Visiting Manchild #1, a.k.a. Surfer Dude

Getting to the Coos Bay/Charleston/North Bend Oregon area to visit our oldest son is the equivalent of flying to England and halfway back. (Granted, halfway back would put us in the middle of the North Atlantic.)
This trip we were flying out of Charlotte on United because it was one-third the price of leaving from Charleston. That’s right, one-third. It seems that Charleston S.C. and Charleston Ore. are two of the most remote places on the planet.
We left Summerville at 9 a.m. and drove to Charlotte via Camden so we could visit our parents. At Momma’s house, she pushed us to take gigantic sandwiches for our plane trip. We resisted, she insisted, we gave in. And it’s a good thing.
By 2:30 p.m. we were in the airport, checked in and waiting patiently for our 3:30 boarding time. That didn’t happen. But it was okay because we had books. And sandwiches. New boarding time: 4:15 p.m. Which also came and went. As did 5 p.m.. Then 5:15 p.m.
The passengers-to-be were getting restless, worried about missing connections in San Francisco. At 5:30 we boarded.
“I sure am glad we have a three and a half hour layover in San Fran, Sweetie,” I said, smiling contentedly, not the least bit worried about the future. We had plenty of time to make our connection to Eugene where a lovely bed and breakfast had been booked for our first night in Oregon, an anniversary present from the kids.
As we sat on the tarmac, the pilot announced that the delay was due to a storm and computer glitches that shut down air travel on the East Coast. Six o’clock came and still we sat. The plane was getting warm. Seven o’clock passed. It rained and we waited.
At 7:30 p.m. the pilot came on to say, “We’re going back to the gate to wait it out and refuel since we have burned thousands of pounds of fuel already.” We all groaned. “When we do leave, we’ll have to dip into Mexico to avoid a storm in the middle of the country.” Mexico? Okay. The trip would take six hours instead of four, he said.
“We can still make,” I suggested to the Husbster.
“Not likely,” he said.
“You need to be more positive,” I told him. “I’m hungry.”
Back at the gate the flight attendant announced that if anyone wanted food or something to drink, they should go get it now because there were only about 30 meals on the plane. There were over 200 passengers.
We had our sandwiches, but nothing to drink, so I joined the other passengers to make a soda run. I was a few rows from the door when the pilot announced in an obvious snit that we should return to our seats IMMEDIATELY. We’d leave the gate as soon as the refueling was complete.
Groans again.
I asked a flight attendant about our chances of making the San Fran connection to Eugene. She snarled that I’d better call the person who was going to meet us. I left a cryptic note on our firstborn’s voicemail that it was 9 p.m. and we were still sitting on the tarmac in Charlotte.
We eventually took off, got something to drink two hours after that, felt guilty about having food when most of the people around us didn’t, offered our seatmate part of our fare that she declined, then devoured our meal.
We arrived after 11 p.m. (2 a.m. east coast time). Our connection had been gone for four hours. We found a counter open where we finally booked a flight for noon the next day, the first flight we could get.
“Do you have room vouchers,” I asked the clerk, expecting abject apologies and rooms. What we got was a discount voucher for a low-budget motel. So, not only were we out the lovely B&B in which we were not now spending the night, we were out $55 for a cheesy motel. We had no luggage. It was cold and rainy.
And all of this happened before the Glasgow incident over the weekend. None of our problems were caused by green or purple or chartreuse terror alerts. I know several people who have traveled in the last month, all of whom had similar experiences.
What in the world is going on out there?
Where are the friendly skies?

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 or jwatts@journalscene.com.