Thursday, May 24, 2018
Morning came fast. The hangover even faster. It came because I remembered I was in an easterly time zone and if I were home it would be 4 AM and dark. It was 6 AM here and the morning light crept through the windows into my eyelids. Ugh.
We had arrived late yesterday afternoon to our happy place of St. John, USVI. Getting to St. John required an overnight flight to Houston, a morning flight to Puerto Rico, then an island hopper over to St. Thomas. Then we pack into a crowded taxi to get us to the ferry to St. John. Once in Cruz Bay, we picked up our rental car and navigated our way to the hillside villa. Once all this was accomplished, we returned to town to celebrate our arrival with dinner followed by an impromptu bar crawl. Price paid.
I could lay here watching the room get brighter and wallow in my misery or I could get up and do something. I was hungry and there was a grocery store at the bottom of Contant Hill. I could walk down get some eggs and some OJ. A walk in the fresh island air would be good.
I got up to put my contacts in only to discover I had slept in them. My husband asked where I was going. I said to the grocery store.
“Sure you wanna do that?” Christian asked, reminding me of the vertiginous hillside road that wound up Contant Hill.
“I need to clear the cobwebs out of my head,” I replied. He suggested I wear my hiking shoes instead of flip flops. I grabbed my wallet and my phone and put them in my back pockets. I walked up the flight of steps to the driveway and then to the gate. After pressing the button to open the slow rusty metal gate, my journey began. The morning was quiet and the road still shady. I could hear the clanging and banging of pans as someone made breakfast from the home above me as I approached Contant Point Road. It was all downhill from here.
After double checking for cars because they drive on the left side on this American island, I used my Colorado hiking skills to side step the steep asphalt road crossing one foot in front of the other to save my knees. Around a curve I approached a woman and her dog at a driveway. The dog was a collie mix with long fur and brown spots. He approached, sniffed my hand, and moved on.
“I guess that’s it,” the woman laughed as I passed. I smiled and continued down. And down. And down. I passed the Methodist Church. Today was Easter Sunday, but was still too early for parishioners to arrive. After many minutes the road finally flattened out as it met Highway 104 at one of the town’s two gas stations. I turned left to pass the town’s trash dump, two large metal storage tankers that residents would stop by on their way to work and throw plastic bags into. As I passed the stinky bins a woman drove up in a tiny white Kia with a plastic trash bag hanging from the handle of her car’s door. I walked on the sidewalk around the car ferry parking lot and crossed the street to walk up to the grocery store.
Starfish Grocery is located in a retail building called The Marketplace on the southeastern side of the island’s main town of Cruz Bay. There is also a deli, a real estate company, a clothing store, and a liquor store. As I walked to the grocery’s entrance, I noticed a used book store-slash-coffee shop called Papaya. Having visited this island eight times in the last 12 years I can safely say this was new. I entered the grocery store and bought all the breakfast items I could carry and then crossed to the coffee shop.
There were two gentlemen in line at the tiny counter past two large bookshelves stuffed with paperbacks and movie DVDs. The two men chatted with each other, one wearing a t-shirt from an island construction company. The older woman behind the counter was making a coffee for the man in front of me and the other man already had his coffee and was adding cream and sugar.
“Yeah, that girl broke my heart. Three years we spent together,” said the man adding sugar.
“That’s rough, man,” said the guy in front of me.
“Yeah, but I’m getting over it.”
Broken hearted guy said goodbye and left. When it was my turn, I asked for a vanilla latte with skim
“We don’t have skim; only non-fat,” said the woman.
“Ok, sure,” I stammered.
As she made my latte, I spied a stack of the St. John newspapers on the counter and picked one up turning to the second page. In the top right corner was the weekly cruise ship arrival info. This was one of the most important pieces of information on the island. The paper tells people when cruise ships will be docked at St. Thomas, what cruise line it is, how many people are on the boat and when it leaves. Two ships were docked today. That meant the town of Cruz Bay and the closest beaches will be full of daytripping tourists. I made a mental note we should head to the east end beaches.
While I waited, a man with a shirt that said St. John Solar entered, got his own drip coffee from the counter with cream, placed $1.50 on the counter, said thanks, and left. As I paid for my own latte I asked the woman if the she was open this early every day and she answered yes. I deposited my change in the tip jar and said, ‘see you tomorrow.’
I now had two paper grocery bags stuffed with food, a quart of milk and a quart of OJ and one latte to carry back up the hill. Fortunately the bags had handles so I could carry both in one hand and hold the latte with the other. I crossed the parking lot and ducked under the chained off service entrance to begin my return.
As I walked along, I sipped the latte. Mana from heaven. The jolt of caffeine instantly brightened my mood and the frothy milk soothed my growling tummy. In this moment, this was the best latte ever. By now the sun had cleared the hillside and was beating down on me in full force as I passed the stinky trash bins. The hand holding the grocery bags ached from the weight so before I began my ascent on Contant Point Road, I stopped, put the bags down, and switched hands with the latte. All uphill from here.
I had only walked a few yards when drop s of sweat formed on my face. Above me was a house with a small driveway where I stopped to rest. From here I began to make little goals as I walked; Charge past this guard rail to the next house, get by the church, get around this corner to the next house, etc. Foot by foot, step by step, I traveled up the hill. I felt like I was hiking the Manitou Incline. When I approached the villa road, I stopped to rest, regroup, and switch hands for the short drop to the villa.
Nearing the gate I dropped the bags on the road flexing my wrist a bit. I was about to press the entrance code into the keypad when a voice scared the crap out of me.
“You’re drenched!” laughed Christian from the other side of the gate. As the gate opened, he grabbed the grocery bags and headed into the villa. He said he had been sleeping off his hangover in the outdoor hammock, shaded by the side yard. “You looked wiped out.”
“I needed to sweat off the booze,” I said. Despite my appearance I actually felt better. Christian put the groceries away in the villa’s kitchen while I took my latte and plopped on a lounge chair next to the tiny pool overlooking St. Thomas. The island breeze cooled me as I glanced at my phone for the time. My trek took an hour and a half. As I watched the boats motor in and out of the bay, I decided to make a coffee run every morning.
Like a silent alarm, sunlight woke me up at 6 AM the next morning. I got up, put my contacts in and brushed my teeth.
“Where ya going,” Christian groggily asked.
“Coffee run. You want some?”
I set off, but first glanced at my phone. 6:15 AM. I was confident I would fare much better on this walk sans groceries and hangover. Going down was, dare I say, easy. When I arrived at the shop it was busy again. Most people got drip coffee and would simply pour their own, put some cash on the counter, and leave. I requested my latte with skim milk, a habit from my local coffee shop. The same woman as yesterday said, “We don’t have skim. Whole, fat free and soy.”
“Fat free please.”
I noticed a shelf filled with bottles above the woman as she steamed the milk and there was one that read white chocolate syrup, Christian’s favorite.
“May I also have a white chocolate latte?”
“We don’t have white chocolate,” the woman said without turning around.
“That bottle above your head says, ‘white chocolate’,” I pointed. She looked up at the syrup shelf and laughed. “Yes, white chocolate. What kind of milk?
“Don’t have 2%. Whole,” she said.
Together my lattes were $12. I gave her $13 and left, latte in each hand. I easily crossed the parking lot, down the steep driveway and back on the road. Today was Monday, a work day, and many cars passed on the main road. Many more were stopped in front of the trash bins. I carefully navigated the cars to get to the hill.
My calves were burning as I charged up the road, but it was still a thousand times easier than yesterday. A car approached coming down the hill so I stepped off the road and onto the front steps of a house as it passed. Out of the corner of my eye, a giant red ball moved. I looked over my right shoulder to witness a large crab crawl out from under the house. The size of a bright red Kong toy, the crab scampered into a large hole next to a tree.
With the car and crab gone, I restarted up the road. Approaching the top, I could again hear the clang of dishes from above. When I arrived at the villa, Christian was already in a lounge chair by the pool. After handing him his latte, I checked my phone. 7:30 AM. It still took over an hour. I put my feet up on the deck chair and together we watched the boats motor by on another beautiful morning in paradise.
Today’s walk was another blue sky morning, however, the sun was still low enough the trip down was cool and shady. As I approached the curve where I had seen the woman and her dog earlier, I saw a young girl and her even younger brother walking down the middle of the road in their school uniforms. The girl had cornrows and wore a blue plaid skirt and yellow polo and her brother wore dark blue pants and yellow polo. The boy was several feet behind. The girl was ‘switchbacking’ down the hill. With the exception of being in the middle of the road, that was actually a good way to walk down the steep hill. The boy, falling farther behind, would yell “Wait!” The girl would stop until he got within a step of her and she would walk away. I passed both as she waited again.
Upon getting to the counter during another busy coffee shop morning, I asked the same woman for my medium latte with fat free milk and a large white chocolate latte with whole milk. This was my third day in a row asking for this order. The woman placed two medium sized cups in front of me and said one was the white chocolate.
“Um, I asked for a large white chocolate,” I said meekly. Without saying a word, the woman poured the white chocolate latte into a large cup. Then she steamed more milk and poured that in and then poured an extra dollop of syrup, put on the lid and turned away without a word.
As I exited the Starfish parking lot, the two children I passed earlier walked by now holding hands. When I returned to the villa Christian said his latte was extra sweet today.
The last day of vacation was a Saturday and when I arrived at the coffee shop there was a different, younger woman behind the counter. After a week of practice, I had my order down: Medium latte with fat free milk and a large latte with whole mill and white chocolate syrup. The younger woman made my drinks while I checked the cruise ship info in the local paper. She set the two cups in front of me and said, “$13 dollars.”
Hmmm. All week long I’d paid $12 for this same order. Since it was my last day, I bit my tongue, paid the bill, plus a dollar tip, and made the trek up the steep hill for the last time. It took under 45 minutes, a Personal Best. On this last morning on island, we sipped our lattes, we enjoyed the quiet, the blue sky, the turquoise water, the white boats, and the green island of St. Thomas in the distance.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
The Calm after the Storm
The tattered remains of Hurricanes Irma and Maria hung in the air around me in the form of low grey clouds and howling wind. In front of me the Atlantic Ocean was a weird shade of cornflower blue, like the least used Crayon from the box you had when you were a kid. The shore was mesmerizing and menacing at the same time with thick white foam coming over the top and pounding the sand. The noise of wind and sea were deafening. My hair whipped around my face. These would be the conditions under which I would attempt yoga on the soft sand beach.
Standing on the weathered wooden steps at the Boca Raton Beach Resort, I was wondered if there would even be a class today. The resort offered morning yoga classes on the beach for free to guests. Always looking for unique outdoor spaces to practice yoga, I arrived on the beach at 8:30 AM, a half hour early.
Standing above the sand on the grey weathered wooden steps that led from the resort pool to the beach, I watched the waves churn in an eerie slow motion. In the distance I could see people walking on the beach heading north away from me.
“Hi! Are you here for the yoga class?” a woman shouted behind me.
“Yes,” I shouted back.
Susan, the yoga teacher, retired to Florida six years ago from Chicago because she couldn’t stand winter anymore. She was petite and tan and had bobbed blonde/grey hair. With her pink tank top and black yoga pants she looked like, well, a yoga teacher.
“See those red triangle ribbons on the sand?” she asked. I had noticed them, several dotted the beach going up the coast. I thought the yellow and orange cones and caution tape marked vegetation conservation areas because they were near the beach grass line.
“Those are turtle nesting sites. The city puts those up to keep people and dogs away.” She also said the turtles’ eggs hatch at night and then the babies crawl to the ocean. The next day all anyone sees are the fledglings’ flipper tracks across the sand disappearing into the water.
As we chatted she glanced at her watch. Susan said we would wait two more minutes to see if anyone else comes. I’d rather spend the morning standing on this beautiful pier chatting with this new interesting person in the strange weather, but we were here to do yoga so it was time to move.
Susan had an armful of towels that she set on some stacked beach chairs. She handed me three of them and said to lay two towels side by side and put the third one perpendicular across the top.
We began class in Prayer Mudra, hand pressed together next to the heart, breathing and listening to the waves. We twisted to the left and to the right and raised our arms above our heads. From there it was time to stand up.
As we moved through sun salutations she often got up from her towels to make adjustments and applying gentle pressure on my limbs and back to help me get just a bit more out of each stretch. I normally don’t like strangers touching me, but her adjustments were so helpful. As I did a seated twist, Ardha Matsyendrasana, Susan casually walked over, tapped the bottom of my straight leg foot and said to“engage” my toes. Growing up as a dancer, I was taught from a very young age to always point my toes. Yoga is the opposite. Often when I take a yoga class, the instructor will ask “where my dancers at?” meaning she’s looking for the people pointing their toes. I wasn’t technically pointing my straight leg toes but had allowed the foot to go limp. Upon her request I pointed my toes up to the sky. The change in my muscles was immediate. All these years I had just let my foot fall to the floor. I realize now that was cheating. Just the simple move of pointing my toes up to the sky engages all the muscles in my body, not just the ones doing the twist. It was awakening. I have continued to “engage” my toes to this day.
Done with salutations, Susan asked if I want to do some balancing poses in this wind. “Sure, why not,” I shout as the wind blows sand in my face. The sun had finally risen above the storm clouds and focused bright heat onto us. We start with tree pose, however, the wind pushes both of us to the point we had to lean forward toward the ocean just to stay straight. Challenging, but not impossible. We then leaned forward into Warrior III, Virabhadrasana III. From there we moved to the earth and worked on our core on top of the towels. Grains of sand were sticking to my sweaty arms and legs.
Finally Susan said to lay back in Shivasana. My favorite, the part where I forget where I am and what I’m doing. Susan said she had some scented oil and asked if I would like some. I accepted and she opened a crinkly plastic bag. Soon the soothing scent of apples and cinnamon floated into my nose.
After Shivansana we breathed Ohm three times to the ocean. You are supposed to Ohm with your eyes closed, but the view was too spectacular to ignore.
With class officially over I helped Susan carry the towels back to the hotel pool. She told me the oil she uses is only available online and that it is so concentrated she has to dilute with water to tone it down. Considering we were outside with the wind blowing and I could smell it from three feet away gives you a sense of its power.
Heading back to the Boca Raton Resort I was sandy, salty and slightly sweaty. My hair was so windblown it was a matted mess. I put on a hat before going inside. What’s that saying? “Sandy hair, don’t care.” I enjoyed a breakfast sandwich and a latte at the hotel café shortly after. I felt like I’d really accomplished something, not quite sure what, and it wasn’t even noon yet. It was great feeling to have and I need to take more yoga classes so I can feel this way more often. The calm after the storm is best feeling one can have. Namaste.
Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Hurricanes and Rum Punches
All Photos by Carrie Dow. No reuse without permission.
I keep watching the news and searching the internet for video footage of the hurricane damage on St. John, US Virgin Islands. AKA my happy place. We have visited this Caribbean island seven times in the last 12 years and each visit is better than the last. We have reservations scheduled for March 2018, but with each passing day the chances of that happening look slim.
While many people might misconstrue this post as me complaining about missing a relaxing rum-fueled vacation while my fellow citizens have lost everything, there is so much more to my hurt than that. We’ve been visiting the island for so long, we know people. We have friends there. We have met other friends, like Sandal and Barry of Ohio, while visiting there.
|Elaine's art studio was open to the bay in the front of her house.|
My first magazine story for pay was about a local artist, Elaine Estern of Coconut Coast Studios who has lived on St. John for decades. We visit her gallery, and her dogs, every time we go there. Elaine and I have both written children’s books and we traded our books on a visit several years ago. Mine is about a cat while hers is about a duck. It’s on my bookshelf in my office.
|The only place you can get these beers is on St. John.|
My husband and I have watched businesses grow, like the first Virgin Islands brewery, St. John Brewers, which was run out of a shipping container in the back parking lot. The owners had just reopened after a fire damaged their tap room and they had just expanded into a larger space for events before the hurricane struck.
|Chickens roamed the tables at Skinny Legs.|
And we’ve watched businesses become legend. Skinny Legs was already a St. John institution, but had gone through some changes since we had our first burger there in 2005. Originally opened by two buddies from New England in the late 1980s/early 1990s, it was the kind of place that both locals and travelers could visit and be comfortable. The restaurant’s slogan was “Same Day Service” and they delivered along with the best burgers and sandwiches on the island. It wasn’t the fanciest place to dine, which is why we loved it so much. On one visit I overheard a diner say to a tablemate, “You know, the sloppier they dress the richer they are.” Everyone was equal at Skinny Legs. You didn’t know if the guy next to you at the bar was a hedge fund manager or a bus driver and it didn’t matter. Sometimes you’d see a young girl with her hair tucked up in a baseball cap, torn hoodie and no makeup and think she must work on one of the island’s sail boat crews. Then when she left the server would tell you she was a Sports Illustrated supermodel. One of the owners succumbed to a sudden illness in 2006 and in 2012 the other owner decided it was time to retire, but not before grooming two of his employees, the restaurant’s manager and his wife, to take over. When we met him in 2014, the new owner and his wife had just had a baby.
|The Smoothie Stand.|
We’ve met entrepreneurs on this island. Thomas ran the smoothie shack near the ferry dock, as well as a car rental agency and owns an apartment building on the island. I’m sure all three are gone now. In 2012 his youngest son, a Navyman about to embark on his first deployment, was killed by a drunk driver in California. We cried and hugged when we saw each other for the first time that week. He still hasn’t gotten over it.
|Angel's Rest is gone.|
Another enterprising gentleman was Captain Pete. With his own two hands he built a 40-ft. floating paradise of a pontoon boat called Angel’s Rest to live in. He also motors it around East End bays inviting people to visit because the boat is also the island’s only floating bar. People swim out to his boat and drink his rum punches and pain killers or sip cold Presidentes and Caribs. After a few drinks people jump off the front of the boat to cool off or climb the ladder to the sun deck to chill. Pete was born in Chicago and went to college in Colorado before “bumming,” his words, around Hawaii in the 1970s. He partied in LA in the 80s, but he also helped a friend build houses and was so good at it he opened his own construction company and eventually made his way to Puerto Rico were his business boomed. He sold the business and bought a sail boat to sail around the Caribbean. He happened to be moored in St. John when the money ran out. He started building houses again and instead of building his own house on land, he built a houseboat. He had no plans drawn up, just did what was in his head. According to Facebook, the boat is gone and he was on the mainland during the storm, but there’s a You Caring fund set up by his many fans to help rebuild it. At first he wasn’t going to rebuild, but the many kind comments and words of encouragement on Facebook have persuaded him to try.
I’ve run the annual 8 Tuff Miles road race twice, the first time in 2008 and again in 2013. It’s a rite of passage for anyone who lives on the island or has spent a lot of time there. Runners from all over the world travel to St. John just say they’ve conquered it. Running an eight mile asphalt road race from sea level over a mountain that rises to almost 1000 feet and back down to sea level again is one of my proudest accomplishments.
|Volunteers chatting after a dog walk at the Animal Care Center.|
The Animal Care Center of St. John is one of my favorite organizations on the island. It’s a tiny animal shelter and the locals that work and volunteer there have some of the biggest hearts I have ever seen. According to the ACC Facebook page, the building survived and the animals that were housed there were evacuated to safer locals’ homes before the hurricane struck. The shelter's latest Facebook post is encouraging and say the International Fund for Animal Welfare is assisting in getting all the shelter animals off the island and on the mainland. However, ACC will still have a lot of work ahead because I'm sure people's pets were lost during the storm and the island has many stray cats and wildlife that had no shelter. There is a also a population of free roaming donkeys on the island and I have yet to hear how they fared during the storm.
We’ve run into the Ghost from Jost on several visits and each one is more mysterious than the last. Ghost is the island’s poet laureate whose given name is Courtney Chinnery. He floats in, says a few profound rhymes of sublime importance, and then disappears. Unless you buy him a beer, then he’ll sit with you and tell dirty jokes. Each time we see him, he has fewer teeth. Our visits to St. John are not complete if we don’t run into him.
|My favorite photo of St. John. Shelter dog Brutus overlooking |
Cruz Bay after we took him on a trail hike.
I’ve written about St. John numerous times both for pay and for free; it’s a source of inspiration. My next blog post, which I’ve been working these last few weeks, will be my sixth (ninth if I include the BVIs) about the island. This may sound a bit morbid, but my husband and I have agreed that whoever dies first, the surviving spouse will spread the other’s ashes around the island - mostly as an excuse for the survivor to have one last visit.
One of the reasons I love this island so much is because it’s not an easy place to get to. It’s too small and too mountainous to have an airport and there are only two shipping ports and a small marina. There are only two main roads and even under the best of conditions, driving them is not easy. While these things make the island more secluded, more all-to-myself, these things also make it difficult to get help to folks after a disaster like this.
There have been many natural disasters in the last few weeks and many people and animals are suffering. I know many of you have donated money, maybe supplies or even time to help those affected by these tragedies and for that I thank you. We all have our happy places, some near, some far, around the world. This post is not a plea to donate because you hopefully already have, to whichever cause touches your heart. Mine is a plea to not forget. The Virgin Islands, both British and US, are tiny islands, small populations and small economies, but they still deserve our love and support.
I hope my happy place recovers enough for us to make our visit next March. Not because I want to relax on a beach, but so I can give all my island friends a hug.
Thursday, June 8, 2017
I'm on a boat!
This is not a post about my day trip to Dry Tortugas National Park in Florida. The Dry Tortugas, a group of remote islands and islets 70 miles south of Key West, Florida, is one of the most remote national parks in the US. However, this blog is not about the towering fort the army built on this isolated spot and once held some 400 people. It is not about the history of its most famous prisoner, Dr. Samuel Mudd, the doctor who set the broken leg of John Wilkes Booth after he assassinated President Abraham Lincoln. It is not about the pristine waters and marine life that the park protects. No, this blog is about the two and half hour one-way ferry ride that gets visitors to and from this amazing national park.
Yankee Freedom III is, according to the Dry Tortugas’ website, “a high speed, state-of-the-art, all aluminum catamaran recognized worldwide for safety, performance and passenger comfort.” It was built in New England in 2012 and entered into service in Key West that fall. Also according to the website, it “is powered by twin Caterpillar engines that give her a speed of over 30 miles per hour.” There is an enclosed main cabin with a small deck out front and a topside sundeck for those who want to ride al fresco. The boat is 110 feet long and holds 250 persons, however, the park limits visitors to only 175 persons so the boat is never actually full. It keeps the small island from being overrun with people providing a more pleasant experience. The inside cabin is air conditioned with cushioned seating and dinette tables.
Even though the Dry Tortugas is a US National Park, the ferry is a private enterprise and is the only public transportation to the island. If you have the budget you could charter a private boat or even a seaplane, but not everyone has that kind of money. It is recommended that your reserve your seats on the ferry in advance online. Waiting to book at the ferry terminal means risking the trip is sold out the day you want to go.
The cost of the day trip is $175 per person for adults ($125 per child; military, student and senior discounts available). This price includes the $10 entrance fee to the national park, however, if you have a current National Park membership pass, you can present it upon check in for a refund of that amount. Initially this seems like a lot of money, but there are extra amenities on the ferry. They include both breakfast and lunch, complimentary snorkeling equipment, a 45-minute guided tour of the fort (optional), and, most importantly, use of the on-board restrooms anytime. (More about this item later.)
What is evident on our arrival at the ferry terminal and marina at 7 AM in the morning is that the Yankee Freedom III staff are a well-oiled machine. Without asking for my conformation number or proof of purchase, I simply gave my last name to the ticket agent and he easily found all my information. He then handed me two tickets and said we had to have them to get on the boat because the trip was sold out today. The line moved quickly. We took some seats in the large terminal and watched other families try to keep their kids together and other travelers tap on their phones. Over the din of the hushed voices a male voice rose above.
“Hey everyone, if you could give me your attention, we’ll get started. My name is Hollywood and I’ll be your EmCee for the day,” announced the very tan bleach blonde older gentleman wearing khaki shorts, beige work shirt with the Yankee Freedom logo and wrap-around sunglasses pushed on top of his head. He looked like he should be on a California beach instead of a Florida ferry boat.
As we handed our tickets to Hollywood at the boat ramp, I noticed the name tag on his work shirt really did say “Hollywood.” We boarded with our beach bags and found a place to sit first. We chose the inside cabin and we came across a family of three who had a booth with a table at the far end. Christian asked if we could sit with them and they obliged. After setting our bags down, we got in line for breakfast. We both had a bagel with cream cheese and fresh fruit. I had a boiled egg and orange juice and Christian had a slice of ham and a soda. There were also single-serving cups of cereal and milk for the kids and cups of yogurt. There were also kettles of regular and decaf coffee and hot water for tea.
While we ate and the rest of the passengers settled down to breakfast, Hollywood returned, this time with a microphone that led to speakers throughout the ship. He announced that we were shoving off from the dock and that we would now begin our two and half hour journey. That’s a long time and I wondered how I would fill it. No wifi on the boat and I didn’t bring any magazines. Even if I had, I doubted I would be able to read on a rocking boat traveling over open water. Little did I know that Hollywood had our morning planned.
The First Half Hour:
Hollywood played tour guide and pointed out the various individual islands that fan out from Key West as we motored by, most notably the Marquesas Keys. He also pointed out the Key West Lighthouse above the trees behind us as we motored away. He then went into more important details.
First he said Breakfast would end at 8:30, so if we wanted seconds, now was the time to get it. That was because, he said, the crew was fast at breaking down breakfast and when it was gone it was gone. Hollywood then announced that the seven people who were camping on the island were to meet with him in the back of the boat to go over some paperwork and the rules and regulations of island camping.
During this break we got to know out table mates. We met John and his wife, and his adult daughter Erin. John grew up in Kansas, but they raised Erin in North Carolina. When we said we were from Colorado, Erin said she had spent a semester at Northern Colorado University on an exchange program. Her parents now live on the Gulf Coast of Alabama, not far from Dustin, Florida. They raved about the beaches in both North Carolina and the Florida panhandle. They were very unimpressed with the beaches of Key West. They also didn’t like Duval Street. They had only been in Key West for three days and were driving back tomorrow. We also learned Erin was a body builder and taught fitness courses at a small college. She was also a vegan and brought her own food. She snacked from a plastic cup of almonds while we spoke.
The Second Half Hour
Hollywood reappeared at the front of the inside cabin with the microphone. At this time he wanted to get everyone interested in snorkeling organized. Those that wanted to snorkel needed to fill out a release form and then get sized for their fins and mask. Erin stood up to grab a form. We thought about it, but prefer snorkeling with our own equipment, which we left at home because of our short stay. Erin borrowed my pen to fill out her form. Hollywood walked around the cabin picking up the forms and answering questions from other guests as he went. He was fast, efficient and most importantly, friendly. He probably made these announcements every other day and I was impressed at how he could be upbeat while answering the same questions over and over and over again. He then said that a video of proper snorkeling etiquette would be shown on the ferry’s various TV screens. We watched it even though we weren't doing that activity because the video showed plenty of marine life and was a half hour long. We were now over one hour into our journey.
The Third Half Hour:
After the video Hollywood returned to tell us what was probably the most important information of the entire trip: How to use the boat’s bathrooms. There were two standard toilets and one accessible toilet, but anyone could use it. Called ‘heads’ on a boat, Hollywood said there were only two things that were supposed to go into the toilets. One was whatever we eliminated from our bodies. The other item was toilet paper. No napkins, no tissues, no paper towels and no diapers were to go into the toilets. Those things would clog the heads and that was something no one should ever experience, he said. He also said that the locks on the toilets had to be turned “all the way to the left” to lock. He said even if you feel or hear a click, keep turning the locks to the left until they turn no more. If we didn’t, the locks weren’t actually locked and if the boat hit a wave, the door would fly open while you were doing your business. He said that people on previous trips who did not heed that advice paid for that mistake with their pride.
Other information he relayed to us was what to expect when we arrived. The restrooms on the boat were the only restrooms we were supposed to use while docked because there are no restrooms facilities on the island. (We noticed later there were two port-o-potties at the tiny campground.) We were to take all our belongings with us off the boat. This was so the crew could do a quick cleaning as well as set up lunch. Hollywood himself would give a guided tour of the fort. There would be an abbreviated talk at 10:45 AM just inside the entrance for those who wanted to know the history, but didn’t want to take the full tour. Then the guided tour would start at 11:30. For those snorkeling, it would take a half hour to get the gear offloaded so those people were encouraged to use the dock’s changing rooms or walk around the fort a bit first before grabbing their gear.
The Fourth Half Hour:
After all of Hollywood’s talks, videos and paperwork, there was just under an hour left on the boat. The seas on this day were relatively calm and the boat ride wasn’t bumpy, but there was a swaying from side to side. Christian decided to head to the open deck up front to look for turtles and dolphins. He saw two turtles. Erin, who announced she felt seasick, followed him hoping that being outside would make her feel better. It didn’t work and within five minutes she was back and curled up into a little ball against the window. I then went outside and as the warm sun hit my face realized that the air conditioned cabin was freezing. After several minutes of not seeing any turtles, I went back inside and grabbed a hot cup of coffee to both warm me up and get a hit of caffeine. We had woken up at 5:30 AM for this activity so I was already sleepy and the steady rocking of the boat was lulling me like a baby in a cradle. As I sipped my hot liquid, Hollywood reappeared.
The Last Half Hour:
Hollywood announced that the islands of Dry Tortugas and Fort Jefferson were now visible on the horizon. I grabbed my camera and headed back outside. Hollywood also pointed out a bird sanctuary island that wasn’t much more than a sand bar and barely visible to us on the boat. A lighthouse towered over Loggerhead Key also nearby. The boat then rounded the western side of Fort Jefferson. The red brick fort rose above the water and from our current location hardly any ground was visible. I wondered how this thing could even exist here.
We could see the shallow moat that encircled the fort. Build between 1846 and 1875 to protect US shipping lanes, the country’s only all masonry fort is made of thousands and thousands of bricks. The years and weather have not been kind. The fort was crumbling. Scaffolding three stories tall covered a large section of this side of the fort. As the boat came around the island to the dock on the south side, the ground the fort sits on came into view. As we circled the island we passed the tiny swim beach. There was a dock next to a sliver of green land that led to the entrance of the fort.
As the crew tied up the boat, Hollywood let us know that lunch, which would be on board, was at noon and that we all needed to return for the trip back starting at 1:30 PM. Finally, we were set loose on the island.
At 1:30 PM we did as we were told and returned to the boat. Hollywood had a ledger and as we boarded, he crossed our names off the list. At 1:50 Hollywood got back on his microphone and began calling the names of people he hadn’t crossed off his list yet. Three of those names were John, his wife and Erin. After everyone was accounted for, the boat engines roared us away. Once at sea Hollywood announced that the bar was officially open! Beer, wine, rum punch and margaritas were for sale. I purchased a can of Landshark Lager and shared it with Christian.
Hollywood then did a raffle on the boat. We bought six tickets for five dollars in hopes of getting a cool National Park prize. We were one number off from winning a beach towel. After that a documentary that showed the restoration of the fort giant canons played on the TV screens. We fell asleep scrunched up in the booth while other groups around us played cards or chatted. Teens with ear buds bobbed their heads to unheard music. It wasn't long before we woke up to Hollywood’s voice announcing we were again passing the Marquesas Keys and Key West came into view on the horizon.
I’m not going to tell you what we did on the island. I’m not going to tell you its fascinating history. I’m not going to tell you about the bird sanctuary, the soft sand beach, being able to walk on the roof high above the sea or stand in Dr. Mudd’s dark prison cell. I'm not going to tell you how I lost my wedding ring on the swim beach. Some things you need to experience for yourself. What I do want you to know is that the long journey to and from this unique place is in the hands of a capable crew that will make the journey easy peasy island breezy.
Friday, April 7, 2017
It’s not just the places you go, It’s the people you meet
The hotel’s website said it provided shuttle service Monday through Friday from 7 AM to 11 AM and from 4 PM to 9 PM. The site also said the shuttle had a three mile radius around the hotel. Checking Google Maps, I realized that was not going to work. I was traveling to Redondo Beach, CA, for a press trip and my hotel was the Hilton Garden Inn Redondo Beach, right off the infamous 405. It was three miles east of California’s South Bay, however, Hermosa Beach was in the way.
Redondo Beach is a quirk of geography. The boundaries on a map look like a puzzle piece. There is an eastern half that is three miles inland, sitting behind Hermosa Beach. Then like a diagonal move on a checker board, there is another square section to the south and west that is on the beach. The entire municipality is only five square miles. The Hilton Garden Inn at Marine Avenue put me at the far northeast corner while the actual beach was almost 5 miles away at the southwest corner. I would need that shuttle, but it wouldn’t get me to Redondo Beach. It would only get me to Hermosa and then it was a two mile walk. I would need a good pair of walking shoes.
My schedule for day one at Redondo Beach was paddle boarding in the morning, then lunch somewhere on the boardwalk and then dinner and beers at King Harbor Brewing Company. I asked the hotel front desk for the shuttle. The desk clerk made a phone call and said John would arrive in a few minutes.
As I waited in the lobby an older gentleman wearing khakis and denim shirt approached the front desk. The gal at the desk pointed to me.
“How far can you take me” I asked after he introduced himself. Asking exactly where I needed to go, I explained I wanted to be at King Harbor, but my understanding was the shuttle didn’t go that far. Even though I was talking to John, the desk clerk answered. I could be dropped off at Hermosa Beach and from there walk to King Harbor. John motioned for me to follow him out front. He opened the side door to the shuttle van for me to climb in. After he got in the driver’s seat, he turned around and asked me where I wanted to go. I said as close to King Harbor as he could get me.
“Where exactly do you need to be?”
“Specifically, Tarsan Paddle Rentals on North Harbor Drive.”
“Ok, I’ll just take you there,” he replied.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
Studying John in the rearview mirror I noticed he wore a tan beret and wire-rimmed glasses. Short salt and pepper hair could be seen below his cap and he had a grey mustache. I guessed he was in his late sixties. Since I like to try and figure people out, I imagined he was retired from a long career of something and driving this van was his part time gig. What I didn’t know was if he drove the van because he needed a paycheck or simply because he wanted something to do.
As he drove he plied me with questions. Where are you from? When I said Colorado he responded how beautiful he thought Colorado was. He said he had spent a vacation visiting a friend in Colorado. The friend took him to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park. I mentioned that the first snow of the season had just fallen in the national park a few days ago and it was still September. John laughed. He then said that LA was going to have a mini-heat wave over the next few days. Today’s expected high was 100 degrees.
He asked what I was doing today and I told him my schedule. He then asked why I was here. I said I was a travel writer and in town as a guest of the tourist board. He chuckled saying that was some job I had. I also told him that I was a beer blogger and had a 4 PM appointment at King Harbor Brewing Company. I half joked about how I would need a ride from him that night because I would be drinking beer all afternoon. While John wouldn’t be able to drive me to the brewery because he wouldn’t be back on duty until 4 PM, he was more than happy to pick me up.
We were only into the drive a few minutes when we passed by the Redondo Beach/King Harbor city sign. A few traffic lights after that he turned onto Harbor Drive and pulled the van over into a parallel parking spot. We were at the entrance to King Harbor. Tarsan was actually a block behind me. John then handed me his business card and said his cell phone number was on it so I could call him when I was ready to return.
I now had six hours to fill. I filled them with two hours of paddle boarding, a huge lunch at Captain Kidd’s Seafood Market and then a walk to Redondo Pier. John was right; the temperature did get up to 100. I stopped inside an ice cream shop to get some chilled relief in the form of a vanilla mocha ice cream cone. Then I took Uber to the brewery.
My interview at the brewery lasted almost two hours, during which I sampled a variety of the brewery’s beers. And because it was Monday Night Football, the brewery had a food truck out front, Bartz BBQ. After ordering some brisket to go I called John. He needed to drop off another passenger first before getting me. I plunked down on the curb as the evening finally began to cool. Because I had eaten so much for lunch and then drank beer, I only ordered a sandwich, no sides, but as I sat on the curb waiting, the food truck proprietor approached and asked if I wanted to take some sides with me.
“I’ll have too much leftover to take home. How about some mac and cheese on the house?” An offer I couldn’t refuse. The server gave me a heaping spoonful of mac and cheese with the little crunchies on top. I love crunchies. A few minutes later, John arrived in the big white van.
“Sorry it took me so long,” he apologized as I entered the middle seat. “Ran into rush hour traffic.” I told him because of his delay I scored some free mac and cheese. He laughed and asked how my day went. I told him I came within a few feet of a sea lion on the paddle board, which was awesome. I also said the beer at the brewery was delicious. He stated Heineken was his beer of choice.
“I drink them at the Mermaid Inn with my friends. I live over in Hermosa, lived there for many years. Will you be visiting the Mermaid Inn?” Since I was a guest of Redondo Beach tourism board, I informed him I wouldn’t be visiting Mermaid, which is in Hermosa. I set up my ride for the next day and wished him good evening.
“I drink them at the Mermaid Inn with my friends. I live over in Hermosa, lived there for many years. Will you be visiting the Mermaid Inn?” Since I was a guest of Redondo Beach tourism board, I informed him I wouldn’t be visiting Mermaid, which is in Hermosa. I set up my ride for the next day and wished him good evening.
The next morning, I awoke early, had free breakfast from the hotel and then prepped my travel bag for a day at the beach. Tuesday’s schedule was to rent a bicycle and hit the beach, then late lunch and restaurant tour of Redondo Pier. The bike shop didn’t open until 10 AM so I had plenty of time. I was in the lobby when John arrived shortly after 9:30.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“You’re not late,” I said. Once again he opened the van door for me. He then asked where I was going today.
I said Marina Bike Rental on the corner of Beryl and Harbor Drive, only a few blocks south of Tarsan. Shortly after pulling out of the hotel parking lot, John’s cell phone rang. He answered the phone and put it on speaker, which meant I could hear every word. A woman on the phone asked him about a prescription. Since it wasn’t really my business, I looked out the window, trying not to hear. John talked to the woman about visiting the doctor and getting “her” a prescription. Then toward the end of the conversation, they both spoke Spanish. He finished the phone call at a stop light. John said he was sorry about the interruption, but I said no worries. He said that it was his mother’s Medicare case worker. His mother, who he said was 93 years old, was in the care of both him and his sister and that he needed to get permission before they would approve of things like prescriptions. The case worker was verifying that his mother had seen a doctor before getting new drugs. I marveled that his mother was 93.
We were heading down Herondo Street and South Bay was at the bottom. On my right was Hermosa and on my left was Redondo. John pointed to the hill on the right where the condo buildings overlooked the bay.
“My apartment is over there.”
“That’s close to the beach.” I said impressed. John laughed his easy laugh again.
“Yeah, my sister and I went to high school here and we still have friends from those days. We all get together at either Mermaid’s or Hennessey for a few beers. That’s what I do on my days off.”
At the rental shack he pulled next to the bike lane and I exited the vehicle. I told him I would call him that evening for my ride back. He said to enjoy my day and left. It was still a few minutes early and the rental shack wasn’t open yet. I sat on the deck stairs and opened my bag to take out my camera. That is when I made a startling realization. I forgot all my restaurant coupons back at the hotel. All of them…in a little envelope…on the hotel room desk. The coupons were to pay for the restaurants on the Pier.
I considered forgoing the coupons and just paying for my meals, but then decided against it. I barely get paid for the articles I write, let alone make enough money to fully fund this trip. I needed all the freebies I could get just break even. John’s shuttle duty would end at 11 AM. I called him.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I forgot something at the hotel. Can you come back and get me?” John said he was driving another passenger and he could return when he was done.
While waiting for John to return, a large rotund gentleman pulled up to the bike shack in a red scooter with an adorable tan and white Corgi in a basket on the back. He parked the scooter under an umbrella next to the shack’s front deck and moved the Corgi from the basket to the ground. The Corgi walked over to sniff me. After the man unlocked the shack door he asked me if I was renting a bike. I said yes, but that I had to return to my hotel and would be back in about 45 minutes. He shrugged and continued his opening routine. He walked to a large metal trailer next to the shack, undid a padlock and opened a door. Then he pulled out several cruiser bikes one by one. While setting up the fifth bike, a young couple walked up to the deck. Speaking in thick Scandinavian accents, they requested some bikes. They filled out some paper work and he took their driving license and credit card info. Then he put a wire basket on the woman’s bike and off they went.
Although it only took ten minutes, it seemed like a half hour of standing in the hot California sun. I saw the white van turn down the block and leisurely pulled up alongside the curb to me. I opened the door myself and hopped in.
“Thank you so much. I can’t believe I did that!” He chuckled. He drove as fast the speed limit would allow and in less than 10 minutes we were back at the hotel. He took the opportunity to use the hotel “facilities” while I sprinted back to my room for the envelope. It was right where I left it. I sprinted back down to the lobby and outside.
“That was fast!” he said as I hopped into the van. We were off on the same route we took about an hour and half earlier. It was after 10:30 AM and soon John would be off the clock. He returned me to Marina Bike Rentals and as he opened the door for me, I handed him a five dollar bill and he tried to hand it back.
“You just saved my butt. Thank you!”
I spent the afternoon riding the Marvin Braude Bike Trail on my rented cruiser up to Manhanttan Beach and then I rode it back past the rental shop to the far southern end of Redondo Beach. I think I covered some 10 miles of the 22-mile trail. It was a beautiful Southern California day as I sat on the sand admiring the waves and the sand pipers and the few families who were away from work and school to play at the shore. After returning the bike I enjoyed a Redondo Pier bar crawl during happy hour and ended my day watching the spectacular sun set over the Pacific Ocean. I ended my evening with a dinner of crab cakes and a beer at a fancy seafood restaurant. About 8 o’clock I called John. He asked if I knew where the roundabout was on the south side of the pier. Since I had passed it on the bike, I did know where it was. He said he would pick me up there. This was way outside the boundaries of the shuttle.
I did have to wait several minutes, but there was no mistaking the big white van in the street lights when it came around the corner. I climbed in and said hello. John asked how my day was, but I turned the tables on him and said, “You know I’ve been sent to see all these places, but where do you like to go?”
He said he likes Hermosa, where he lives, and likes to hang out at Hennessey with his friends next door to Mermaid Inn. I had ridden the bike by both earlier that day. He said he and his sister went to high school in Hermosa and when he retired he wanted to return here because he loves it. He then said he was in the service and spent 35 years in Alaska before returning to Hermosa. Then the floodgate opened.
He asked if I noticed him speaking Spanish on the phone yesterday. When I said yes, he said that was because he was originally from Cuba. He was sent to Florida on a boat as a boy in 1962. He was cared for by a foster family for five years until his parents made it to Florida. From there he went to a Presbyterian school in Shenandoah, IA, for several years. He even detassled corn in the summer, something I said we had in common. From there the family moved to Hermosa and after high school he joined the service and spent some time in Virginia and then the 35 years in Alaska. He actually enjoyed his time in Alaska, but when he retired, he knew he wanted to return to sunny California.
While sitting at a stop light he told me his father had a trucking company in Cuba and it did very well until Castro and the Communists came to power in 1961. He said after his grandfather passed away his dad took some money out of the grandfather’s bank account to pay for the funeral. However, the government didn’t believe him and put him in jail for a year. His mother spent that year fighting bureaucratic red tape and had to submit and resubmit receipts to show where the money went. The communists would say the paperwork wasn’t filled out properly or that they just didn’t believe what the money was used for, even though his mother had receipts. After his father was released from jail they decided to leave.
John said he was trying to get a visa so he can return to Cuba, but since he arrived in the States before 1970, there are special regulations he needs to meet making it harder. His sister had already returned. He says his boyhood home is still there and he would like to see it. I asked him if he was scared when he came over on the boat and he said no. He said he wasn’t scared because he was so young he didn’t know any better.
When we arrived at the lobby of the hotel, he got out of the driver seat and for the last time walked over to the passenger door to let me out. He wished me a safe return to Colorado.
“Next time you do one of these trips, come to Hermosa and I’ll show you around,” he said as he waved.
“That sounds like a great idea!” I said as entered the hotel.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
*** Part III
Los Angeles International Airport was not empty at 2:30 AM. Airport workers were everywhere. I walked in front of the Southwest ticket counter area looking for an outlet to charge my phone. There were small pockets of seats and chairs between the entrance doors and each one was already filled with groups of young people who had already commandeered those outlets. Even though I didn’t have to go, I headed to the restroom thinking it was a good idea. Upon walking around the entrance wall, I spotted one lonely outlet above the sinks. I plugged my phone in and then hopped up on the counter and used my carry-on as a footrest.
Even in the quiet airport, women still came in the restroom. I made it a point to smile and say hi as various women entered so they wouldn’t think I was going to rob them or something. One woman who came in, who I thought was a bit chubby, spent a good five minutes throwing up in the stall. It wasn’t until she came back out to wash up that I realized she was actually pregnant. Another woman who came in worked for Southwest and as she washed her hands started chatting with me. She told me she had just finished setting up the ribbons that mark the lines to the ticket counters and she hoped the construction crews wouldn’t mess them up. I asked her about the construction and she said while it was a pain in the ass now, the place would be “spectacular” when it was finished. Southwest and the airport were splitting the cost of the upgrade and she said that as the airport finished its many projects that celebrities would be coming out for ribbon cutting ceremonies. She went on to say that some celebs were helping to fund the upgrade in exchange for getting terminals named after them.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be nice when it’s done,” she said as she left the restroom. Things got quiet at that. Out of boredom I would pick up my phone and look at Facebook posts. I also began texting my brother, who worked the night shift at NOAA in Las Vegas, but he responded that he was too busy to text. I went back to Facebook, but not wanting to waste too much battery put the phone back down. Then five minutes later picked it up again. This went on for an hour.
My rescheduled flight was for 6:30 AM so I figured I would exit the restroom around 4:30 so I could be first in line at the ticket counter. Shortly after 4 AM I noticed more and more women were using the restroom and they weren’t airport workers. I decided I better move. Good thing I did because the ribbons of rows the Southwest gal set up earlier were already full. I lined up behind a group of older women, one of whom was in a wheelchair, and waited. While standing there one of the women in front of me asked if I saw any airline employees around. I said no after doing a brief scan. She then said that she and her friends “found” the woman in the wheelchair sitting in a corner of the terminal facing the wall. She had asked for help as they walked by. The wheelchair woman told them she had arrived at the airport at 2 AM and an airport worker got her from the cab to the inside and then just walked away and left her there.
“That’s awful,” I said. “Yes, it is,” was the reply. The women friends were on their way to Vegas and the woman in the wheelchair was on her way to Dallas or Detroit or DC, some city with a D. The Vegas women were going to help the elderly woman get checked in and then hoped an airline worker would take over from there. They were worried because they knew their flight was already full and since they were meeting other people in Vegas, didn’t want to get bumped.
Pretty much everyone in line including me expected the ticket agents to begin at 4:30 AM. They didn’t. A few walked out from a door behind the counter and began looking around at the computers and other things on the counters, turning things on, unlocking locks and opening and closing drawers with keys that they wore like jewelry on their necks and wrists. Then some went back behind the door and disappeared. It was another 10 minutes before ONE agent opened up for customers. A few minutes later the rest came back and opened up. Slowly the line began to move.
When it was my turn at the counter a smiling woman named Neesi took my ID and I told her I was rebooked on the 6:30 AM flight after missing my flight last night. Since my flight was through Phoenix I asked her if there was any way I could get on the 7:30 direct flight to Denver. She started to say no, but then tilted her head to one side and pointed at her computer screen with a long painted fingernail.
“Goodness, so you’re on the flight to Phoenix, but the flight on to Denver has been canceled.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said as the blood drained from my face.
She tapped her long nails on the keyboard. “Let’s see what we can do here…So I can put you on standby on the 7:30, but there are 10 people already on the list. I can’t guarantee you’ll get on.”
“That’s OK. I’ll take it!” She printed out a new boarding pass for me and I thanked her profusely and hustled to the security line only to wait another 10 minutes because security wasn’t open yet either.
As I walked by the Las Vegas women, I heard the ticket agent say they would get someone to help the woman in the wheelchair so they followed me to the security line.
Because of the construction, the security line actually started at the base of some escalators and stairs. Once up the stairs, the line snaked through a very tight space, but at least it moved. After security I headed to my gate and passed a few food carts. I was starving, but they all had long lines and I didn’t think I could take the time.
Once at the gate the crowd of people was overwhelming. I went up to the counter even though no one was there yet. My plan was to “check in” and let them know I was flying standby. My hope was to not annoy the gate agent while letting them know I really wanted on that plane. When a woman did show up it took her many minutes to get organized. There was a flight leaving the gate before mine so she had to deal with that first. When she was ready for me I politely told her I was on Standby for the next flight and asked what needed to do to get on the plane. She said the best thing for me to do was to stay close because if you’re not there when they call you, they move on to the next person. I thanked her and looked at the café line again. Still quite long, I instead went behind the gate and sat on the floor because every seat was already taken.
I pulled out my phone and realized it was still in airplane mode. After changing it back I began receiving notification emails announcing my flight from Phoenix to Denver was canceled.
Just for the heck of it I got on Twitter and tweeted to @Southwest “Please get me home, almost there.” Within a minute SW followed me and then sent a DM asking my situation and ticket number. I told them I was on standby thanks to Neesi. I received a response that read there wasn’t much they could do, but wished me luck. I told them how great Joey and Neesi had been in helping with a problem that was created by another airline.
As soon as the first plane left I stood up and shook my stiff arms and legs. The moment of truth had arrived. The Denver flight was posted on the gate board. The gate agents began calling first class and frequent flyer members. Then they called Group A. As people moved around the airline agent began calling standby passengers. Every few seconds the agent said a name. None of them mine. I counted the names and when she got to number 10, my heart sank. As she announced names, various people would arrive at the counter and move on. Then she announced that the overhead bins were full so those in Groups B and C would have to check their carry-ons. I was about to give up and go stand in the café line when she said my name. I asked her if she needed to check my carry-on. She looked at my ticket and said, “No. You’re in Group A.”
Not only did I make standby, but I didn’t have to check my bag on a full flight! Thanks Southwest!
I took my Group A ticket and walked by all the Group B people still standing in line. On the plane I saw a middle seat in the second row. I put my small carry-on above and took the middle seat. I have short legs so I don’t mind sitting middle. I sat next to an elderly black lady who asked me if I was getting off in Denver. When I said yes, she said she was flying to Ohio. I asked why she was going to Ohio and she said it was her brother’s birthday.
“That’s nice you’re able to be there for that,” I said.
“Well, since it’s my twin brother, it’s my birthday too.”
“Oh. Happy birthday,” I told her.
I arrived in Denver at 10 AM, 11.5 hours later than I should have been. I called my awesome co-worker and she said she had the store covered and told me to go home and get some sleep. But first I had to pick up my dog at the dog sitter. So I had to pay for an extra day of airport parking and I had to pay for an extra day of dog sitting. What did I get from Alaska Air? A $200 airline voucher for a future flight. So let’s see. Denver is not really a hub for them so my options for direct flights are few and $100 is what I paid in extras. I appealed to the airline for a cash refund and even asked for the lower amount because all I wanted was to cover my fees. The airline, “after much consideration,” said no. So, where should I go next?