A few years ago my wife and I had a chance to fly out to Halifax for the weekend without the kids. Just a short hop out to the coast to visit with my wife’s sister and her husband. We thought we would move with the times and bought our tickets over the internet and paid for them in the same fashion. We received an email telling us our electronic tickets would await our arrival in Ottawa. Then I sent our hosts an email relaying the flight information.
On our drive to Ottawa, I kept wondering, how real were those electronic tickets anyway? I have been exposed to computers long enough to know that a) computers do screw up and b) the front line operators usually don’t believe that a computer can screw up. I had visions of an Air Canada attendant telling me that they had a seat for a Platrick Scott but nothing for a Patrick Scott.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to confront these problems, for when we arrived in Ottawa, our electronic tickets were there. However, they were also tantalizingly out of reach, until we started in a series of new procedures before boarding the flight. First, we had to show picture identification that matched the name on the tickets. That done, we were asked if we packed the suitcase ourselves and did we know what was in it. I suppose that questions of this nature could get a little uncomfortable, seeing how we were a married couple getting away from our kids for the weekend. We just smiled and nodded. We were asked if we left the luggage unattended anywhere. I said, “In our trunk”. Humour does not work well these days. We had to “affix” (couldn’t she have said “put”?) a label on our luggage. I thought about using a funny name, but the idea of spending my weekend in a small jail cell with rough looking characters instead of my wife and the contents of our suitcase in Halifax, eliminated that idea and I quickly wrote my name and address on the label. We then proceeded (couldn’t have I just said, “went”?) to the metal detector, showed our picture ID again then I had to turn the digital camera on and off, I had to turn the cell phone on and off, then had to turn my patience on and off. Finally, I emptied my pockets and as I stepped through the detector, the alarm went off. Then I really emptied my pants pockets, my sport coat pockets and even my outer coat pockets and still the alarm went off. They finally checked me out with a handheld unit and allowed me to go on. It was only when I was putting everything away that I realized I still had my wrist watch on. The scary part was all those security people staring at me and waiting for me to do something stupid (quiet out there) didn’t notice my watch either.
We went to the ticket counter and as we stood in line for our seating assignments, we had to show our picture ID again. Then, as we walked the 6 feet to the desk to get our boarding passes, we had to show our picture ID yet again. Now, I don’t know if they had mistaken my wife and I for David Copperfield and an associate, but for the life of me I don’t know how they thought we could turn into someone else in the space of six feet. But we dutifully showed them our ID and boarded the plane.
The flight was uneventful except for the guy right behind us who saw some vapour from the air conditioning unit start pouring out of the ventilation slots. There is something unnerving about racing down a runway at a couple of hundred miles an hour with a guy right behind you mumbling softly that the plane was on fire and that we are all going to die and blow up. Which, I guess, is preferable to blowing up first and then dying. He settled down quickly though, either that or he passed out from fear.
Our stay in Halifax was wonderful. We had some delectable meals, my wife got her fill of fresh seafood and I got my fill of smelling the saltwater air wafting in over the shoreline. The flight back was like all flights back. They seem a little longer than when you were leaving. Albeit, we did have two 18 months old twins with runny nose beside us, but compared to the death-wish guy, they were a bed of roses. The other thing my wife and I vowed to do when we got back was to have ID pictures that don’t make us look like inmates from one of our area penitentiaries. Heard that joke once too many times.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
An Inate Sense of Direction.... What?
A long, long time ago, light years from where I am now. Way back before kids, before I was married, a time where my now wife was still in the throes of rapture over me, yeah, talking a long time ago. In those days, when my money was spent on me and time was always available, a group of us decided to chuck the February snow and ice and fly to Jamaica for 2 weeks. After getting used to the immediate surroundings, we decided to leave the villa in our little red Mitsubishi and venture into Montego Bay for some nightlife. We really didn’t know where we were headed but fortunately for us, our friend announced that we were not to worry as he had, “an innate sense of direction”. Three hours later, we were lost in the mountains and ended up stopping for directions at what turned out to be a local house of ill-repute. To say that we stuck out would be understating the whole situation. Some one there did recognize the description of our villa and offered to lead the way back. What we didn’t know was how quickly he was going to lead us there. As we were whipped back and forth over the bench seat of our little car, it bounced over mammoth holes in the road. On more than one occasion, we barely skirted a tumble off the cliffs which were a mere few inches away from the side of the road. The whole time our friend sat seemingly calm, clutching the steering wheel and trying to keep up with the speeding vehicle in front of us. The only trace of any tension in him were his white knuckles and his toneless, constant singing, over and over again, “just another day, just another day, just another day...” I didn’t know or care what the song was, I just wanted to get to our place, grab the neck of a bottle of rum and swish this terrifying ride out of my head. Obviously, we made it back alive and upon grabbing the aforementioned bottle of rum, it was there decided that our friend with the “innate sense of direction” would no longer be allowed anywhere near the front seat of our little red car.
As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.
Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).
To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.
As everyone knows, we in Kingston put up with wet, horrible winter months just for the sheer pleasure of living here during the summer. There is always something to do and usually you can find someone to do it with. Getting friends and family to come down for a visit is as easy as asking them. So it was no surprise to us when some friends from our university days called and asked if they could sail down to Kingston for a weekend visit. Now, there is only one thing better than being in Kingston in the summer and that is being in Kingston in the summer while on a boat. We casually leaped at the offer, arranged a mutual weekend that was good for all and then anticipated their visit. We had expected them to arrive at around 2:30 in the afternoon, we had heard from them via cell phone that they were just off the western tip of Amherst Island. Hours passed and we still hadn’t heard any word of their whereabouts. I wasn’t too concerned for their safety, as I knew they had all the required gear that was needed for a boat of that size. I thought that maybe the battery in the cell phone had died. A thought went through my mind that perhaps they missed the end of Amherst and continued on down the south coast of Wolfe Island, but I shook that one off as being too hard to miss the gap between the two islands. As early evening arrived, my wife and I went home and had supper. We were not surprised to get their phone call and now only mildly surprised to find out that they did indeed miss the gap. I doubt it would surprise you that our driver in Jamaica, the one with the “innate sense of direction” is the same guy who sailed right past Kingston.
Their voices were weary, a little stressed, but excited as they told us they were at the downtown Kingston marina and we made arrangements to meet on a patio for a snack and drinks. There was a slight delay getting together, believe it or not, they got lost walking to the patio where we were waiting (they were at the Kingston Yacht Club and not Confederation Basin).
To say their trip went smoothly after they rerouted themselves from Cape Vincent back to Kingston would be a little misleading. To go through their trip event by event is a little too painful to relate. Suffice to mention, unfolding a seldom used chart of Kingston and finding that mice had made dinner of the approach to Kingston and the harbor, finding a shoal that had no visible markings, and a few unexpected jibes that would rattle most sailors nerves. Like all adventures, we got the whole report in the tiniest of details, from the moment they cast off in Brighton to the moment they sat down beside us. A perfect summer night in Kingston, great company, stories to last all evening, a couple of jugs of cold draught beer and sitting on a warm breezy patio. As the evening wrapped up we had to ask Regina if Michael’s “just another day” mantra had resurfaced during the sail down. She just smiled and said, “No, no. He has become much more colorful in his language since buying the boat”. Ah, a true skipper emerges.
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