Snowed out of our Caribbean vacation? No way. – Virginian

The ping sounded at sunset. It felt like a spike to the heart.

“Your flight has been canceled.”

With that text, a mother-daughter vacation, make that an insanely expensive mother-and-daughter diving vacation to Turks and Caicos Islands in the Caribbean, was in peril. The resort’s iron-fisted cancellation policy meant that if we couldn’t get there, well, you know the saying.

Snow in southeastern Virginia is rare. But on Jan. 7, the day before our scheduled flight, it snowed.

All. Day. Long.

After reading the text, I immediately dialed the airline to book an alternative flight.

“Estimated hold time is two hours,” the recorded voice said.

That’s a lot of people booking flights in front of me, I thought. So I buckled into my Jeep, jammed it into four-wheel drive, and with my phone on speaker drove on sometimes clear, sometimes snowy roads to Norfolk International Airport to speak with someone in person.

Just as empty runways came into view, an agent came on the phone line with an option that was the equivalent of trading palm trees and paradise for airport purgatory.

Her idea: A flight to New York City the next evening, (12 hours after the original flight), overnight there (no doubt in an insanely expensive hotel) and then on a plane to Turks late Monday afternoon.

Nope. Not this girl.

Inside the airport, the vibe was grim with wrinkled, downtrodden travelers everywhere. On average, 250 flights take off or land at the Norfolk airport each day. That day, all but a couple of early morning flights had been canceled.

A close friend booked for a ski vacation out West stood in a haggard line. He’d been at the airport all day and now waited with fellow passengers to retrieve luggage and skis and retreat home.

I had just one question for the counter agent: “Where have flights flown out of today?”

She at first suggested a flight out of Newport News the next morning, but with Norfolk’s airport paralyzed, that plan seemed dubious to me. I needed the odds in my favor.

An extraordinary amount of typing ensued. She finally looked up from the keyboard and said, doubtfully, “Raleigh-Durham? Tomorrow morning, 8:30? It’s a tight connection in Atlanta, though.”

I summoned MapQuest on my phone. It meant trading airport purgatory for an overnight drive on bad roads.

“Book it!” I said.

And so, an hour later my teenage daughter, Peyton, and I headed west toward Emporia with a suitcase full of shorts, sandals and bathing suits in a rental car swaddled in all of the insurance money could buy. The lady at the counter said that she’d been renting cars all day to people headed to Florida, Arizona and elsewhere.

In the car, Peyton manned the tunes and snacks. Think Cheetos, Fall Out Boy and Diet Coke. I just kept driving really slowly into the night. Dark, deserted roads were sometimes perfectly clear, sometimes so snow-covered that it was hard to see the median, and sometimes shiny with ice.

The snow had stopped. Mostly, it seemed we were driving for hours into a vast nothingness, like the Starship Enterprise zooming into space. Only we were traveling at 35 mph instead of at warp speed.

At Emporia, the turnoff to I-95, I assumed conditions would improve. Instead, we made our way south one of the East Coast’s major corridors rarely topping 40 mph, following the few tractor-trailers on the road.

We rolled into Raleigh at sunrise with time to spare, and our luck seemed to change when we landed the last two standby seats to Atlanta on a slightly earlier flight.

On the gangway, we were jubilant, joyful, fist pumping, high five-ing happy. We’d be lounging poolside in a few short hours and diving the next day.

We buckled into our seats.

And then.

And then the plane didn’t move. And it didn’t move some more. And didn’t move, for minute after agonizing minute.

A crazy scene ensued in the cabin as passengers tapped cellphones desperately trying to rebook connections, plotting the next port to meet a missed cruise ship, calling friends with somber news.

“Is this you?” the flight attendant asked, leaning down and pointing to her cellphone and our assigned seats on the connecting flight to Turks. “I’m sorry, but it says you will miss your connection by two minutes.”

Two minutes? Two?

And no, she said. They likely wouldn’t hold the plane for us. Even for two minutes.

Give up? Nope, not these girls.

During the flight, Peyton and I hatched another plan.

“Ding.”

When the “all clear” signal sounded, we rocketed out of our seats and were standing in front of the big “arrivals/departures” screen in minutes flat.

OMG! Our flight to Turks was boarding!

And then, we became those people. The ones running through the airport like O.J. Simpson, cutting in front of small children, elbowing the elderly, pausing only to ask the attendant to notify our gate that we were on the way.

When the tram stopped at the far off-terminal, other passengers, sensing urgency, parted for our exit.

“Go!” I said to Peyton and took her backpack. She sprinted up the escalator and out of sight while I galumphed behind her as fast as I could, dangerously out of breath, shouldering her backpack and dragging a roller bag and carry-on behind me.

I rounded a bend only to see Peyton emerge, shaking her head, no.

By this time, I hadn’t slept in 24 hours. I’d spent a couple of hundred dollars for a rental car. I’d braved snow and ice for five hours. I was exhausted and incredulous. The plane stood parked just outside the wall of windows, still connected to the gangway.

“I’m sorry,” the gate agent said, “the doors have closed.”

I walked over to the window and waved to the pilot.

“We drove all night from Norfolk to get here.” I started to explain to the gate attendant. “We have a dive lesson tomorrow morning … ”

And then, I just deflated.

After all that effort, we’d be in airport purgatory instead of palm tree paradise. Sleeping on chairs instead of poolside chaises. Eating almonds, not conch.

And then, they opened the doors. I don’t know why, but they did.

“You probably need this,” a smiling steward said as we finally crossed the threshold on the plane to paradise. He handed a bottle of water to me and one to Peyton.

The plane wasn’t even full; Peyton and I had a whole row of seats to relax in.

Later, when the steward came by offering snacks and drinks, he leaned down and said, “We’ve all been there, honey. The first one’s on me.”

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