his ego a bit instead.

Well, thanks for the idea, I said. Actually I was in the Navy and was stationed onboard a submarine. In fact it is currently anchored at the Pearl Harbor museum and it is open for public tour.

He looked surprised. I thought you were a coo…er… a school teacher I mean. He recovered so quickly I had to glance at him and wonder what it was he had almost said about my occupation.

I was in the Navy. At this point I fell into the usual Mum’s the word, sworn to secrecy phrase. I worked in communications.

Hey, but on a sub? Man, that’s cool. Tad was excited. Tell me all about sub duty. Is it cool, scary, do you get sea sick? Where did you go? Wow, take him to the Navy recruiter and sign him up for a four-year hitch.

I tried to make it interesting without going into details. The history of my years in the U.S. Navy was buried in secrecy, and few if any details from those years of service have crossed my lips in the years since. I tried cat-and- mouse with young Tad.

Well, of course there was the usual shipboard stuff and time in schools and ashore on liberty. I attended a school in Imperial Beach, California as well as one at the Army Presidio in Monterey. After that I…

Imperial Beach? Wow, I grew up in Imperial Beach. That must have been that really hush hush place on the beach. We used to hear about it from the guys who hung out at the White Spot Laundry. My folks ran it. What was it called; the CTR school? Wow, you must be a spy!

Nuts! Now just exactly how many casual tourists on buses in Waikiki even know where Imperial Beach is, have ever heard of The White Spot, or know anything about the Navy Communications training facility? Now what?

Well, the school was for a lot of.., I began.

Monterey too! Tad exclaimed. Wow, was that the language school huh? I remember guys from IB saying they were being transferred to MOLANSKI.

IB was the name men at Imperial Beach School gave our site, and MOLANSKI was our name for Monterey Language School. He knew it all. The question was, did it matter, and was he important enough in any circle to do any harm with his information? I suspected not; son of a laundry worker and all. Would I ever learn caution before supposition?

I talked navy, but in very general terms, steered away from submarines entirely, and precisely in time to avoid further conversation, we arrived at the hotel.

Checking in at The Reef Side Hotel was disappointing at best. It was not a lovely beach-front facility, and did not face any known reef, except for perhaps a misspelled rift in the roadway, which moved past at a frantic Waikiki-tourist stampede. We were in separate rooms on the 5th floor, which was above the noise, but required a ride in the very questionable elevator. I rode it that first time, but in future trips I searched out the stairs and made use of their dependability and safety. On that first trip up in the lift, Tad struck up a conversation with a dark and private looking individual. They stood close and talked in whispers… He says he was… and Some agent… I assumed it was a friend from the Big Island, and did not interact.

In time we arrived at the 5th floor. The elevator doors opened with a shutter while the hydraulic pumps breathed a doubtful sigh, and offered new support for my terror of high-rise buildings. My rooms were dismal, small, dark, and faced a loud street. But then I would be there only one night…or two…or three. By the fourth day I was getting desperate.

The voice on the telephone explained, I am sorry. There are no ongoing flights to New Zealand for you. You are booked on Pan Am, and short of forfeiting the entire round trip ticket you must continue on with us. In other words, continue on waiting because there were no flights in the near future.

I had been requested by the New Zealand Consulate in San Francisco to purchase an open date return flight ticket, good for any time in the next year. I didn’t plan to return, but had no choice when I purchased the tickets.

Back at the lovely Reef things were just dandy. My room was stated as coming with a television set. After a close scrutiny of each and every cockroach-infested corner reality was that there was no such machine anywhere and so, with my best attitude attached to my voice I called the lobby.

Sorry sir, one will be delivered soon. I waited.

The knock on the door announced the pizza boy (so named by me because his face looked like a really badly overdone pepperoni pizza) and he was bringing into the room a television set. It was out sized by my paperback novel almost, smallest thing that held a picture I ever saw. And…it had a slot for quarters! Yes, that’s right, put in a quarter and you get 30 minutes of black and white fuzz and swirl and a little picture.

You want more, you can pay more! Pizza Face.

Nope, thanks this will do the job nicely. I planned to drop it out the window onto a passing noisy tourist party in the middle of a black night.

Next in the circus of progressively stunning events surrounding the fabulous Reef was the Laundromat in the basement. Again, the book had indicted a laundry. Well it was true, there was one: complete with one washer, very rusty, one dryer, full power was slightly warm, one broken change machine, put anything in and all you got out was dust, and a couple of street people taking turns sleeping in the dryer.

I called room service yet again.

We will send a technician down to fix them right away. I waited.

Pizza Face arrived with a hammer, a long handled wrench, a piece of very questionable pizza (complexion matching but this one he was eating,) and an attitude to match.

You again? Perhaps you should log into a different hotel.

I attempted an attitude of cautious patience. Different hotel hell! This place was where I was dumped when my stupid aircraft died on the tarmac. Do you think I would have, on any day that I was alive, awake, and had half a brain cell functioning chosen this rat-infested muck hole for lodging? (I was not famous for patience under pressure.) Now, take your over-cooked face, your tools, and your attitude and vanish into the night. I will return to my room and call your manager and with any luck you will be sweeping bars down on Waikiki Row by noon tomorrow! I stormed out, went back up the urine- smelling and dimly-lit stairs to my room, hit the front of the stupid non-functioning TV and went to bed.

In the morning, outside my room was a brand new color no-coins required television. Later, upon inspection inside my lobby desk mailbox, was a note stating that I had free use of the new washer and dryer in the staff laundry on floor 2. Key supplied.

Thank you for all the stuff that was supposed to come with the room originally. I tried to be polite but it had begun to rain outside again and the weather, cancelled flights, and lousy hotel were rendering me far less than a happy tourist.

At about this time, one of those events occurred which sometimes changes ones entire life direction.

Just weeks prior to departing for New Zealand I had begun to have my teeth straightened; that is braces, with all that fine steel and iron forced into your mouth, complete with a device called headgear. I was going to have lovely straight teeth within two years or so, all things going as planned. I had the name of an orthodontist in New Zealand who was to become my dental professional there.

On the second day at the lovely Reef I discovered that I had left the entire package of headgear, bracket, straps, springs, etc. in the overhead luggage compartment on my plane. I had removed it to sleep in comfort and had failed to recover it upon exiting the ‘burning’ plane in Hawaii. I called at once and spoke to some slightly rude female voice at Pan Am’s desk at the airport. They would look and call me right back. Two hours later, nothing in the way of a return phone call richer, I tried once again. I spoke to the very same person, with her very same attitude taken to a far lower level of professionalism.

There is nothing I can do, harsh voice and bordering on impatiently rude. That plane, now out of service, has been shuttled back to San Francisco for repairs. Is there anything else we can do for you today?

I almost told her what she could do, including a comment about the fact that DNA sampling might turn up a monkey in her background, but realized that in time I might need her help again, and completed the conversation with a solid placement of the instrument of bleak news into its cradle. I could not help but wonder if she was related to Pizza Face. Years later, when PanAm would be forced to close its world-wide doors for good I suspected the two joined forces to open a Rude Phone Calls business. Taken into the computer age it might be aptly named InYourFace.com.

Into the phone book I searched for orthodontists. It would appear that, next to surfing instructors, the fastest growing occupation in Honolulu was orthodontics. There are about 10,000 of them in Honolulu. Well, at least about 50. I obtained a road map and searched for one close by, within walking distance would do fine. Then I noticed a name: Dr. Arthur Choo. My dad’s name was Arthur, so this guy must be ok. I called the office.

Anytime today will be fine. We are not crowded, a pleasant foreign female voice informed me.

On the way over I rode a bus, and true to the directions given by Dr. Choo’s office, I arrived within a half hour and was ushered right in.

There, finished, and here is your new headgear. Don’t leave it on any more airplanes because it is going to cost you $90.

Ouch!

Oh, by the way, how did you happen to choose this office? asked the good Dr. Choo. There are over 40 orthodontists to choose from.

I felt rather silly, but told him his name was the same as my late father’s.

You mean your father was a Dr. Choo too?

No, Choo is your name and Stanton was my father’s, but you both are named Arthur.

Oh. I see. You are not a Choo too, but we are both Arthur too? Is your father alive too? Here we go.

No, but see, you remind me of him. So since you are an Arthur too, you both seem to be the same, only not both Choo too, you see?

Ah so, Arthur too. But not Choo too. Very good. Now was he a doctor too? He wanted it right, and it was going badly downhill. His accent does not appear here, but trust me, it was as Asian as you can impersonate.

Doctor not too, Choo not too, but Arthur yes too.

Now, as you read this please realize that Dr. Choo could not pronounce the letter T. Therefore the word too always turned into choo. With that in mind go back and chuckle over the Dr. Choo conversation once more.

I left just before they threw me out. It had reached a Who’s on first? level. The secretary on the way out informed me I would only be charged for the headgear. She continued to say that the doctor had so enjoyed my funny accent during our conversation that it made it worth the cost of the office visit.

Outside the dental office I was stopped in the tiny hallway to complete my laughing attack, and was attracted to voices from a nearby office with a closed frosted-glass door. The sounds from inside did not match the lettered name on the door: Dr. Cameron Cottle DDS. Angry words erupted from within, …hell no, he is a spy. Another angry male voice added a harsh, …get rid of that notion and take him off… Not wanting to be even close to seeming like an eavesdropper I had moved away in time to avoid the door springing open to disgorge two rough-looking dark-skinned men still mumbling angrily. In their haste they swept me aside and thundered down the small hallway. I was at once more than slightly thankful that I had chosen Dr. Choo rather than this Cottle guy.

On the street I once again boarded the island bus and sat back to enjoy the trip back to the hotel. On my afternoon agenda was swimming, surfing, and relaxing for the remaining time until we lifted off for New Zealand.

Say, why are you so white? You look like you just arrived. Are you a tourist? The voice belonged to a very neatly dressed middle-aged lady on a seat across from me.

Ahh, I thought, was I a tourist, or someone trapped in a time warp? I’m sort of a tourist. My plane died on the way to New Zealand and I’m here for a short visit. They plan to fix it soon, however. At least I hoped so.

Ah, too bad.

Er, why is that?

She looked aghast at the remark. You don’t mean it. Don’t you just long to be in Hawaii and sit on the beach, visit the nature center, bask in the tropical breezes, and buy native garb? The lady was speaking in soft, polished English, rather like a school teacher. I took a chance.

Where do you teach? I asked her.

She looked up in astonishment. What - but how did you know I was a teacher? I mean… I am actually a principal, but I also teach some.

I grinned a little. Well, I teach, have for several years now, and you just remind me of a teacher; sort of professional, formal, and er, stern. Watch it, Mike.

She didn’t blush, far too old for that. She did grin all over, same as. I am a teacher to some, but a strict old school master to others, staff included. Where do you teach? Not locally I think.

I had to admit the truth then. I have only recently left a part time job to do some traveling and living. Things in my life changed and I’m on my way to New Zealand now. I was a sports, ah, a physical education teacher at a middle school in California.

I suspected by the look on her face that she had gas, or was undergoing a heart attack.

Are you ok? I ventured. Did I say something wrong?

She almost grinned through her grimaces. We need a physical education instructor. We are very near to giving up and closing down the Phys. Ed. facility. It’s ironic that you should show up, without a job, at the very time we are interviewing for a physical education teacher.

Did I hear an offer? Was that an open contract I just witnessed?

But, I’m not staying. I don’t want a job now. Stupid, spit in the face of fate.

I see, she said downcast, sad, almost to tears it would appear. Why not just come by the school and have a look? She must need someone to fill that position badly.

What of it? Go to the school, see the brown block walls, smell the musty locker rooms, see the little nippers all lined up in blue shorts, white t-shirts, and Adidas sneakers. Hey, what else was I going to do all afternoon? Surf, swim, lull in the sand, look at brown babes?

How far off is the school? I asked. Far side of the island would do. I could pull out the old, Sorry, no transportation available excuse.

She beamed broadly. The next stop is us, then up the hill into the Banyan Trees. I am Sister Grace, the curriculum director at St. Andrews Girls’ Prep School.

I fell off the seat! The bus had to swerve to avoid my lagging jaw. I began to sweat slightly at the thought of an all girls’ school with a male P.E. teacher? Those two don’t belong on the same page of text.

Take me to your school for a look see. I still might say no, but would like to know what I turned down anyway.

She smiled. Just so you could kick yourself eventually?

Mm. I liked this sturdy, middle-aged headmistress. But could I work for her?

Very soon the bus stopped curbside and we climbed off. Me in the rear being a gentleman, and Grace heading the way uphill with a purposeful stride.

We walked into a jungle of stucco buildings with tile roofs and huge verandas opening into soft walled interiors. This was not any school I had ever attended. I liked this, felt comfortable, and was instantly of the mind to say yes to any offer. Hey, wait a minute. What about immigrating to New Zealand?

Mr. Stanton, please be seated. I will locate our personnel director and we will sit with you and talk. She motioned to bamboo lounges with cushions of teal, lime and yellow. Overhead a fan swished softly, and to my astonishment the windows, open completely to the elements, gave passage to numerous brightly colored birds. The typewriters and soft voices blended with a whispering warm Pacific breeze. Aaah, now this was paradise. Where do I sign up?

In time the three of us discussed a job description, hours of work, pay, time off, and living conditions on campus.

The sturdy director, dressed in a blue and white cotton uniform and named Sue Lee Tsau according to her white name tag told me, We have a very limited staff residence hall here. She was young, cute, and her youthful smile made me almost forget the task at hand and ask her out to dinner instead. She continued. However, you are fortunate. No other males live on campus. You have entire men’s wing of the dorm to yourself. Nice Asian accent to accompany a youthful face trimmed in long black hair. Nothing fancy, but comfortable. We will need few documents and records for our files.

I started the process of filling out forms and signing lines. I needed to obtain my two California Teaching Credentials and letters of recommendation from previous employers. Those would be in the mail easily within a week after a few phone calls. I was to start work the next Monday, teaching physical education, health, and one class of nutrition. That afternoon I phoned Pan Am and was told that the unused portion of my ticket to New Zealand was good for one year, and perhaps I should keep it in case my needs changed.

I had all but forgotten New Zealand in the excitement of a job teaching school in Hawaii. My sights shifted to the sands of the beaches, the waves of the sea, and the warmth of the sunshine on my back. Destiny, you meter out a fickle portion, as I would learn.

Three days to settle in, purchase a few needs, and plan some lessons took a heavy toll on my plans to surf, swim and bask. I was going to be ready for that first weekend to come. Sunday night was exceptionally warm and very overcast. I suspected that we would have one of the islands’ rains, which lasted minutes, were always warm, and cleared to sunny beach weather as fast as they arrived. Oddly enough it didn’t happen that way.

Several hundred miles away, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, elements had been brewing up into a monster storm. It actually had been moving our way from Japan for a week. But so involved had I been with life and the swift movement between California, New Zealand, and Hawaii, that I had not listened to or read news for several days. Nighttime arrived with a torrential downpour, which turned into a wall of water, gale force winds, and destruction all around.

Monday morning weather brought sunshine and warmth. The headmistress brought bad news in easy stages.

Mr. Stanton, there has been some damage to the facility. There are branches down, some mild flooding in corridors, a few books wet, and a few loose roof tiles blown away. These should not affect you in the least.

I smiled. All was well in the island community and things would return to normal soon. Then the other shoe dropped, hard!

Sister Grace gave me the bad news. Mr. Stanton, I am afraid we also have some bad news for you. The monsoon winds and rains did what time could never do for the roof on your gymnasium. It collapsed in the night and the building is totally demolished. I fear there will be no physical education position after all!

Silence.

More silence and slow reality hit home too. I was back on the streets, back on a waiting list for a life. I guessed I was back on my way to New Zealand too. Goodbye surfing, beaches, lovely bathing beauties. Nuts!

I, er, understand. I am sorry about the buildings. Perhaps in time things will change? Never give up they say.

We need a phone number and a mailing address for you. That way, if things should change we can contact you again.

I gave them GPO Auckland, Christchurch, and Sydney. What else could I do? After that I phoned Pan Am and was informed that an ongoing flight to Auckland was to leave Honolulu International the following day at 7:40 am and I was confirmed on the flight. I packed, waved goodbye to the beaches, surf, and lovely rows of bathing beauties.

The next day I flew on to New Zealand.

THREE

They came on board the plane as soon as the engines stopped. They were dressed like spacemen and carried weapons similar to ray guns. I was frightened and felt uncomfortable about my new country.

Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated and lift any of your possessions off the floor to protect them. These gentlemen are going to fumigate the plane for possible infection from insects carried by the passengers. After that we will be visited by customs prior to deplaning.

I was aboard a plane of strangers, invaded by spacemen with ray guns, and next would be the interrogation by the customs police. I felt alone and worried. Had I left home for something far from free and easy going California, and far from my dreams? I waited with the rest of the passengers, two of whom I had struck up conversations with on the way over.

Julie and Donna were nursing sisters from Canada on their way to positions in Christchurch. They introduced themselves as sisters, although that was a title only, no blood relationship existed. They would be assigned to the Hagley Nursing Hostel and duty in Christchurch Pediatric Hospital.

Julie was 28, looked like a matron with her auburn hair pulled back, stern features, and a large-boned body. She was full of humor and would give the much stayed Kiwi nurses’ register a run I suspected. I took a liking to her at once. She gave me an address and phone number where she would be billeted and we agreed to meet as soon as I arrived in Christchurch at some date in the future.

Her friend, Donna was a lively girl, who looked more like an impish blond, soft-faced model than a nursing sister. She had a cousin in Christchurch and planned to live away from the hospital if possible, something that did not work out as the rules required visiting nursing students to live on campus so to speak.

None of that, all-day-all-night answering to the matron-in-charge lifestyle for me. She had the right attitude but was not allowed that liberty at first.

We had exchanged addresses; mine were CPO post offices in various cities as I traveled, while they had a real address at a hostel. I felt kind of permanent with someone to write to and someone writing to me in return. I was a part of my new country already. As we waited we exchanged our hopes and dreams for this lovely new home. They were already citizens by their own government’s agreements with New Zealand. I was yet to discover the situation with my plans to immigrate.

Please have your passports, visas, travel passes, and declaration forms out for the customs officers to examine as they pass through the plane. Now it was time to get involved with the country and get off the plane for the first time in fourteen hours. I was excited and filled with hope. I harbored more than a little reluctance to jump to conclusions yet.

The customs officer arrived at my seat.

Mr. Stanton, I see here you are not part of a travel group, he announced, more as a question than a direct statement. You are also not a New Zealand national. Perhaps you can explain your intentions upon entering our country. Exactly what do you plan to do and for how long? Kindly put, with a lovely accent, and offered up by well-uniformed officials wearing shorts. My kind of people, even the officers wear shorts. Time to join right in I felt.

I plan to immigrate. What else to say?

Mr. Stanton, your passport says you are a U.S. citizen. Is that correct?

A soft and cautiously guarded, Yes.

Sir, the government of New Zealand does not recognize U.S. citizens as candidates for immigration at this time. His voice remained calm while my heart went into overtime and my face must have more than displayed my disappointment. We are sorry you made the trip for nothing. Someone at your consulate in the States should have informed you of this ahead of time.

Secretly I had some inclination of this and had therefore not even asked. Now it was out in the open and I was at once disappointed and relieved too.

Er, can I still visit the country, as a U.S. citizen? I asked in a whisper.

"Sir, there is no problem with a visit of ten or twenty days as a tourist. We are very guarded about isolated visitors without a group however. Unless you are willing to join a tour group, we have no choice but to assume you are here for the solicitation of work, and must turn you down. Perhaps you would like to come into the station house and discuss this with the