travel Disaster Detour
Multiple Choice in the Pacific Northwest Neither rain, nor flood, nor maritime mishap could keep this Coloradan from getting home By Nancy Reed
W
hat do you do if you had traveled more than 1,800 miles to the northwestern tip of Washington State, savoring the trip-of-alifetime only to hear that a so-called “100-year flood” had just hit your hometown, which may not be intact when you return? Do you: a. Go home b. Call your neighbors to see if your house is still standing c. See if you can possibly travel even farther before deciding to return home d. All of the above My partner and I, thanks to the non-hypothetical situation I’m about to describe, now know the correct answer. Over the first few days of our trip—as we heard about the heavy rain and, later, the widespread-flooding, in Colorado—our frequent calls home produced the same response: “The house is fine. You don’t need to come back.” The uncertainty made us anxious, but we had already booked two non-refundable nights on the San Juan Islands and kept talking ourselves into staying buoyed up by the response from our friends back home. So, though a little queasy, we left our Airstream trailer with some friends in Port Townsend and headed to the Islands. Prior to boarding our second ferry—the only access to and from the San Juan Islands—we made one more call home. “All dry. Go and enjoy.” But after that second ferry pulled away from the dock, the phone rang. Nine inches of rain 26
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had fallen the previous night, and our basement was flooded. I turned to my partner and asked, “Now what do we do?” She said, “I have no idea but I do know the first thing we should do when this ferry docks.” We disembarked and proceeded directly to the nearest drinking establishment to ponder our situation over a burger and glass of wine. We spent the first ten minutes kicking ourselves for going even farther away from home before the rain stopped and not going home when the rain continued falling. Next, we ordered another glass of wine to help guide our decision; then, we assessed our situation, calling neighbors and friends for ideas while discussing and researching every possible solution. Option 1: Call off the trip. Even if we cancelled our trip and drove home, the water and mold would have taken over our house by the time we arrived. Getting there would take a while, because we were relatively stranded and would need to pick up our travel trailer once we got back to the mainland. Option two—our only other choice, as best we could determine—involved one ferry, four hours of driving, an overnight stay in Seattle, a flight home, and at least an hour’s ride from the airport to our house, assuming the roads were passable. The latter option would allow a return to Seattle and the eventual continuation of our trip, so it was deemed the winner. Still on San Juan Island, by about 1 p.m., the wine had taken the edge off, our friends had agreed to babysit the trailer, and the hotel concierge had graciously refunded our deposit and wished us luck back at home. We arrived at the dock just in time to watch the ferry pull away. Really? we thought, disappointed, but knowing the next one was due in a few hours. What mattered the most was that we had a plan and were ready to put it in action. Not so fast. Things were about to get even more interesting. As we sat in line, congratulating ourselves for what had to be the best plan ever, we were informed that “regrettably” the 3 p.m. ferry
would not be coming to pick us up. It seems the 1:00 p.m. ferry—the one we just freakin’ missed—had run over a sailboat. The lone sailor—and I use that term loosely—had been below deck at impact. When his boat finally popped up out of the water after being under the ferry, he reportedly emerged dazed but not seriously injured. His vessel, which was not as fortunate, sank. The officials we talked to were careful not to assign blame, but I was less gracious. “Aren’t ferry pilots, like hikers, bikers and drivers, supposed to watch where they are going? And, since when is it okay to sail into waters traversed by ferries numerous times daily and then go below deck?” Our revised pick-up time was “possibly 7 p.m.” but since the sailboat-eating ferry had to be inspected for damage before returning to duty, no one was particularly hopeful. We sat in the car, played cards, enjoyed a dinner of cheese, grapes, and wine and got to know our neighbors in the ferry line from hell. At 5:30, we were again told that another ferry would arrive at 7 p.m. but that it would only be able to take thirty vehicles. The next transport would not arrive until 9 p.m. At this point, my partner jumped out of the car and urgently counted cars. I tried to be optimistic when I was told we were the thirtysecond car in line. Maybe they can squeeze us on, I thought. But I also wasn’t surprised when we ended up one car short. The honor of being the second car on the 9:00 ferry was somewhat lost on me, but the crew was sympathetic and we were finally on our way home. After about eight hours in the ferry line, four hours of sleep and an uneventful flight, we arrived to find our home intact with minor water damage. So back to the question at hand, the answer is: Despite all the doubts, confusion, obstacles, and forces conspiring against you, you take a deep breath—and maybe a sip or two of wine— and you go directly to the place you belong. You go home.
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