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Written by Raymond John
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Saturday, 07 June 2008 00:00 |
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I've mentioned in other writing that travel always seems to involve an adventure for me. I also mentioned that I am a retiree from the US Navy Reserves. In my twenty-one years, I spent thirty-six weeks on annual training. In 1993, I spent my two weeks in Hawaii. Terrible place to do my stint. Even worse, I had a room at the Hale Koa Military Hotel on Waikiki Beach and had a rental car.
What I was doing on active duty isn't a matter of public record. In fact, we had a saying in my unit, 'if I told you what I was doing there, I'd have to kill you.' Well, not exactly, but we had to pass through several checkpoints, including the possibility of a cavity search, and numerous key pad locks to get to our workspace. We spent evenings swimming, hiking and eating moonfish and mahi-mahi.
It doesn't sound like much of an adventure so far, does it? Well, the idyllic tour of duty finally ended and we were leaving for home on Friday night. At the airport, as we were checking in, I opened my briefcase to get my ticket--and couldn't find it!
My travel companions helped me unpack and search my baggage. After a final squeamish rummage through the dirty laundry, I gave up. "Go to Barbers Point Naval Air Station," one of my companions said. "They have a flight to Whitby Island in San Diego every night. You should be able to get home from there."
I waved goodbye to them and caught a cab to Barbers Point in the northwest part of the island. I had regularly flown on once-a-month flight from Minneapolis to Glenview NAS in Illinois. Somehow I imagined the whole of the US and the world connected by a gigantic matrix and I expected the efficiency and regularity of the flights I had taken to Glenview.
Little did I know.
Luckily, I got there in time, and my military ID got me a seat on a P-3 Orion on its way to San Diego. The P-3 was a weather and surveillance plane and chock full of equipment. It also had a tiny jump seat, and I had my knees to my chin from the time we left at midnight, Hawaii time, until we arrived in San Diego at 2:00 AM Pacific Time. It was the longest four hours I had ever spent. The ensign operating the equipment offered to share his Subway sandwich with me, but I found it was difficult to chew in my position. When we landed, I sprang out of the seat like a jack-in-the-box. My legs gave out, and it took a few minutes before I could walk. The ensign and the pilots held me up as we walked to the operations area.
The chief on duty barely looked up when I asked him if there were flights to Glenview Naval Air Station.
"No. But we have a flight for Memphis leaving in an hour. I can get you on with them. Memphis NAS has regular flights to Glenview."
"Go for it."
I don't remember what kind of plane it was, but it was small. A young JG was the pilot, and he had another junior officer with him. "If you want to sit up front, you can," the non-pilot said.
I jumped at the chance. Even though I could barely keep my eyes open, I kept the pilot company. He was on his third flight in five days. Five hours later, we landed at Memphis. I was fascinated listening to the control tower as we came in. An LED display showed an image of our plane and the landing area. "On course," the controller continuously said. "On the flight path."
We bounced off the tarmac when we landed, but we were safely on the ground. Once again, I had some luck. I only had a three-hour wait for a flight going to Glenview. I collapsed into a chair and fell asleep in the ready-room. The operations officer shook me awake when the flight was ready to leave.
The weather had been clear so far on the trip. About half way to Glenview we ran into heavy rain. The rain stopped at Glenview, and the sun came out.
The first phone call was to home to tell my wife what had happened. One of my friends who was with me at the airport in Hawaii had called her, so she knew about the San Diego stop. She didn't know about Memphis or Glenview. We both laughed at the fact that I had crossed the Pacific and now the country.
I called my friend in Evanston and we got together to eat. Things were looking up. Buffalo Joe's in Evanston has the best hot Buffalo wings in the world, and I was really happy to get a chance to eat them again. When I told him about my trip, he shook his head. He knew about my previous travel adventures. "Only you," he said, shaking his head. "Lunch is on me."
Back to Glenview NAS. The C3 arrived twenty minutes later. So did the bad weather.
The ready-room officer told me we wouldn't be flying directly to Minneapolis but were flying to Columbus to pick up some equipment, and on to Minneapolis from there. He also said the National Weather Service reported a very large storm moving into Columbus, and he hoped we would be able to leave.
I broke into maniacal laughter. I already knew what would happen.
Sure enough, we had a bumpy ride and had to land by instrument when we got to Columbus. My uniform was soaked when we got into the airport.
"We won't be leaving for a while," the pilot said in classic understatement. After four hours of drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, I heard the announcement: the flight was cancelled. "We've got a nice lodge here," the operations sergeant said in a disgustingly cheerful voice. "I'll have one of my youngsters drive you over."
I spent Saturday night watching HBO and watching ten-foot branches float by outside my window.
(Italics:) I'll never get home.
The rain had stopped the next morning and I got a ride to the hangar. "We're sending it back to Glenview, and you can go with them or wait here. There'll be a flight from there late this afternoon to pick up our reservists. After they bring them back here, it's flying to Minneapolis with your reservists. You should be home by six-thirty tonight."
I opted for going back to Glenview. With my luck, the plane would be full when they left Glenview and I wouldn't be able to get home from Columbus. I also wanted to be four hundred miles closer to home if anything else went wrong.
Connect the dots: Oahu to San Diego. San Diego to Memphis. Memphis to Chicago. Chicago to Columbus. Columbus to Chicago. Chicago to Columbus. Columbus to Minneapolis. After more than 18 hours in the air, I could darn near qualify as a globetrotter on the mileage. As Dr. Seuss said, "think of the places you'll see."
Luckily, everything went as it should and I met my wife, exhausted. On the way home, she looked over at me. "I hate to tell you this, but I called Northwest. They could have issued a replacement ticket in Hawaii."
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Copyright © 2010 The Books of Raymond John. All Rights Reserved.
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