Travelogue -Airshow

Jenny had introduced me to the Caribbean and Virgin Gorda on what I think was our first vacation together sometime back in the '90s. Virgin Gorda is one of several inhabited islands in the BVI (British Virgin Islands). We stayed in a resort called Guavaberry Spring Bay, where we rented a little one-room bungalow, a 5-minute walk to the resorts private beach. We lived quite simply, preparing our own meals with supplies from an in-house commissary, or a 15 minute walk to town. If we wanted to wander further, there was an outfit called Mahogany Car Rental, which would either provide taxi service, or bring a rental car for the day to our door. (Although this year, in deference to our age, I decided I could afford to rent a car for our whole stay.)

We picked what I thought was the perfect time to go. Jenny drove down from her home in Vermont on Tuesday, December 31. We would attend the Folk Project's New Year's Eve contra dance, spend the New Year's day resting and preparing, and leave for the Islands the following morning. I had met Jenny at a contra dance when she lived in New Jersey so long ago that neither of us remembers the year. I had not gone dancing with her in over a year, so I relished this chance. She dances barefoot, and I swear, watching her dance she looks like she's 19, rather than 69.

We danced until midnight, rang in the new year with a waltz, and headed for home. And the following day brought me my first disaster. I had planned on packing during the day, and going to bed early, because our flight departed at 5:00 AM. My friend Bill Henderson had volunteered to shuttle us to the airport despite the ungodly hour (God bless him!). Jenny asked me offhandedly, "Do you have your passport?" I said "Yep.", and went to my filing cabinet, and pulled out the "Personal" folder. What I found there was a photocopy of the title page of my passport with a big red note, "Original in bank deposit box." OH, SHIT!! Of course the bank was closed on New Year's Day. WTF am I gonna do now?

We soon came to the conclusion that the only course of action would be for Jenny to fly out by herself, and i would reschedule my flight for as soon as I could after retrieving my passport the following day.

Rescheduling my flight cost me $110. Not too bad, all things considered. This was vacation, and vacation dollars are sort of like foreign currency. You always expect things to be pricey. The rescheduled flight was to depart at 7:00 AM on Friday morning. I got up at 3:00 to bid Jenny good-bye, and went back to bed.

Next morning I went to the bank bright and early, and encountered my 2nd shock. I gave the nice lady at the bank the key to my deposit box, and she could not get it open. She fiddled and twiddled it, and the lock would not turn. She finally called her supervisor, who executed the secret combination of fiddles and twiddles, and finally got it open. I opened the box, and discovered NO PASSPORT! There was my birth certificate, and my various diplomas, and my Last Will and Testament, but no passport.

Now I was well and truly screwed. I went back home and searched every place it could possibly be to no avail. Where could it possibly have gone? Pondering the situation, a last ditch thought occurred to me. If you have a safe deposit box, you know what they look like. A long narrow box with a hinged lid. But the hinge is not at the end of the box. It's about 6 inches or so from the end, leaving a 6-inch deep cavity at the end of the box with a fixed cover. Maybe the passport was hiding under that fixed cover.

Back to the bank again. They must have begun to wonder about me. Back to the nice lady and her supervisor, both of whom had trouble getting the box unlocked this time. Finally got it open, and I lifted the lid, and felt in the cavity. Sure enough, there it was.

Whew!!

I went to bed early in preparation for a 5:00 AM departure. I wasn't going to wake Bill Henderson at zero-dark-thirty twice in one week, so I Ubered to the airport. (Vacation dollars) I had not packed light. In fact I had to transfer a couple of books from my suitcase to my backpack to bring the suitcase under the 50 pound limit. I also brought my guitar, checked in as a 2nd bag. (More vacation dollars.) I didn't bring my precious Martin, but rather a serviceable Washburn that I call my "beach guitar". One that I wouldn't be devastated about if something happened to it. Nonetheless, I still packed it in the Calton flight case that I liken to a medieval suit of armor: great protection, but weighs a ton. Normally when I fly to a gig, I'll gate-check the instrument, dropping it off at the end of the jetway just before boarding. 90% of damage to guitars on airlines is incurred by the belts and the carts and the forklifts they encounter between the baggage drop and the cargo hold. There's not much damage that even the most ham-fisted of cargo-handlers can do hand carrying it from the jetway to the cargo hold. It was a real pleasure to not have to schlep the guitar through the airport.

2. The Caribbean

3. Final approach to "Beef Island"

I had a 2-hour layover in Miami, and then boarded the continuing flight to Tortola in the BVI. The flight was uneventful, and as we approached Tortola, the view out the window (Photo #2) was a delightful combination of scattered islands of various sizes in a sea dotted with boats of various sizes. On final approach (Photo #3), I found the character of the island itself was equally delightful.

We touched down at Beef Island airport on the island of Tortola. (Actually the airport was officially renamed "Terrence B. Lettsome International Airport" some years ago, but everyone there still calls it "Beef Island". Sort of like the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge across the Hudson River north of New York City. It'll always be the "Tappan Zee Bridge" to me.) Exiting the plane, I encountered no jetway, but rather a portable staircase on rollers down to the tarmac. We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

We were walked to the terminal by a flight attendant, where we picked up our luggage and went through customs. My seat in the plane was in the very last row, and consequently, I was the last through customs, which, nonetheless, went smoothly.

The next leg of the journey was to take a 25 minute ferry ride from Tortola to Virgin Gorda. The ferry slip was a 10-minute walk from the airport, but I was schlepping the guitar and that big suitcase. Not to worry. Speedy's Ferry had a free shuttle service. The ferry was a pretty large craft with seats for, I'd guess, 100 or 150 passengers on two levels. On this particular run, however, there weren't more than 15 or 20. As they loaded my gear, the steward (? I don't know his official title. He was the one that greeted passengers as they boarded.), an outgoing jolly fellow, spotted my guitar, and said, "Hey, you gonna play somethin' for us?" I said, "I dunno. It's only an acoustic guitar, and I don't think it would be heard over the engines. He pressed me further, so I thought OK, until the boat shoves off. I took it out of the case, and had enough time to play "City of New Orleans" before we shoved off. That earned me a free ferry ride.

It was dark when we landed, and there was never such a welcome sight as Jenny waiting for me as I disembarked. She had picked up the rental car we had reserved, and was more than glad to turn the driving over to me, since they drive on the left side of the road in BVI. We stopped off to do a little food shopping, and finally arrived at Palm Cottage. Jenny made us some dinner while I unpacked. Then I collapsed into bed. It had been a very long day.